The Spawn of Lilith

by Dana Fredsti

  The lower half of a masculine face, mouth opened in a perpetual scream.

  The buzzing in my ears might have been flies, or a warning sign that I was about to faint. I saw two torsos—one male, one female. Both had gaping holes under the left breast, where the heart should be. The rib cages were splayed open as though something very strong had grabbed each set of bones and pulled them apart, scrambling the insides beyond recognition.

  Flies continued to swarm, some of them lighting on the piles of meat, no doubt laying eggs. The thought made me gag. I shoved a hand over my mouth in a vain attempt to keep my breakfast inside. I did, however, manage to stumble out of the trailer before losing it.

  Once I’d finished voiding my stomach, I made my way on unsteady legs back to the soundstage to break the news that Portia actually had a good excuse for missing her call time.

  * * *

  Several hours later the police and people in white protective suits swarmed the parking lot in back of the studio. Yellow tape went up around the town car and Star Waggon, as well as a swatch of the trees and grass to prevent anyone from entering and contaminating the crime scene.

  Reporters and photographers hung back reluctantly on the other side of the barricade, shouting out questions to whoever was close enough to ignore them.

  “So you said when you came out here, the trailer door was open?” Detective Maggie Fitzgerald stared down at me where I sat on the passenger seat of her car, as far away from the trailer as possible. Fitzgerald was known among the supernatural community, and headed up the quaintly named “Kolchak Division,” a special unit of the LAPD that handled “weird” cases. She had a commanding voice, smooth and rich, with an edge that dared you to not take her seriously.

  I took her very seriously indeed.

  Tall and broad shouldered, she looked about as black Irish as they came. Dark hair pulled back into an impeccably executed French braid, not one strand out of place. Dark-blue eyes showing some sympathy, while withholding judgment.

  “It wasn’t exactly open,” I answered. “When I knocked, it opened a little bit. I don’t think it was latched.”

  She nodded, scribbling in a small black notebook.

  This was our second time around—third, if you counted the responding officer who’d first questioned me. Detective Fitzgerald had explained that sometimes more details came out with the second or third interview, and they didn’t want to miss anything that might help them figure out who—or what—had done this. What she didn’t mention was that repetition also helped trip people up when they were lying.

  “So what happened next?”

  “Like I said, it smelled disgusting. I thought maybe the septic tank had broken, and that her driver was inside trying to fix it.”

  “Do you think it’s reasonable that Miss Lambert would’ve expected a limo driver to fix the septic tank in her trailer?”

  I shrugged. “Portia wasn’t known for being reasonable.”

  A small smile played across her mouth.

  “So why did you go inside without waiting for her to answer? Seems as if she would’ve been unhappy at that kind of intrusion.”

  “She was an hour late for call time, and we had a crew and other actors waiting on her. Frankly, she doesn’t”—I stopped, gave a little shake of my head—“didn’t pay my salary,” I corrected myself. “So if she got pissed off, I could live with it. It wouldn’t have been anything new.”

  “Did you happen to see anyone come out to Ms. Lambert’s trailer before you left—when was it—” She looked at her notes. “Two nights ago. Wednesday night?”

  “No. She made it very clear she didn’t want anyone coming out here. If Portia could’ve posted a security guard to keep people away, she would’ve done it.”

  “So you and Ms. Carmel and Ms. Gilbert left at what time?”

  “It was about nine o’clock.”

  “And you didn’t come back here after you went to…” Her pause was deliberate.

  “Ocean’s End.” I supplied the name yet again. “And no, Kyra went back to her place and I crashed at Eden’s. It’s just a couple of blocks from the bar.”

  “You didn’t notice the town car parked out here for two days?”

  I shook my head. “The last two days I’ve gotten here at the butt-crack of dawn, stumbled straight from my car to craft services for coffee, and spent pretty much the entire time inside either rehearsing or shooting. Most people park over at the front of the lot, not around back.”

  Her next question deviated from the script.

  “Ms. Striga, were you aware that Portia Lambert was actually living in the trailer?”

  Huh? That was out of left field.

  “You mean staying here, instead of going home at night?”

  “I mean living there. Ms. Lambert was renting out her home because she couldn’t afford the mortgage payments. We believe her driver, Frank Gough, was the tenant.”

  My mouth dropped open, and it took an effort to shut it.

  “That’s… that’s sad,” I finally said, and I meant it.

  “Had you met Mr. Gough over the last few weeks?”

  I shook my head. “No, not really. We may have waved at each other once or twice, but I don’t think I could pick his face out of a batch of head shots.”

  She nodded, her expression neutral, then had me again describe what I’d found inside. I did so, doing my best to keep my stomach from flipping pancakes. Then a man in protective overalls poked his head out of the front door and called to the detective. She excused herself and joined him. They talked in undertones, but I still managed to pick up a couple of words here and there.

  The man vanished back inside the trailer and Detective Fitzgerald rejoined me at the town car.

  “They’re bringing out the bodies now,” she warned me gently.

  There was barely enough inside the bags to give the impression of two people. They looked more like laundry bags than body bags. I shut my eyes after the first glimpse, putting my head back down between my knees until the urge to throw up again receded.

  “Okay, I think we got everything for now,” the detective said. “Thank you for your cooperation. I may need to talk to you again down the line.” She shook her head. “Whoever or whatever did this was pretty brutal.”

  “That’s an understatement,” I muttered.

  “Yeah, it is. All I can say for now is just keep an eye on the phases of the moon.”

  I looked up at her. “Uh… what?”

  “It was nearly full when this happened, and it’s full now. We’ve got two more nights of it.”

  “You think it was a werewolf?”

  She shrugged. “We’ve had a couple other unsolved murders similar to these. They took place over the last full moon. It’s not a perfect fit, but might explain the condition of the victims’ bodies and the timing of their deaths.”

  I almost asked, “Since when do werewolves take the hearts?” but decided to keep the thought to myself in case it might lead to another round of questions.

  A sudden ruckus at the perimeter of the crime scene caught her attention. Reporters trying to get the lowdown on what happened, rapid-firing questions hurled at a hapless police officer. Some of them even pushed at the tape barricade.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Striga.”

  Detective Fitzgerald lowered her brows and raised her voice, opening her mouth to emit a high-pitched wail that probably had dogs howling within a square-mile radius. The sound filled the air, seeming to come from all directions. The reporters winced, some clapping hands over their ears.

  Fitzgerald closed her mouth. The sound stopped. The officer looked relieved, though the reporters looked as though they’d had a close brush with death. Yet none of them seemed aware of where the sound had come from.

  Weird.

  Detective Fitzgerald turned back. “Can you please send Mr. Dobell out?”

  I nodded and opened my mouth to say, “Banshee, right?” But I decided against it because I really needed a
nother cup of coffee. All I said was, “Absolutely.”

  Then I made my escape.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Cast and crew huddled around the craft service table, talking in low voices. I found Herman and passed along Detective Fitzgerald’s request. He hurried outside. Then I grabbed a cup of coffee, liberally dosing it with cream and sugar before sinking into a chair and trying to get my thoughts straight.

  Since the studio itself wasn’t a crime scene, it might be possible to keep filming. But what the hell were we going to do without a lead actress? Turned out I wasn’t the only one thinking along these lines.

  “—have to find someone else pronto,” Joe was saying. “We’re only a few days into production. It’s a damn shame what happened to her, but it’s no reason to stop filming.”

  Angel frowned. “That just seems cold,” she said. “We should give it a few days before even talking about this.”

  “Look.” Ben stepped in at this point. “The hard reality is that there’s already been a lot of money put into this film. I’m guessing most of us need the work, am I right?” Several people nodded their assent. “And you think about it, in any other industry, do offices shut down when someone dies?”

  Okay, he has a point. I also agreed with Angel that it seemed a little premature to be having this discussion.

  “What do you think, Lee?”

  I looked over to see Eden sitting in a chair pushed back away from the table. She cradled a mug of hot tea in her hands.

  “Well,” I said slowly, “when Jack Tyree died doing an eighty-foot fall on Sword and the Sorcerer, they not only finished the movie, but used his final take in the film.”

  “Now that seems cold,” Joe commented.

  “Hell, no,” I said. “Jack was a stuntman. He died doing what he loved, and the greatest insult would’ve been not using his last work in the film. I felt the same way when I got hurt on Vampshee. I could’ve died in that fall, but I got lucky. I’ll tell you, though, if I’d woken up and found out they hadn’t used that take? I’d have been pissed-off as hell.

  “What’s different here,” I continued, “is that we’re talking about replacing Portia. There’s no real way to give her that last moment on screen, and that sucks for her.” I was surprised to feel tears burning under my eyelids. I hadn’t liked the woman. She’d made it impossible. But I still felt for her. She’d had an unhappy life and died a horrible death.

  Everyone was quiet for a few minutes.

  Connor looked at me with a speculative expression.

  “The closest thing we can get to giving Portia her last shot on screen,” he said, “is to replace her with you.”

  What the fuck, dude? I stared at him.

  “Um, actually I think she’d be spitting furious at the thought.”

  “Think about it,” Connor pressed, locking eyes. “Better someone like you, who comes close to her physical type. Do you really think she’d thank us for replacing her with a twenty-something starlet?”

  “I’m only twenty-seven,” I muttered.

  He rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

  “Besides,” I objected, “I’m not an actress. I’m a stuntwoman. I’m trained in fights and falls. I’ve crashed the occasional car and been set on fire a couple of times, but I’ve never taken an acting class in my life.”

  Connor stared at me challengingly. “You seemed perfectly comfortable with the lines when you were running them with Ben, Joe, and Angel.”

  Dan and Breanna both nodded in agreement.

  “Absolutely,” Breanna said. “You and Ben actually sound like a more believable team than he and Portia ever did.”

  “Honestly,” Dan added, “the way she read her lines, no one would believe they’d have survived together for so long out in deep space.”

  Ben chuckled. “I can’t disagree with that.”

  Herman came in through the elephant doors, his forehead crisscrossed with worry lines. He looked tired and drawn, as if he’d lost another five pounds overnight. Jack immediately turned to him, seemingly oblivious to his producer’s exhaustion.

  “They gonna let us keep shooting?”

  “Yes.” Herman dropped down in one of the folding chairs as if someone had cut his legs out from underneath him.

  “Are you okay?” I moved next to him and knelt.

  He smiled wanly. “Nothing a cup of coffee wouldn’t help.”

  Production Assistant Peter immediately hurried over to the beverage table and poured coffee into one of the heavy-duty paper cups, adding a liberal amount of cream and sugar. Herman took it gratefully. After a sip or two, a bit of color came back into his face.

  “The police have given us permission to continue filming starting tomorrow,” he said. “There are no real leads as to what happened to Portia, but because it happened outside of the studio itself, and in her trailer, they’re assuming she was the specific target. Most likely her driver walked in at the wrong time.

  “Nevertheless, they’ll have a couple of police officers patrolling the parking lot for the next few days. Just in case.” He drank some more coffee. “The trailer and the surrounding area will remain taped off, including the back of the parking lot and a section of the park. They’ll be going over the area with a fine-toothed comb, to see if any trace evidence shows up. Detective Fitzgerald also suggests that if we have to go to the parking lot after sunset, we go in pairs.

  “In the meantime, we have an obvious problem to solve. Portia needs to be replaced, and from what I overheard, it sounds like I’m not the only one who’s reached the obvious solution.”

  He looked up at me.

  Oh, crap.

  “Lee, I’d like to have a word with you in private.”

  “Sure,” I replied even as my heart sank. I knew what he was going to ask and I didn’t want to hear it.

  * * *

  Once inside his office, Herman sat down heavily behind his desk. I perched gingerly on one of the chairs.

  “I take it you’re not sold on the idea.”

  I didn’t even try feigning ignorance.

  “No, I’m really not,” I said. “I’m not an actress. I mean, I’ve always done my best to convey the emotions of whatever part I’m supposed to be doubling, but I’ve never worried about lines.”

  “You know you’re a natural, don’t you?”

  I shrugged, totally uncomfortable at this point.

  “Seriously.” Herman leaned forward. “Your line readings with Ben were better than Portia’s. The two of you have a natural camaraderie that works for the story. The writers agree, your fellow actors agree—and even though I know Jack had his heart set on Portia, I know he’s relieved. Not that she’s dead,” he added hastily as my eyebrows shot up, “but working with her was a lot more difficult than he’d bargained for.”

  “Look,” I sighed. “I don’t want to let anyone down. I also don’t want the police looking at me cross-eyed because I’ve suddenly and conveniently taken over a dead woman’s role.”

  “I understand that, and we will make it very clear, should the subject come up, that this was not your idea. From a purely financial perspective, this is the logical thing for the production. It’ll save us time, and saving time will save us money.” He leaned back and added, “We’ll definitely adjust your salary.” Then he quoted an amount that made my eyes widen.

  “So think about it,” he concluded. “But not for too long.”

  I thought about it.

  If I took the job, Herman wouldn’t lose money putting the production on hold, while he and Jack found another actress to play Jeanette. And honestly, I had a blast running lines with Ben. It would look nice on my resume… and then there was the money.

  “Will you do it?” Herman looked at me hopefully.

  I couldn’t say no to him.

  “I’m in.”

  The smile that brightened his haggard face was worth all the insecurity and guilt that were turning my stomach into an acidic butter churn.
/>   “I’m assuming you won’t mind doing your own stunts.”

  That made me smile.

  “I’ll consider it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  INT – BOOTES BRIDGE

  JEANETTE

  You just love the sound of your voice, don’t you?

  SHAAD

  Not as much as I’m going to love the sound of your screams.

  * * *

  “And… cut!” Jack gave a thumbs up, beaming like he’d just won an Oscar for Best Picture. “That was great, you guys! That’s a wrap for the day, and for the Bootes.”

  Joe and I high-fived each other. This scene, where Shaad appears behind Jeanette on the bridge of the Bootes, led straight into the first part of the knife fight. We were shooting the close-ups of the fight with Joe today. Some of the takes we’d shot during the actual fight had shown my face, and they could be used now that I was playing Jeanette.

  I was almost sorry we’d already filmed the fight. I loved doing what I’d trained to do, and that choreography had been particularly awesome. Not that I wasn’t having fun with the acting.

  I’d spent so much time as Portia’s stand-in, I pretty much had all of Jeanette’s lines memorized. Playing off Ben seemed like an extension of our off-camera camaraderie. Working with Eden, Joe, and Angel was just as much fun.

  We were into the fourth week of shooting, with two weeks to go. Most of the scenes on board the Bootes were in the figurative can, and we were running ahead of schedule, instead of behind. If not exactly a well-oiled machine, the cast and crew got their shit together in way that hadn’t been possible with Portia on board.

  Part of me still felt guilty, though. Portia had died horribly. But her death hadn’t been my fault, so I tried my best to let go of any residual angst I felt taking over her part.

  Wherever she was, I really hoped she wasn’t pissed off at me. The last thing I needed was for her to come crawling out of my TV like one of those nasty Japanese ghosts. They can be mean assholes.

  As well as things were going, Herman’s physical condition continued to deteriorate. If his weight loss continued at this pace, he’d soon resemble a mummy with parchment for skin. The initial attraction I’d felt for him had been replaced by pity and concern. I don’t know how he managed to do his job each day, yet he kept going, like a desiccated Energizer bunny.