by Liana Brooks
She jerked a thumb in the direction of the building I’d avoided. “Slasher HQ. Lurking somewhere.”
“Grand.” I nodded as I mentally lined up my arguments. “Is there anything else I should know?”
Ellen frowned and then shook her head. “It’s pretty simple. I need a bigger budget or the miracle of everyone volunteering everything.”
“What’s the Cozy Curse?”
She froze, a deer in the headlights caught robbing the bank. “Um...”
“Ellen Petunia Berry!” I put a lot of menace into those eight syllables.
“It’s a joke!” she bleated out. “Sort of. It’s, it’s this thing. Superstition, that before the filming wraps on the big holiday movie of the year everyone who’s single will be with someone special.”
I might have stepped back.
Not saying I did.
I’m in no way suggesting I was reacting like Ellen said she had a mutated super-form of the Ebola virus. But I may have stepped away from her and a little closer to Slasher’s Winter Wonderland of horrors set for absolutely no discernible reason at all.
“Really, it’s just the natural outcome of single, attractive people working on romances and sweet, family-friendly holiday movies for every kind of family.” I was impressed that Ellen could get the studio slogan into a panicked ramble. “It’s not like you’re single.”
“Perpetually,” I muttered.
“Or looking.”
“Only sometimes.” At joggers who lost their shirts in the park.
“And you won’t be here very long.”
“True.” Monday morning, I’d be at Oretega no matter what.
“So you should be safe.” Ellen hadn’t made eye contact the whole time.
I should be safe?
Oh, dear, sweet, innocent Ellen. That was not how the world worked.
I was always safe. It was the rest of the world who needed to be protected from me. Especially best friends since kindergarten who weren’t telling the whole truth.
Smirking, I crossed my arms. “Are you safe, Ellen?” I asked ever so sweetly.
Ellen didn’t blush like some charming cartoon character with a little glow on her cheeks. No, Ellen’s blush was a steadily rising color that scaled her neck, climbed across her nose, and turned the tips of her ears a blushing bronze. “There’s no one,” she lied like a liar.
I tried to stay angry, but wound up laughing. “How would Patrick Miles feel about being called No One?”
Ellen glare told me I’d gotten it right in one. She crossed her arms. “Merri! If you tell my mother—”
“I won’t!” I promised. “But you have to tell me if anything happens! That’s what best friends are for.”
Her gaze dropped to the ground again and she shook her head. “It’s—no—it’s nothing. I had a bad break up before I moved back to Chicago and started working at Cozy. I’m not going to read things into it. I’m not... I’m not looking. It’s just... Patrick Miles is coming. To film. In our big holiday movie.”
“And he’s single and you’ve had a crush on him since he was in the live-action remake of Rescue Otters when he was twelve.[13]” I nodded. “Do you want me to run a background check?”
“Merri!” Ellen’s shriek sent a flock of birds into hurried flight, and someone on the other side of the set cursed. “Merri,” Ellen said in a calmer tone. “No. It’s nothing. It’s a silly, childhood crush. I’m just excited because.... Because.” She nodded firmly. “When I have a relationship that becomes something, I will tell you.”
“Hmm.” I took out my business card and wrote my personal number next to the office number. “Fine. Keep your secrets. You still owe me dinner.”
“Only if Morana actually lets you do the audit.”
I smiled at her. “Ellen, my dear, this is me. I’m the Grim Reaper of Chicago. The Wicked Witch of the South Side. My job is auditing companies and making their numbers dance. And when I go talk to Morana, I’m going to turn on the tunes and see his budget twirl around a pole.”
She covered her eyes. “Gargh! I just had a mental image of my boss pole dancing! Merri! Stop!”
“You want me to use a strip tease metaphor?”
If possible, she turned even redder.
I grinned.
“Go!” Ellen ordered between giggles. “Just... go!”
Me: 1
World: 0
I’d made my best friend laugh despite her circumstances, and now I was going to fix her problems, stubborn Slasher CEO or no.
The grey sheds on the other side of the lot, as it turned out, were mostly a huge props warehouse with a few shared sets waiting for stock footage filming, and an ominous grey building on the far side of the gravel lot that housed all the main offices.
That meant I had to walk through Cozy’s winter wonderland—fake snow and small-town sets included—to reach my destination. Someone was playing Christmas music that made my teeth grind as I walked past a blonde bride in a huge white dress with layers of lace and rhinestones in a pile of fake mistletoe sprigs.
The whole set screamed.
Not screamed Christmas Romance or Holiday Wonder, just screamed, like the monster out of my worst nightmares chasing me over hill and dale.
Cozy’s offices were the closest to the set—or I assumed they were Cozy’s. Painted hearts and cartoon bluebirds lined the cheerful, rose-pink walls and the offices were filled with more white satin and canisters of fake snow than I ever wanted to imagine existed.
Heavy, industrial double-doors divided the Cozy workspace from a small reception area for Slasher. It couldn’t be anything else. Black walls, black floor, black ceiling, black stairs with plexiglass rails, black–haircut–buzzed–short Black receptionist wearing all-black, standing behind a black counter with a blood-red neon sign carving out the word SLASHER in the now-familiar font. The only thing that didn’t scream murder was the three gold stars painted along the receptionist’s tight jawline as they ground their teeth.
With a sarcastic little smile, the receptionist turned their back on me and pulled out their phone. “Go back the way you came, princess. Cozy auditions are on the other side of the lot.” It didn’t sound mean, simply bored.
Maybe they had an allergy to colors.
The hallway ahead looked like it led to offices; probably movie HQ for all the chaos outside. Meeting the directors was certainly on someone’s bucket list, but not mine. I wanted to go straight to the top.
And I didn’t trust elevators in buildings older than me.
Sashaying past the receptionist, I took the black stairs, admiring how the shining black of the floor made it look like I was floating over the abyss. Whoever had done the interior design for Slasher had gone in for Aesthetic and I loved it for many reasons, not the least of which was that under the recessed spotlights I glowed like Persephone entering the Underworld.
Hopefully Hades was home.
As I ascended to the upper level, there was a sharp, staccato sound of stilettos snapping against the black tile.
A woman turned the corner, almost pushing me down the stairs. She was willowy and tall, with short-cropped neon-pink hair, black contacts with pink stars for pupils, and three silver rings pierced into her right eyebrow along with the Slasher uniform of all-black that hugged the tight, straight lines of her body.
Short nails too. Unpainted.
I wondered if she liked rugby.
But I didn’t ask, because I’ve found that not every woman I meet wants me to start matchmaking as soon as I notice them. It was just that she was exactly Lucky’s type.[14]
The pink-haired potential sister-in-law stopped short and glared at me. It was a good glare. She had at least eight inches on me and a face meant for brooding, withering scorn.
I smiled up at her.
She crossed her arms.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement—a figure wearing a black hoodie accessing the upstairs snack bar. So, we had an audience. I smiled brighter and pulled a business card out o
f my clutch to offer to the pink-haired Cerberus. “Merri Kriesmas.”
“It’s April.”
“My name is still Merri Kriesmas in April.” I wiggled the card a little.
“Alisson Baxter, CFO of Slasher.” She unfolded, slowly reaching for my business card. After an obvious show of hesitation, she took it and read, just in case I was lying about my name. “Really? Kriesmas is pronounced Christmas?”
“It sure is.” With my smile screwed in placed, I waited for the inevitable commentary.
“Your family must get wild around the holidays.”
“Actually, we’re Satanists, so the whole Christmas season is very bleak for us. Birth of the Destroyer of the Father of Lies—”
The person in the kitchenette spat their drink everywhere as they choked on a laugh.
“—It’s a very hard thing to endure.” I gave my curls a little toss so the fiery red caught the lights. “Don’t worry. Taking my business card in no way contractually obligates you to be a human sacrifice at the first black mass you attend.”
“And the second?”
Oh, I do love the smart ones. My smile widened. “I make no promises.”
“Right.” Alisson did her best to skewer me with a glare, but I was immune. “Why are you here? We didn’t call Sloan and Markham.”
“I’m here to steal something from your CEO.”
It sounded like the person trying to enjoy their drink was going to die from the sputtering off to the side.
Alisson’s face froze in a glower that would probably scare lions, tigers, bears, or men, but that couldn’t find a chink in my armor. “What, exactly, do you intend to steal?”
“His soul,” I said ominously, leaning ever so slightly forward.
My future sister-in-law backed up in an admirable show of self-preservation.
“Or his time, if that’s available.” I smiled. Alisson wasn’t going to call Lucky if she was too scared. “Ellen Berry is an old friend of mine and she asked me to look over her new budget. A little confirmation about the details from Mister Morana will speed things along.”
Alisson glanced over at the hooded figure. “Seth’s over there. Ask him if he has time, and then get lost when he says no.”
Ah, so our audience was also my target. That saved time. “I am certain Mister Morana will make time for me.”
With a gesture that was a cross between Good Luck and It’s Your Funeral, Alisson moved to step around me.
“Do you like rugby?” Ha ha. I was not letting her go that easy.
“What?”
“Rugby. Or roller derby?”
“Why?” she asked in a voice of mixed fascination and fear.
“My sister’s single and she likes both.” I pulled one of Lucky’s business cards out and held it out to Alisson.
The deep red blush actually went very well with her pink hair. She snatched the card with undue haste and hurried down the stairs. See Spot run.[15]
Breaking into Hell was easy if you threw the guard dog a bone.
Time to go see Death.
Seth Morana was hiding behind a white mug with a black grim reaper and the words FINAL BOSS visible. How appropriate.
The Cozy Killer was a tall man. I couldn’t see his expression—his face was hidden by the shadows of his black hoodie, the Slasher logo embroidered in metallic black thread blazing across his chest—but he hadn’t run, so I took it as an invitation.
Pulling out another one of my business cards, I sauntered into the open dining area, heels clicking on the dark wooden floor. “Good afternoon.”
“Merry Christmas.” A strong, tan hand reached out for my card. “Oh, Meredith.” His tone didn’t give away his feelings on my full name.
“My mother is Mary with the traditional spelling,” I offered helpfully. As ice breakers went, letting someone laugh about my name was easier than demanding they hand over their financial information. “My father is Holland, but he goes by Holly.”
“And your sister?”
“Lucky.”
“So they stopped the cruel naming trend after you?” He sipped what smelled like mint tea.
“No, her legal name is Carol, but you only call her that if you want facial reconstruction without anesthetic.” I smiled. “Do you want to talk here or in your office?”
He sipped his tea again as a delaying tactic. “What if I want neither?”
“I’ll rephrase: do you want to talk to me or the corporate lawyer who charges in ten minute increments?”
Morana tipped his head in acknowledgment. He walked past me and I saw a glint of dark eyes and pale hair under his hood. “Let’s step into my office.”
“Said the spider to the parasitic wasp.”
He paused and turned to look at me again. “Don’t you mean fly?”
“No, I mean parasitic wasp, as in genus Acrotaphus[16] that preys on innocent spiders.” The brighter my smile, the more confused I made everyone around me. It was delightful.
Morana sipped some more tea as he made a puzzled ‘hmmm’ sound and led the way past various goth-stylized black doors to a space that had to be a door only because portals to blackholes didn’t usually have air conditioning.
Everything from floor to ceiling was black, with dramatic spot lighting on the huge, curving black desk and the framed props hung as art. A silver scythe with delicate filigrees. A skull made of gold and bone that grinned forever at eternity. The infamous diamond-and-ruby heart from The Dragon’s Bride.
Office décor said a lot about a person.
Cluttered desks meant an over-active mind or an overworked worker. Clean and sterile office spaces were common when someone was expecting to get fired, or interviewing with the competition. Morana’s space was dark but comfortable. It was a space for someone who loved the horror genre to come and reflect on the triumphs.
“You have a nice collection,” I murmured, walking under the lights and inspecting each piece. The room was chill, with the scent of mint and Morana’s sandalwood soap, the walls so dark they seemed to swallow the light, leaving nothing but pinpoint stars around the displayed treasures.
“Thank you.” Morana sat behind his desk. “They aren’t all from my movies, but they are all important.”
“Mmm,” I murmured in agreement as I stopped beside a wide-brimmed, low crowned black hat commonly worn by Grim Reapers in Korean shows. There was something written on it in silver in an alphabet I could recognize as Hangul but that I couldn’t read.
Morana brushed his hood back, exposing a tan, chiseled face that was as beautiful as everything else in the room. A straight, pointed nose, high cheekbones, stunningly black eyes, and a shock of platinum hair styled in an I–just–had–wild–sex–and–came–to–work–smiling sort of way. “First you steal my shirt. Now you want my soul or my time. What’s next, my heart?”
That’s why he’d seemed familiar.
The jogger from earlier was the hottest actor in horror and the Slasher CEO.
It was easy to see why his movies, plot-poor though they’d been, had been so popular. He had a lean, hungry look and he watched me like a jackal, tracking my movements with dark eyes and a raised eyebrow.
I sat down across from him, smoothing my skirt with a slow, practiced movement.
His eyes stayed on my face.
“Tempting,” I said. “One heart, like new, never been used.”
Morana’s lips pulled together as he tried to squelch a smile.
“But that presupposes that you had a heart to begin with.”
“Are you saying I’m heartless?”
“Your business dealings certainly suggest it. Tell me, what are your intentions for Cozy?”
Morana settled back in his chair with a small smile. “My intentions? Are you Cozy’s mother?”
“Only a concerned best friend.”
“The kind who will leave my body in the woods if my intentions aren’t pure?”
I smiled ever so sweetly. “Mister Morana, I would never be so crass.�
��
He raised an eyebrow, a sexy smirk playing across his lips.
“If I killed you, I’d weigh your body down and dump you in Lake Michigan for the fish to nibble on. Only an amateur leaves bodies in the woods.”
That made him crack. A gorgeous smile spread across his face with a warm laugh and a spark in his eye that made me want to lean in.
Hoo boy.
I was in trouble.
It had been a long time since I’d felt this kind of instant attraction. The last time had ended in tears—his, not mine—when I handed back the engagement ring and told him I’d never be the kind of girl he wanted.
I was never the kind of girl the boys wanted.
“Miss Kriesmas—”
“You can call me Merri.”
“Only if you call me Seth.” An outright challenge.
I smiled and tilted my chin up, acknowledging the possibility.
Seth nodded back. “My intentions for Cozy are honorable, I promise. We’re in the same business.”
“Horror and romance are the same business?”
He shrugged. “Horror takes something beautiful and familiar and makes it terrifying. It imagines the worst possible outcome of any situation. Romance takes the unknown and frightening and makes it beautiful. There’s nothing more terrifying than falling in love. You never know if it will end in heartbreak or happiness.
“That moment of free fall, when you’re racing between what was and what will be, is where Slasher and Cozy have a captive audience. We’re both targeting viewers who want to feel something. They want us to toy with their emotions. To make them believe in ghosts and monsters, or magic and romance, even if it’s only for a few hours.”
“And you expect Cozy to do that with the budget they have?” I asked skeptically.
“It’s a generous budget.” Morana shrugged.
I narrowed my eyes. There was a fundamental disconnect here and I was missing something. “How much do your movies usually cost?”
“Ninety thousand apiece, on average. Some go over, a lot of sequels come in under budget because we can reuse footage and sets.”
“But you don’t expect anyone to make a big holiday movie with fifteen thousand.”
He laughed again. “No! That’s... that’s low even for a student budget. Student movies are cheap because most of the work is done for free by students who use the production for a grade.”
