Moonstruck

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “Uh, no. Definitely not.”

  “Which would have been a shame. I rather enjoyed it.”

  Samir had been well aware that Ulfhedinn had enjoyed it. Several times, from what he’d said. Usually with one hand.

  “My God, this is so surreal.” He covered his face and groaned. “I’ve written slash porn with your characters and sent it right to you and oh my God ...”

  “Samir. Relax.”

  “Relax?” Samir groaned again and looked across the table at the man who had read some of his kinkiest, most twisted, filthy stories. The ones he couldn’t even show anyone else—not even in the password-restricted NC-17 click-at-your-own-risk subforum—because they were that dirty. As a few of his titles ran through his mind, he wanted to crawl under the table and die.

  Or crawl under the table like Raphael did in that interrogation scene with Dima Sobakin? Where “tell me where she is” had suddenly turned into “tell me where to put my mouth”?

  Anthony leaned forward, resting an arm on the table. “Your stories are really good. Some of the other fanfic writers out there come up with really skeevy and bizarre stories, but yours are ...” He dropped his gaze, and his cheeks colored again. “They’re really good, Samir.”

  “Thanks.” Samir drummed his fingers beside his coffee cup. “What about the new one? The big one?” He cringed. “The big story, I mean. The long— The novel, damn it.”

  Anthony laughed. “That’s the one I wanted to talk to you about. It’s brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant.”

  “It ... I ...”

  “I’m not kidding.” Anthony folded his hands. “I finished my reread at one o’clock this morning and just lay for two hours thinking about it. I haven’t had a book hangover in a long time, but that one?” He whistled. “Nicely done, Samir. Nicely done.”

  Samir stared at him. It was mortifying to hear Anthony Rawson admitting he’d read those stories, but he couldn’t begin to get his head around the man looking him in the eye and telling him Axis Mundi was brilliant. “Really?”

  “Really.” Anthony’s smile faded a bit, and he glanced into his coffee cup. “To be honest, you figured out everything that’s been driving me insane with the series. I’ve been killing myself trying to write the eighth book. God, I don’t know who you sold your soul to in order to come up with that story, but please hook me up with them, because you’ve basically written the next Triple Moon book.”

  “Wow. I mean. It just made sense that way.”

  “Not in my head. I’ve been struggling with how to get the characters out of the trouble I dropped them in in book seven, and you solved it—and the way you worked in the multiverse—so all those visions and interferences aren’t so much hauntings but alternate realities and the dreamtime. It’s good. Solves all the problems and opens up the series to tell so many different kinds of stories. Damn, I’d love to write one that’s more historical. Maybe something like that flashback in the first book. That was one of those things that happened during a late night, didn’t really seem to belong, but I didn’t cut it because I loved it, and then you wove it right back in.”

  “You didn’t know where it was going?” In interviews, Anthony had referred a few times to how the whole series had taken “unexpected directions,” but surely nobody could just wing their way through a complex seven-plus-book series? Could they?

  “Well. The whole thing started as a mystery thriller about a cop who’s having these weird intuitions and suddenly comes up against something out there—a parallel society. I guess there’s quite a bit of Clive Barker in its DNA, but then it kept growing and people loved the paranormal element, and I got into it myself rather than just dabbling. But there was this unexpected stuff lurking in the background. I had no idea I’d get myself into a place where the only thing that saves me is a multiverse-type setup.”

  “Seriously? I thought that was all done on purpose.”

  Anthony lifted his shoulder. “Nope. Best I can do is fake it and claim I did. But in reality? No fucking idea.”

  “Wow.” Samir shook his head. “And I thought you were being all mysterious because you just try to keep us guessing.”

  “Well, I don’t want to ruin the fun for anybody, but I’m making it up as I go. My characters barely obey me, so trying to work with an outline is a lost cause. I had books two and three outlined and then Raphael ended up leaving Detroit and went clear out to Viking Bay to chase his mystery.”

  “Yeah, he wasn’t really cooperative with me either.” Samir grinned and Anthony laughed. “But Dima was the worst.”

  Anthony groaned. “Don’t get me started on him. He was supposed to die in book three and went, ‘Nope, not having it.’ I was planning to kill him a lot sooner than I did, but, well, he was too smart and a fan favorite, so killing him off in book seven took some serious work.”

  “And then I brought him back.”

  “I loved it. Ripping his soul out in the portal and bringing him back as kind of a saner version of himself – it really gives him some complexity. I thought he was starting to turn into too much of a one-note character, but in Axis Mundi, you kept his weirdness but also increased what readers love about him. Lyle will be thrilled to read this.”

  It was all Samir could do not to let his jaw hit the table. Did Anthony fucking Rawson just fanboy his book? And mention Lyle Phelan at the same time? Holy. Fuck.

  Anthony shook his head and lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m kind of rambling on here, aren’t I?”

  “Uh, no. It’s okay. I’m still a little startled, I guess.”

  Anthony flashed a toothy grin. “Surprise!”

  Samir chuckled. “Pretty much. Listen, do you mind if I grab another drink?”

  “No, of course not.” Anthony smiled and picked up his own coffee. “I was hoping we could talk for a while, so I’m in no rush.”

  Oh. My. God.

  Samir fumbled with his wallet as he stood, and tried not to trip over his own feet on the way to the counter. This had to be a joke. The man sitting at his table was undoubtedly Anthony, but he was practically squeeing all over Axis Mundi, and—

  Samir stopped abruptly.

  “Lyle will be thrilled to read this.”

  The actors didn’t read fan fiction. And even if they did, why would Lyle care? He’d only be playing Dima Sobakin as he was written in the actual series. So what difference would it make to him unless—

  Samir’s heart skipped.

  He and Anthony had exchanged fanfic for the better part of a year and a half. Some of it mortifyingly dirty, but some were more like spin-offs, continuations—legitimate additions to the story line. And in between talking about those stories, they’d both made the odd comment about eventually meeting, but had never made any serious effort.

  Not until Anthony read Axis Mundi.

  And not five minutes after he sat down, he’d mentioned Lyle being thrilled to read it.

  Oh. Oh shit.

  “Can I help you?”

  Samir blinked, suddenly realizing the barista had been watching him. “Um.” What did I come over here to do? He scanned the menu over the counter. Right. They served food here. And drinks. “Just a bottle of water, please.”

  She handed him the bottle, and after he paid, he took a long swallow before he headed back to the table.

  In spite of his certainty that Anthony would evaporate into thin air or a camera crew would jump out and yell “Psych!”, the author was still sitting there, sipping his coffee. And he’d pulled out his own iPad and was scrolling through something.

  White background. Black lettering.

  Oh God, he’s looking at Axis Mundi right now.

  Samir cleared his throat as he took a seat. “I’ve got a question.”

  Anthony turned off the iPad and folded his hands on top of it. “Shoot.”

  “I’m just curious.” He hesitated, taking a quick drink just for something to occupy his hands. “We’ve talked about fic online. You’ve given me tons of fe
edback. Why did you suddenly want to meet over this one?”

  “Well, I would have met you earlier, but I was worried about the disclosure part.”

  “Where you’re, like, Anthony Rawson?”

  “Yep. I didn’t want you to think I’m that creepy type of author who stalks his fans. Except obviously that’s kind of what I did. But I love the characters and the world too, and sometimes it’s nice to talk about it with people who aren’t my agent, publisher, editor, or anybody with a financial stake in the game. I want to talk about the characters, not about how a new minor character would appeal to the Baby Boomer demographic.” Anthony wrapped his hands around his coffee. “It’s nice to just play, you know? No stake, no money involved. Just being crazy and fun and if that means writing slash fiction or writing a noir version of the story or exploring a character who frankly never moves the plot—it helps keep the writing fresh. Most of that never makes it on the page, but I get to play and that’s how I keep it all alive. And stay sane when I’ve got people gutting and altering my work.”

  “Okay.” Samir sipped his water. “That has to suck. They really do that to the books?”

  “Thank God my agent deals with the worst of that shit. But are they trying? Absolutely.”

  “So you were protecting yourself.”

  Anthony nodded. “Being able to socialize with people who don’t know who I am and don’t treat me any different to any other fan out there helps keep me grounded and feeling like a normal person.”

  “Oh shit, I can imagine. I won’t tell anybody. I don’t want to ruin that.” Nobody would believe him anyway. His fan group would lose their minds. Though whether he could still send him any of the explicit stories ... He shook his head.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, I just thought about those other stories I sent you. Did they, I mean, did they weird you out?”

  Anthony grinned, and, well, the only word to describe that grin was wolfish. “I found them pretty damn hot.”

  Oh God, my favorite author ever has jerked off to my fan fiction.

  “Uh. Any, errrr, favorites?”

  “I like your take on Dima and Raphael. There are obviously huge control issues at play, but their chemistry is mind-blowing.”

  Samir gulped. “I, wow.”

  Anthony chuckled. “Relax. I’m still Ulfhedinn.”

  “Yeah, but Ulfhedinn turned out to be Anthony Rawson. I’m sure you can see why that’s a little difficult to wrap my head around.”

  “I’m just a guy who writes books.”

  “Uh-huh. You’re the guy who writes those books.”

  Anthony studied him for a moment. Then he pushed his coffee aside. “I want to let you in on a secret.”

  Samir raised his eyebrows.

  “I really am just some guy writing books. And I happen to be a guy who’s stuck like hell on a book that a dozen people—not to mention legions of fans—are expecting me to cough up in very little time. And to be honest ...” He shook his head, sighing. “Up until the other night, I really wasn’t sure what was going to happen in that book. I’m stuck. I don’t wave a magic wand and produce those stories.” He paused. “And the thing is, what you’ve written is perfect for the direction the series needs to take.”

  “Oh. Uh, thank you.” Samir tilted his head. “If you want to use the whole world axis idea, that’s cool.”

  “I don’t think you understand. Your story is perfect.”

  Samir blinked.

  “You think you’re just a fan who’s writing these stories for fun, but you’ve come up with something amazing. And, look, I can’t promise anything. I’ve got my hands tied by so much legalese and contract bullshit, this could get vetoed the second I talk to my agent, but—”

  Samir almost choked. “Your ...”

  “Yes.” Anthony locked eyes with him. “I want the eighth book in the series to be Axis Mundi.”

  Samir sat back. He glanced around, searching for camera lenses. This was a joke. He was being punk’d.

  “I’m serious, Samir. I want this book in the series.”

  Samir studied him. Then something tightened in his chest, and he gritted his teeth. “Are you suggesting taking my book”—he thumped his iPad with a fingertip—“and putting it out there instead of the one you’re writing? With your name on it?”

  Anthony’s eyes widened. “What? No!” He waved a hand so sharply he almost knocked his coffee cup off the table, but he caught it, steadied it, and then showed his palms. “Of course not. No, I didn’t mean I wanted to take it from you. I mean I want to incorporate your book—as your book—into Triple Moon.”

  The tightness in Samir’s chest eased. Thank God—that would’ve been an uncomfortable revelation about both his friend and his idol. He absently turned his coffee cup between his fingers. “But it’s your series.”

  “And you’ve written the story better than I could have.” Anthony lowered his hands and closed them around his own cup. “I wanted to talk to you before I broached the subject with my agent. In case you had any objections.”

  “Objections?” Samir laughed. “No way. Are you sure this isn’t a joke?”

  “It’s not a joke. I promise.” Anthony shook his head. “But like I said, it could get sticky from a legal standpoint. Technically, I’m not even supposed to be reading fanfic or unpublished work.”

  “In case an element shows up in your work and someone says you ripped it off?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But you’ve been reading fanfic all this time.”

  Anthony lowered his gaze, and there was that pink in his cheeks again. “I’ve been reading your fanfic all this time.”

  “Mine?”

  Anthony nodded. “I joined the site, but avoided everyone’s stories because of my contract. Occasionally I saw little snippets here and there, and then I caught a glimpse of one of yours and couldn’t stop reading. That was right before we started chatting privately.”

  Samir’s head spun. In all the time he’d been writing and posting stories, he’d never even fantasized that Anthony might be reading them.

  He was thankful as fuck he’d never posted that smutty little story about himself and Anthony at a convention. That one would go so deep behind bars on his hard drive it would teach the Mafia something about vanishing inconvenient stuff. “So you don’t do that with anybody else?”

  “Check my history. I was hanging out with some of the illustrators, because VixenDreams’s illustrations are absolutely amazing, but I never beta any of the fanfic. I never even click on it.”

  “Wow.” Samir leaned back, still with that distinct Axis Mundi–style sense of realities mixing and converging, like he was a werewolf changing planes. Only difference was, this had been happening for coming on fifteen minutes, whereas in his book it took no time at all. Actually, it took negative time, which he’d thought was a neat touch and ... Okay, babbling. “You really want to buy the book? I mean, that wasn’t what I was going for.” He laughed and shook his head. “I didn’t even know I was sending it to, well, you. I just wrote it because I couldn’t wait for the next one and your characters moved into my head and started rearranging the furniture. Raphael kept on talking, and I couldn’t sleep.”

  “He does that.” Anthony didn’t even grin, just had a compassionate look on his face. Were they really discussing fictional people moving from head to head like a family of raccoons switching houses? “But you nailed him. You took those seven books and developed it like you owned it. That takes some confidence, never mind really hard work.”

  “I reread them all in one go and it just happened. I had the whole movie in my head.”

  “With the same cast?”

  “Oh, the casting is perfect. Lyle Phelan? I really didn’t see that happening, because he retired, but getting him to play Dima?” Samir swooned. “I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. With werewolves. I can’t wait to see it on screen.”

  Anthony laughed. “Good, because we had to fight hard t
o get him to sign.”

  “Really? He’s perfect for the role.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not keen on playing games with production companies. Doesn’t help that the producer who approached him is an insufferable cunt I’d like to toss off a bridge into a pit of rabid sharks.”

  Samir blinked. Holy fuck. This really was Ulfhedinn. That wasn’t an insult he used frequently—and this version wasn’t one of Samir’s favorites—but Samir had definitely heard a variation of it before. Anthony had incredibly colorful ways of expressing his distaste for people and things. What was it he’d said about that troll who’d infested Rawson’s Moonatics a few months ago?

  “He needs to be fucked sideways with a flaming cactus.”

  Yep. The man sitting across from him—the man who’d fucking written Triple Moon—was definitely Ulfhedinn.

  Samir cleared his throat. “Well, I’m glad Lyle gave in.”

  “Me too.” Anthony shifted a little, playing with the handle on his coffee mug. “So, going back to the book. If you’re really okay with it, I can talk to my agent.”

  Samir released a breath. “That’d be amazing. If it pans out, I mean.”

  Anthony held up one hand with his fingers crossed.

  “You’re still going to write the ninth book, right? I mean, I left it open for more. I think.”

  “Are you kidding? The way you set it up, I could write Triple Moon books until I’m old and, well, grayer.”

  Samir chuckled. “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “Now that I’m not ready to staple myself to death just to get out of writing book eight? Yes. It’s a very good thing.”

  “Good, good.” Samir took another drink, and as he capped the water bottle, asked, “So, what happens if your agent says no?”

  “Not a clue. The thing is, to be perfectly honest, I can’t even envision the story going a different way. It’s like there were two freeways being built, and now that they’re connected, there’s no changing their direction.”

  “Well, if she won’t buy it, you’re welcome to use it. The portal thing, at least.”

  Anthony sighed. “Except that would still be plagiarism. Unethical would be an understatement. And I’d never take your story and make it mine. This isn’t about my name. It’s about the Triple Moon series, and Axis Mundi is the next step. It just is.”