Blood Ink E-Book

Dana Fredsti

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Death and Tattoos in the Big Easy Lee Striga—stuntwoman and demon-killer extraordinaire—is in dire need of a job, any job. After the disastrously bloody events of her last movie, word has got around that Lee's a dangerous woman. Hollywood—even the supernatural side of it—has closed its doors to her. That is, until a mysterious new producer appears with a job offer that seems too good to be true. Pity Lee can't stand the sight of him. But beggars can't be choosers, and soon Lee is in New Orleans, working stunts on a horror movie like no other—with a cast and crew of werecats, crocodile-men, and an artistically frustrated ghoul. But before she even arrives on set, Lee's demon-killing legacy as Lilith's descendant draws her into a whole new mystery, and a desperate fight for survival.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also by Dana Fredsti

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

BLOOD INK

ALSO BY DANA FREDSTI

THE LILITH SERIES

The Spawn of LilithBlood Ink

THE ASHLEY PARKER NOVELS

Plague TownPlague NationPlague World

A Man’s Gotta Eat What a Man’s Gotta Eat (e-original novella)

BY DANA FREDSTI AND DAVID FITZGERALD

Time ShardsShatter War (coming soon)

BLOOD INK

DANA FREDSTI

TITANBOOKS

BLOOD INKPrint edition ISBN: 9781785652622Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785652639

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

First edition: April 20192 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2019 Dana Fredsti. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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To my mother, Dorothy Carol Galante.You had the best laugh in the world, and I’d travelthrough hell dimensions to hear it again.

The ads all call me fearless, but that’s just publicity. Anyone who thinks I’m not scared out of my mind whenever I do one of my stunts is crazier than I am.

—Jackie Chan

The art of stunt-making is not about falling down; it’s about getting the shot. Creating stunts is creating heroes.

—Chad Stahelski

I do all my own stunts. I’m kidding.

—Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson

PROLOGUE

It was born of love, but transformed by hate. Now it dwelt in chaos.

And it dwelt alone.

The thing’s unimaginable form alone was enough to provoke insanity. The hint of serpentine tentacles, the insane clusters of its eyes, its skeletal, grasping limbs, and its proportions too horrible, too terrifying, too mind-wrecking for the crude animal brain of a human to comprehend.

Its predecessors had emerged from the primal chaos long eons ago—from the same unfathomable dimension in which it now swam—a place of exotic nebulae and roiling cosmic pandemonium, where physics ran amok, where space and time, existence and nothingness, sense and madness all had strange new meanings.

Here, in the vast infinite space of this utterly inexplicable dimension, it moved and intermingled with myriad bewildering entities. Cold and unsympathetic ancient intelligences. Frightening beings born of nightmares, and all manner of unearthly creatures high and low. Some paid it no heed whatsoever, others gave it a wary kind of respect, and still others it hunted and feasted upon when it encountered them.

It had no equal. Nothing that could provide conversation or companionship. It had been this way ever since it had consumed its mate.

Virtually no single aspect of the thing could be safely encompassed by the human mind. But even while it undulated in the black depths of its howling abyss, the thing would at times contemplate its existence, and the barely remembered shape it once possessed, so very long ago.

It recalled, with difficulty, many strange sensations. The constant tug of gravity. The garish brightness of solar radiation warming a gaseous atmosphere. Swimming in an ocean of salt water. Sand beneath its feet. When it was… different.

It seemed to remember, with difficulty, experiencing several alien emotions, though it no longer possessed the words for them. Existing in a much simpler, weaker, short-lived terrestrial larval form… being human. A peculiar warm and engaging state… being loved. Having something, another being separate from itself, that provoked that state…

It could—and still did—experience one vestigial emotional state left over from that nascent embryonic stage. It felt loneliness.

It missed its mother.

CHAPTER ONE

RISE OF THE VAMPSHEES: THE NETHERWORLD CHRONICLES, PART II

EXT. THE DOCKS – NIGHT

A full moon SHINES down on a wooden dock being buffeted by a stormy sea. Waves surge over the sides. A SEAL washes onto the dock… and stands up, seal skin puddling around now human feet. The skin shimmers as masculine hands pick it up.

We SEE the back of a well-built man, GALEN, striding up the dock, wearing form-fitting pants the same color and texture as the sealskin. His footing is sure and swift despite the waves threatening to sweep him back into the ocean. Behind him, other seals converge on the dock, shedding skins as they morph into men and women, and follow the first selkie to…

…A DILAPIDATED WAREHOUSE at the end of the dock, windows boarded up, strips of paint peeling off the exterior.

CUT TO:

INT. WAREHOUSE – NIGHT

The interior of the warehouse is as ramshackle as its exterior. Wooden catwalks line the upper perimeter, and dozens of extraordinarily attractive vampires clad in black leather line the edges. They all stare with glowing red eyes at the floor below, where an equal number of selkies in human form—all dressed in transformed seal-skin garments—glare up at the vampires above them.

Galen steps forward. He stares up at a tall, imposing figure in a black duster. VIGGA, vampire queen with the beauty—and treachery—of a fallen angel.

GALEN

My people are here, Vigga! Many traveled from selkie courts hundreds of miles away. Let us hope the terms of this treaty are worth their journey.

VIGGA

I promise you, Galen, that this… treaty will once and for all end the hostility between our two races.

CONNOR

(o.s.)

Vigga lies!

All eyes, selkie and vampire alike, turn to the door. CONNOR, handsome half-werewolf, half-selkie, stands in the doorway.

CONNOR

She means to slaughter the selkie folk, not make peace with our people!

Cries of outrage come from both sides at Connor’s words. Vigga smiles.

VIGGA

Surely this intruder is not one of your people, Galen. Since when do werewolves claim kinship with the selkies?

CONNOR

Galen and I are brothers.

GALEN

(bitterly)

We are half-brothers. Born of the same selkie mother, but this half-breed whelp’s father was a bastard werewolf.

LELA

(o.s.)

This “half-breed whelp,” as you call him, is the savior of your people!

CU CONNOR’S FACE…

…as he looks up at the catwalk opposite the one where Vigga stands. He stares in disbelief at a hooded figure.

CONNOR

(in a whisper)

Lela? You’re… You’re alive?

CU HOODED FIGURE…

…as she pushes the hood away from her head to reveal LELA, beautiful half-vampire, half-banshee. She stares down at her former lover with sadness and longing.

LELA

Yes, Connor.

Vigga hisses in fury and hatred.

VIGGA

It cannot be. You killed yourself. You are dead, you half-vampire, half-banshee abomination!

LELA

I am difficult to kill, even by my own hand…

(dramatic pause)

…Aunt Vigga.

VIGGA

Kill her!

GALEN

Destroy the half-breed whelp!

Selkies close in on Connor even as vampires converge on Lela.

Lela leaps up and over the catwalk railing, duster billowing out as she drops to the floor, landing in a crouching position, feet wide apart and supporting her weight with one hand on the floor, the other hand outstretched diagonally upward.

LELA

(looking at her lover)

Hello, Connor.

Connor stares at her, disbelief and love blazing from his eyes.

VIGGA

(in fury)

Nooooooooo!

*  *  *

Now, that’s where I should have come in. But I didn’t, because on the first movie’s film set, a stunt had gone wrong and I’d ended up in the hospital. When they’d been hiring for the sequel, the stunt coordinator hadn’t thought I was ready to do falls or jumps from any height taller than a bunk bed at the time of production, so the job of doubling Kayley Avondale—perky British ingénue turned action heroine—went to somebody else. The fact that I disliked this “somebody” made it all the harder to be okay with the situation.

What I was doing instead?

*  *  *

DRAGON DRUID MAGES: FIRES OF CHANGE

EXT. DRUID CLAN CIRCLE – AFTERNOON

A clearing. Dozens of white-robe-clad Druids, holding torches, ring a dais of obsidian rising five feet above the grass. BALTHAR, 30s, darkly handsome in black leather and dragonscale armor, stands in the shadows, watching the ceremony with a sneer.

HIGH MAGE

Druids from every clan gather here to decide who, by rite of passage and right of lineage, will lead the people of this land, the northern tribes.

BALTHAR

(stepping forward)

Nay. The only rights belong to the strong. To those not afraid to fight!

He addresses the rest of the Druids.

BALTHAR

Step away from this antiquated test and join me. Together we will lead the tribes to bloody victory against the Roman conquerors!

MARISA

No!

MARISA steps out of the shadows, face concealed by the pure-white hood of her Druid’s robe. A RED DRAGON is embroidered on the front. She ascends the dais.

MARISA

Balthar speaks half-truths and cleverly concealed lies!

Marisa pushes the hood away from her face, revealing strong yet beautiful features. The face of a virgin warrior queen. Pure yet powerful.

C.U. BALTHAR…

…glaring at her with a mixture of hatred and desire.

MARISA

Balthar will lead us to only death and dishonor. As he attempted to dishonor me with his touch.

BALTHAR

The only lies come from you and your antiquated gods, Dragon Druidess.

He strides up until he is standing face to face with her. Armed warriors on both sides draw their swords. Bows are raised, arrows notched and ready to fly.

BALTHAR

You will not win this fight, Marisa.

(to someone behind him)

Show her the child.

A look of horror crosses Marisa’s face.

MARISA

You cannot mean…

Balthar laughs as two of his warriors drag ILLIAD—five years old—out from behind them.

ILLIAD

Mother!

Marisa turns on Balthar, perfectly shaped lips now contorted in a snarl, the feral look of a lioness whose cub is threatened.

MARISA

Illiad!

Throwing off her white robes to reveal chainmail and leather battle armor, Marisa launches herself off the platform, her staff a lethal whirling weapon of fury and vengeance as she attacks the men holding her son.

BALTHAR

Take the boy to Black Keep!

He joins the fight, driving Marisa back so Balthar’s men can drag Illiad away. All around them, Druids are savagely cut down until only Marisa is left standing.

BALTHAR

You cannot win, Marisa. Surrender now and I will spare your son’s life.

MARISA

Allow me to don my robes of station and I will surrender.

Balthar hesitates, then nods. Marisa returns to the platform, dons her robes, then suddenly lifts her arms to the sky.

MARISA

I invoke Breath of the Dragon!

Flames envelop her, keeping Balthar and his men at bay as she transforms into a dragon, then vanishes into the fire.

BALTHAR

(face contorting with fury)

Nooooooooo!

*  *  *

This is where I came in—to film Marisa’s leap to the ground and her “lethal whirling weapon of fury and vengeance” as she whomps the crap out of a few tackily clad soldiers before battling Balthar. The wardrobe department had raided a Cosplay’R’Us for the cheap fantasy armor. Perhaps they’d hit a cultists’ discount warehouse for the generic white poly-cotton mage robes.

Gina, the actress playing the titular Dragon Druid Mage, happily handed over her staff and stepped to the side as I took her place on the platform. She was not one of the many actors who want to do their own fights. “I bruise way too easily,” she’d told me. More screen time and more money for me.

I tried to resist the need to tug the chainmail and faux leather bikini either up or down. It wouldn’t cover any more flesh either way.

“Armor, my ass,” I muttered.

“You wish it covered your ass, huh, Lee?” Tommy, the actor playing Balthar, quipped.

He was not wrong. He was also one of the main reasons Gina didn’t want to do any fight choreography. When learning theatrical combat, some people do just fine and dandy with the choreography, but are about as convincing as robots when it comes to selling the fight. Other people put plenty of verve into it, but have less control than five-year-olds chasing each other around with sticks.

Tommy was just a little too enthusiastic with the fight choreography without paying quite enough attention to details like remembering where his targets were. Annoying, but any bruises would fade in a few days, and at least Tommy didn’t have anything to prove—unlike Axel, a Priaptic demon I’d worked with a few months earlier. Tommy just needed to dial it down a few notches whereas Axel had wanted to hurt me.

Three hours later, it was time for the last shot of the day—Marisa’s Dragon Breath hot flash.

Some stunt performers really love fire gags. They say there’s a rush to it that they don’t get from any other stunt. I am not one of these people. My rush comes from the moment right after the flames are extinguished and I realize I am alive and—hopefully—unsinged.

With the crew and a Los Angeles County fire marshal standing by, I slid into the flesh-colored Nomex “long underwear.” Long-sleeve top, long pants with drawstring, gloves and booties. A hood that covered my hair and neck. The Nomex had been soaked in flame-retardant gel and kept in a cooler full of ice, so putting it on was not fun. We were experiencing a warm SoCal September, but it was still a gooey, cold shock to my system. Still, I was glad to have it slathered on as this was going to be a “hot burn,” meaning I wouldn’t be moving around during the stunt. The flames burn hotter when you’re standing still, which increases the risk of losing eyebrows or worse. I could take feeling like I’d been hit by Slimer in Ghostbusters if it meant keeping my eyelashes.

When I stepped out from behind the makeshift dressing room, the stunt coordinator and his assistants slathered me with more of the gel, making sure my face and all other bits not already protected by Nomex were well covered. Over that went Marissa’s Druid robes. They had been treated with flame-retardant spray. Another lighter version of the Druid robe went on over all of that. The outer layer would burn, but theoretically the under-layers would not. This way we would achieve the effect of the flames without Marissa’s clothes—or me—going up in smoke.

The dragon FX would be added in postproduction. At least the director was committed to getting some of this as a practical effect instead of trying to do the entire thing with CGI. The overall look of it would be less cheesy. Unfortunately, the dialogue, plot and cardboard characters could fill up multiple cheese boards.

Before my accident, things had been very different. I’d been part of the Katz Stunt Crew, one of the top stunt teams in the Industry. It’s run by my Uncle Sean, who’s actually my godfather, but “uncle” rolls off the tongue easier and doesn’t bring to mind the Mob. Most of the team are supes—that’s “supernaturals” for those of us too lazy to use five syllables—I’m one of the few exceptions. Since my fall I’d lived at Sean’s ranch and trained newbies, but I was currently a free agent when it came to stunt work, though not by choice. Sean didn’t think I was ready to get back on the horse, so I’d had to find my own work. Hence Dragon Druid Mages.

If this had been Sean’s kind of production—one aware of their supernatural hires and/or one where my uncle was running the stunt show and could handle second unit shooting with a small, select crew—we probably would’ve used Dion, our fire gag expert. He was human-phoenix and there is nothing like that particular combo to achieve some kickass practical effects. It’s also cheaper and quicker in the long run because you don’t need the gel, Nomex, or fire extinguishers. Dion would just go all “flame on” in a spectacular ball of fire or a slow burn, depending on what was desired, and then calmly emerge from the ashes when the take was over. Dragon Druid Mages, however, was a NSA (non supe aware) production, so we’d do the stunt the old-fashioned way and I’d get the small pay bump that came with the dangers of being covered in goo and getting set on fire.

This was my last day on the film and as soon as the fire gag was completed, I was officially done. After two weeks of fourteen-hour days, I was ready for a break, but I’d had a blast. The cast and crew knew they weren’t making art and it was a fun shoot. Even better, I did not have to work with an asshole Priaptic demon and there were no shadows with teeth and claws slaughtering people.

Be grateful for the little things, right?

“You ready, Lee?” Norris, the stunt coordinator, stood by with a plastic pitcher full of gasoline. His assistants, Mark and Mikey, both held blowtorches.

I nodded. “Light me up and put me out.”

Norris grinned. “Let’s go.”

He doused the robes, covering my arms, legs, and back with the gasoline. I wrinkled my nose as the acrid fumes rose into my nostrils and then hopped back up on the platform, where a gel-soaked furniture pad had been placed to prevent an actual conflagration and to give me a semi-protected place to land when it was time to be extinguished.

“And… action!”

Raising my arms above my head, I intoned, “I invoke Breath of the Dragon!”

Whoosh!

Flames rose on either side of me, running up my arms and down my body, the fire dancing over my body without any real sense of heat. The fire crackled and snapped as it followed the path laid by the gasoline. The heat suddenly penetrated the protective layers, slamming into me like a super-heated punch from behind. I fell to my knees and then forward onto the pad, hearing the welcome hiss of fire extinguishers as Mark and Mikey put out the flames.

“Great job, Lee. How ya feeling?” Norris grinned down at me. I gave him a gooey thumbs-up.

“I wouldn’t say no to a beer.”

*  *  *

If anyone had ever told Celia that a tattoo would kill her, she would’ve laughed it off. It sounded like the kind of urban legend parents liked to feed their kids. Get them to behave by freaking them out. Shitty parenting.

Sure, she’d heard of some people getting staph infections. Having to have pieces of their flesh cut out to save the rest of a limb. But they’d gone to questionable parlors, had their tattoos done by people who didn’t clean the needles. Stuff like that.

LeRoy’s Ink Shop had been totally recommended by more than one of her friends. Well, at least one of them. Or maybe it was her boyfriend. She couldn’t quite remember. Whatever, the place had been clean and there’d been nothing hinky about it at all.

Celia had the idea that she’d get a tattoo like the cloisonné butterfly on her favorite necklace so that when she wore her low-cut jeans, the wings would emerge partway. Something pretty and feminine. Maybe in pale pinks and tangerine. The head tattoo artist—LeRoy himself, and, wow, he was hunky for a man who had to be at least thirty—had liked the idea, but talked her into a butterfly with iridescent purple and blue wings. He’d pulled a portfolio out from behind the counter, something he didn’t leave out for just anyone to see.

“Special people deserve special ink,” he’d said with a smile.

Celia felt very special at that moment. Not like she usually did, with her friends. They weren’t exactly mean girls—well, Tiffany was—but they were cheerleaders and prom queens, the kind of girls who never paid for their own drinks. Whose boyfriends bought them expensive jewelry. Friends who lived in expensive mansions in the center of New Orleans’ Garden District, not at the edge of it in a small raised cottage, like Celia’s family. Friends who sometimes forgot to include her in their plans.

No, she was getting something special. Because she was special. She just knew once she showed it to the gang, they’d all want one too.

LeRoy had shunted off other customers to the other tattooists in the shop. There were three of them, all women. Two could have been twins—maybe they were—with large liquid green eyes the color of swamp water, almost snub noses, wide mouths and receding chins. Celia couldn’t decide if they were pretty or freakish. They sure were different. The third looked to be about her age, petite and kind of goth-y, but really nice. She smiled at Celia and complimented her necklace.

When it was all over, LeRoy had given her a jar of ointment that he said would help promote the healing process, prevent flaking, and minimize scabbing. That way she wouldn’t have to come back for touch-ups. He also told her that it would itch. That it would feel like a mild sunburn on and around the site of the tattoo.

This felt like the mother of all sunburns. She’d been burned badly in her teens, when she and her friends had gone to a tanning salon. The girl working that day had been new and let her stay in for too long. Celia had gone from deep pink to angry red to almost purple, unable to stand even the lightest cloth on her body. Within two days, the skin started peeling off her butt and breasts, which had gotten the worst of it. Instead of strutting around in her bikini with a golden tan, she had spent a few weeks of enforced indoor time, slathering lotion on raw, peeling skin.

That had hurt, had, in fact, been some of the worst pain she’d ever experienced—until now. This was worse. He hadn’t said it would itch and burn straight down to the bone, like acid eating its way into her bloodstream. Like something was burrowing in there, biting her, plucking on the nerve endings. He hadn’t said that it would feel like the skin was peeling off and acid was dripping onto each point of the tattoo.

No, LeRoy hadn’t warned her about that.

Finally, she went into her mom’s bathroom, grabbed the Valium out of the cornucopia of prescription meds, took two, and went back to bed. After a while, she drifted off and dreamed of insects drilling into her spine.

CHAPTER TWO

Randy and I sat on his couch, drinking beer and watching a bad movie on his big-ass flat-screen television. The TV took up most of one wall of the living room in his Encino apartment. The other walls sported a few John Carpenter movie posters—The Thing, They Live, Big Trouble in Little China—and a very tasty poster-sized photo of Randy with his shirt off. While he wasn’t quite as buff as, say, Thor or some of the other Avengers, he was in good enough shape that he could probably get there pretty quickly if the right job came along.

The movie—Marauders: Grid Wars—was what you’d get if you took Avengers and The Matrix, mashed them together with none of the humor of the former and no red pill option to escape the latter. The busty heroine, Anya—dressed in a low-cut corset, matching thong, sexy garter belt, black stockings and four-inch heels—was currently in the grip of two cyber-thugs in black suits, several others lurking in the background. The villain, Evon, stood in front of her, exuding low-budget sexual menace. Anya’s face was totally serene, the result of too much Botox on the part of the actress playing her.

EVON

It doesn’t have to be this way, Anya. Tell me where Osprey is hiding, and I’ll let you go.

Randy snorted. “Osprey?”

“At least they didn’t call him Pigeon or Hummer. Now listen or you’ll miss really important dialogue.”

That got another snort.

ANYA

You know that will never happen, Evon. The Marauders are going to take down the Grid. It’s only a matter of time.

“Does she ever move her upper lip?” Randy said.

I shook my head. “I don’t think she can. Now hush.”

EVON

You and I have something, Anya. Something real. You can see it in the air between us!

He reaches out, and CGI electricity visibly crackles in the air between them.

Randy and I both giggled.

EVON

Can you really throw this away?

On “this” he touches Anya’s face and she closes her eyes, visibly stirred.

At least as visibly stirred as the actress could convey without working facial muscles.

ANYA

(softly, with regret)

There’s nothing real in the Grid, Evon. Not even us.

Anya suddenly explodes in a flurry of movement, knocking Evon back with a brutal kick to his solar plexus. He falls backwards, winded. Anya’s hands, arms, legs and feet, her entire body, become deadly weapons as she takes out the cyber-thugs holding her. Others whip out weapons and fire. Time SLOWS DOWN and Anya leans into an impossibly deep back bend, twisting to one side to let the cyber-bullets flow past her and—

“How the hell do you gals do that shit in those heels?” Randy asked, staring in bemusement at the scene playing out.

I shrugged, the gesture barely moving Randy’s muscular arm, which was draped around my shoulders. “It’s a definite skill set,” I said. “One that most of us would rather not have to utilize quite so often.”

“So… what’s the deal? They think the higher the heels, the more kickass the heroine?”

Awww, bless his little lycanthropic heart…

“Below a certain budget level, yeah. Ooh, check it out.” I leaned forward. “This is the bit where Jan sprained her ankle because the goddamn director wouldn’t back down on the stupid heels.”

“He made her do the whole fight scene in four-inch heels?”

“It’s a Crazy Casa film.”

“Ah,” Randy said. “Say no more.”

Crazy Casa Productions is known for cheap knock-offs of high-budget films and even cheaper original movies with mutant monster combos. Think Pandaconda. They pay for shit. As in they hardly pay anything, and they get exactly what they pay for. They also go through actors way too fast—what I not-so-nicely refer to as Barbies and Kens. They have an in-house stunt coordinator who cycles through young and eager stunt players almost as quickly. If you survived more than one Crazy Casa production as a stunt player, you were either really good at your job or had the luck of the Irish with a shit-ton of four-leaf clovers on the side. And, until you proved yourself under a reputable stunt coordinator, you were also considered potentially dangerous.

I hadn’t worked on Grid Wars, but I knew Jan, the stuntwoman doubling Anya, and she’d fought the good fight against heels, and lost. I felt for her. The director I’d worked for before Dragon Druid Mages had pushed for the female police officer in his micro-budget movie Woman in a Blue Dress Uniform to wear high-heeled boots when she was on duty, including during an extensive chase sequence culminating in a fight against six muscular thugs. Said director was shouted down by the lead actress with my full support as her stunt double. I’d shaken my head and said, “Ain’t gonna happen.”

And it hadn’t, but Jan was getting a lot more work than I was these days.

Dragon Druid Mages was only my fourth job since healing from my fall on the high-budget piece o’ poo, Vampshee: The Netherworld Chronicles. It had taken me half a year to recover from the injuries to the point where I could get back to work, and I was still dealing with a newly formed—and highly inconvenient—fear of heights.

The first job, Steel Legions, barely paid for my gas driving back-and-forth to set. It had been, however, the first stunt work I’d gotten since my accident, and despite dealing with Axel—the aforementioned Priaptic demon who’d played the villain—it hadn’t been all bad. It had been Randy’s first job as stunt coordinator and I’d gotten to know him as more than an irritating newbie at the Katz Ranch and discovered that underneath an annoyingly cocky veneer, he was actually a nice guy.

He’d stunt-doubled a variety of generically good-looking actors—the ones that were probably cloned in a vat somewhere and then dispersed to the various television networks to populate their shows. I’d never found the type particularly compelling and hadn’t thought too much of Randy when he first showed up to train at the Ranch with Sean’s crew. There was a lot more to him than first met the eye, however, including an unexpected dash of shifter. He’d never talked to me about his heritage, and I didn’t want to be nosy. Information offered was one thing, but digging for it was another—in the supe community, it wasn’t considered polite.

A lot of supernaturals flock to places like Los Angeles because the entertainment industry makes it easier for them to make a living without having to hide in the shadows all the time. Unfortunately, there are purebloods among the various races with major attitude problems, like Death Eaters in the Potterverse. That bullshit didn’t play with Sean Katz. As long as you could do the job—whatever that job might be from one day to the next—he didn’t care if you were, say, a vampire-banshee hybrid, a were-bunny, or a zombie.

Okay, maybe not zombies. Way too much cleanup involved if they took any sort of impact, not to mention the risk of infection. There’d been a scandal a few years back when zombie movies were all the rage and some idiot producer on a low-budget film had gotten into major trouble for using them as expendable extras. Careless cleanup had led to an outbreak on the set, luckily contained by the isolated filming location and a weapons handler with a cache of firearms, live ammo, and great aim.

Randy and I continued to watch Grid Wars, washing the badness down with excellent craft beer. “Did you know,” I said conversationally, “that the director originally wanted to call it Dark Noir Night?”

“Uh, doesn’t that translate to Dark Black Night?”

“Uh huh. Kind of like Manos, Hands of Fate translates to Hands, Hands of Fate.”

“Wow.”

Grid Wars took itself as seriously as Man of Steel. Anya and Evon continued their battle, transitioning from the slow-mo backbends to some uninspired aerial moves. Flying kicks, flips, the usual. Nothing that hadn’t already been done to death. Yawn.

“Jeez, this is stale,” Randy said dismissively. “I remember when the wirework in Big Trouble in Little China was a big deal.”

“How do you remember that?” I peered up at him skeptically from my comfy position under his arm. “Were you even born when that was released? I don’t think so.”

“How old do you think I am?” he retorted. “My sister and I saw that in the theater at least a half dozen times when it came out.”

“I stand corrected, Methuselah.”

We finished watching Grid Wars and I got up to stretch, shutting my eyes as I rolled my head in slow circles to loosen the muscles in my neck. I opened my eyes and caught Randy looking at me, his brow furrowed. When he saw that I’d noticed, his forehead straightened out as if a magic wrinkle remover had been applied.

I raised an eyebrow. “Okay, Squid, what’s up? You’re looking at me funny.”

“Everything’s good,” he replied. “I was just wondering if everything was okay.” He scratched his head and looked uncomfortable.

O-kay…

“Why wouldn’t it be? I mean, bad movies, good pizza, great beer. What’s not to like?”

“You’re sure you’re feeling all right? No headaches or anything?”

My eyes narrowed. “Did Sean tell you to keep an eye on me and make sure that I’m not gonna go into convulsions or something? Even though I’m seeing a neurologist and haven’t had any kind of seizure since the accident?”

Randy took a big chug of beer to hide his embarrassed expression. “Yeah, he kind of did, but I would’ve done that anyway. Just because you haven’t had any kind of seizure or whatever doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Nothing bad’s gonna happen to you on my watch.”

I did my best to hide the fact that I was more than a little touched by his words even though they also made me nervous. I wasn’t ready to settle down with anyone and I liked the casualness of our friendship. It made me comfortable in a way that intense emotions and commitment did not.

“You’re not getting all mushy on me, are you?”

Randy’s face flushed just a little bit. He shook his head vigorously. “Hell, no.” He drank more beer. “I know better than that.”

I guess he did. He’d told me before that he really liked me, but he didn’t expect anything more than friendship with benefits. I knew he wouldn’t mind seeing where things went if I were onboard, but he didn’t want me to run screaming in the other direction. I didn’t know if he was dating anyone else and I didn’t ask. Maybe I didn’t want to know. Maybe I was just a big fat weenie who couldn’t handle emotions but still wanted everything my own way.

Thanks for that, brain.

“So…” Randy trailed off, giving his beer bottle an inordinate amount of attention. I mean, he wasn’t drinking from it, he was just staring at the label.

“What?”

“Sean say anything about you and me?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Oh.” His tone was flat. He was still studying the beer bottle.

“Trust me, that’s a good thing,” I said, poking Randy in his well-muscled stomach. Not a lot of give there in either his abdomen or his expression. “Seriously,” I reassured him. “Sean doesn’t say much about my personal life unless he’s got an issue with it.”

Point of fact, Sean had been conspicuously quiet about my dating Randy, other than a response to a pithy comment I’d overheard Seth make about some of my late nights. Sean’s brief reply had been, “Be thankful, why don’t you? Randy’s at least a few steps up from her last choice in men.”

Somehow I didn’t think Randy would understand why that was a compliment. According to Seth and Sean, my previous boyfriends had been less than stellar. I had to take their word for it—large chunks of my life before the accident were still a blank.

He downed the rest of his beer in one quick swallow. “You had enough of dumbass films yet, or do you wanna move on to the next piece of crap?”

Was it my imagination or did he seem a little hurt?

“Let’s move on,” I said, making a quick decision. “But let’s improve the quality of the entertainment a little bit, shall we?”

I leaned down, wound one hand in his thick brown hair and pulled him closer so I could kiss him. He gave a low growl deep in his throat, the vibration sending a pleasurable shiver through me. Randy was good at more than stunt work.

*  *  *

Celia struggled to pull herself out of the cobwebs of a drugged slumber. It felt like she was wading through a room of cotton candy—sticky, cloying, and endless. She’d get through one section, pull herself free of the strands around her, only to stumble into a fresh batch.

Even worse was the sensation that her mouth was filled to bursting with gum. She’d stopped chewing bubblegum years ago after a nightmare where no matter how much gum she pulled out of her mouth, she couldn’t get rid of it. Pulling great sticky, stretchy swaths of the gum as more formed in her throat and oozed forward. This was like that. But so much worse.