Fall of Light (11 page)

George Corvassian, the first assistant director, grabbed her arm and pulled her away. He dragged her all the way to the second set, then put his mouth right next to her ear. “We know it's not in the script,” he whispered to her, “but Neil wants to let it play out and see what happens. It's looking great.”

“It's a real wound,” she whispered, furious.

“Special effects knife,” George whispered. “Ask Props.”

“I don't think so. What if he really hurt her?” She decided to speak in a language he could understand. “She could sue the company!”

“Anyway, it happened, and we might as well see if we can use it.”

“But he—”

“It was superficial,” George said.

“You don't understand,” said Opal. She pulled loose, but he grabbed her again.

“Wait,” he whispered in her ear. “If there's something seriously wrong, Neil will stop and take care of it.”

Opal didn't trust Neil to do any such thing. “The Dark God'll get Lauren. He'll own her.”

“It's only a movie,” muttered George. “There are worse tragedies at sea.”

Opal opened her mouth to scream and interrupt the filming, but just then two bells rang, signaling the end of the take, and George let her go. Opal raced to the other set. The set doctor was treating Lauren's arm. The actress stared at it blankly.

Opal touched Lauren's shoulder, sent as much spirit protection as she could. She remembered doing this for her sisters and brothers when they were little; sometimes she had had to protect them against each other, and sometimes she gave them a layer of safety against their mother. It had been a long time since she had done it.

Lauren blinked and woke, gasped and jerked her arm. The doctor held it firm: he was applying antiseptic. “What?” Lauren said. “How'd that happen?”

“Dark God did it. During a take.”

“Damn it!” Lauren jerked free of the doctor's grip, marched over to the Dark God, and shook her arm at him. “You did this to me?”

“You said yes,” he said, speaking in Corvus's voice, gentle. He smiled, almost benevolently, despite the monster face he wore.

“Looked great on film,” said Neil. “Print that.” The script supervisor made a mark on her script. “We'll do the other shots with fake blood, naturally,” he said. “Did you get down the new dialogue?” he asked the script supervisor, and she nodded.

“All right, actors take ten or fifteen while we set up for the next shot and get some typing done,” an assistant director called. “Stand-ins to the set. Lighting crew. D.P. and camera crew. Next shot POV Caitlyn on Serena and the D.G.”

Magenta approached Lauren. “We have to cover the scratch with something for the next take.”

“In a minute.” Lauren turned to the Dark God. “How'd you make me stand still for this?”

“You have many desires, all competing. This was one of them; I only teased it closer to the surface.”

“Don't do it again.”

“I make no promises.”

She glared up at him, then turned and took a few steps, lost. Her hand rose to touch the new wound, now dabbed with ointment. Lauren glanced around until her gaze encountered Opal, and then she went to her, pulled her away from the others. “Help,” Lauren whispered.

Opal touched her shoulder, tried to sense what had happened the way she used to. When she was younger and most of the childcare in the family devolved onto her, she had come up with shortcuts for finding out who hit whom, and later, when some of them got their powers and one of them didn't, she'd learned to trace power use even more.

“It's bad,” she said. “There's a reason why the devil gets you to sign a contract in blood. It carries a blueprint of your identity with it. Now he has that, and he got you to give it to him.”

“I feel like I was drugged.”

“Yeah, I think you were. Maybe not drugs, but some kind of altered state. Hypnosis.”

“He doesn't play fair.”

“I know.”

“What's he going to do with me now that he's got me?”

“I don't know. I think him kissing me was the same kind of deal. Saliva has all that genetic information, too. Not as popular in mystic circles, but still potent, and he stole some of mine.”

“He kissed you?”

“Right after you left. While he was doing it, Erika caught us. Photo op city.”

“Great,” said Lauren sarcastically.

Opal shook her head. “I don't know what she's going to do with those pictures, but maybe I better tell somebody about them. Someone with actual veto power might be able to block her using them.”

“Talk to the production manager. Fran. You know? She's in charge of all the stuff that happens on location, and she might be able to control Erika. I don't know. Erika's a really good photographer, Opal. She gave me some great head shots.”

“Thanks for the tip. I'll see what I can do. I might be able to take care of the pictures another way. They involve the fall of light.” She thought about that. She could affect film, and probably digital media, too. She'd have to get specific, though; just fog the ones of her and the new guy, and see if Erika had backed up her photos anywhere.

“What can we do about D.G.?” Lauren asked.

“I'm going to ask my mom for advice.”

“I'll call my
abuela
.”

“Tell me if you find out anything.”

“Will do. You tell me, too, okay? Not that I'll be able to do anything about it. You think he plans any more conquests?”

They both looked at Blaise, pouting by the fake altar stone.

“Has he shown any interest in her?” Opal wondered.

“Nothing obvious. I think that pisses her off. Before he turned into D.G., she was trying to get his attention, but he's, you know, all reserved and quiet. You can't tell where he's looking, or if.” They watched Blaise, who seemed to feel their regard. She glared back at them. “She really gets into that character,” Lauren muttered, “and sometimes she doesn't come out. It's disturbing. Her character hates and despises me. Or maybe my character. It's not always clear.”

“We have to find out what he wants,” Opal muttered.

The Dark God put arms around both their shoulders, and came to stand between them, startling them. Opal had thought he was still by the altar stone with Blaise, but that was Corvus's stand-in, Fred, with his hood up, a respectable distance from Blaise.

Should have known it was Fred from the way she's not paying attention to him,
Opal thought.

“What who wants?” the new guy asked. “Do my handmaidens conspire?”

“Stop it, for God's sake. That's creepy,” Lauren said. “My mom didn't spend years cleaning other people's houses to turn me into some handmaiden.”

“What
do
you want with us?” said Opal.

“Do you know the child who wrote this play?” he asked.

“Sure, Bethany. We talked to her last night in the restaurant.” Opal shook her head. She and Corvus had talked to Bethany, anyway. The new guy hadn't been around for that discussion. She thought.

“You know she grew up here?”

“You're not going to make us live the script, are you?” Lauren asked. “If that's your plan, I'm quitting right now. I don't care what it costs.”

He laughed. Then he patted her head. “You can't leave,” he said, still smiling.

“Just watch me, buster. No way am I going to turn into some sexy vamp girl and go around killing people to serve your need for blood.”

“I won't ask you to,” he said. “It's not really blood I need.” He stroked her hair. She stood rigid, but then she relaxed into it, shoulders lowering, her head tilting toward him so that his hand had easier access. She blinked, and closed her eyes, a contented smile on her face.

Trance technique,
thought Opal.
Hair involved
. The new guy's arm still rested on her shoulders, but he wasn't stroking
her
hair. She glanced up at his face, the lace of leaves across his skin, the horns, the jutting brow and chin, the lakes of shadow, the internal glow of the eyes, the quiet smile. He did not look malevolent or dangerous, despite the monster outer layer. She and Corvus and the art director had wanted him to be strange rather than terrifying. How informed had they been about his real nature? He was local; he had almost said so, talking about Bethany and the script. Opal had built the pieces of his face in Los Angeles, nine hundred miles away. Maybe his true face was completely different, and now he was just a squatter behind her creation. The horns, though—those weren't hers.

Magenta stalked over to them. “Stop that,” she said to the new guy. “You want to mess everything up for the next take? Serena's on camera for it. I still need to fix her arm, and now I have to call Craig and get him to redo her hair. What is
wrong
with you?”

The Dark God stared at Magenta, his face expressionless. Her breath caught, and then she held a hand to a reddening cheek. “What are you doing to me?” she cried. “Why does it burn?”

“You mustn't speak to me that way.” He continued to stroke Lauren's hair.

“This is crazy,” Magenta said. She looked at Opal. “Am I crazy?”

Opal shifted, uncomfortable with the new guy's arm over her shoulder. Strange overlays webbed them: the power structure of the film, where the stars ruled, sometimes on a level with the director, sometimes above or below, but all the service people, she and Magenta, were lower-class citizens, not supposed to speak sternly to those above. Plus, whoever the presence behind Corvus's mask was, he seemed at home as an aristocrat. He took without asking, and considered everyone else his playthings. Handmaidens. Like one of the worst stars, although he hadn't been mean or really petty yet, just bossy and demanding.

Lauren, waiting for Opal at her hotel the night before, well, that had been odd. The structure had tilted. Lauren knew Opal was a magic user, and that changed their status in the eyes of each other. Right now, since Lauren had spoken to her on a topic other than makeup or special effects, in full view of the other cast and crew, people would be making up stories about that, if they had the attention to spare.

Opal had hooked up with stars before, in a variety of ways. She'd almost thought she was marrying one. A mistake. Location shoots often threw people together in odd combinations. The intensity and isolation drove them into each other's arms and beds, and sometimes exhaustion made them mistake physical release for something more important. As soon as their reasons for living in each other's shadows evaporated, so did the connections.

Her connection to Corvus hadn't behaved like that. After this, though, who could tell? The new guy was messing everything up, in more than one way.

“I don't think you're crazy,” Opal told Magenta. “I think he's hypnotic. D.G., please don't hurt Magenta. She's just doing her job.”

“I don't care for her tone.”

“She gets that. She won't talk to you like that again.” Opal nodded to Magenta. Magenta didn't respond.

One of the assistant directors called, “Ten minute warning, everyone.”

“We have to fix Lauren's hair and that great gaping slash you made on her arm right now,” Magenta said, “your majesty.”

The new guy stopped stroking Lauren's hair, gripped her shoulder, gave her a gentle push. “Go and be repaired,” he said. She only half awoke. She glanced back at him, her dark eyes sleepy, before she wandered off in Magenta's wake to one of the canvas-backed chairs behind the scenes, where Craig, the key hairstylist, waited with a Polaroid and a set of combs.

“Are you going to do the work, or screw up the production?” Opal asked.

“I am going to do many things,” he said in a low voice. “Right now, it amuses me to put my face and my voice inside these machines. This is a new way to work. It may aid me greatly. It's a wonderful time to be awake.”

“Are you ever going to let Corvus come home?”

He smiled, stroked her hair, offered no answer.

6

As soon as the stars were safely trapped acting in front of the cameras, Magenta grabbed Opal's hand and dragged her as far from the altar set as they could get inside the building. They huddled inside the bathroom, soundproofed enough that they could talk in low voices, with walls thin enough they'd be able to hear the two bells that signaled the end of the current take. “What the hell is going on?” Magenta asked. One of her cheeks still blazed.

“Have you ever worked on a picture that was cursed?”

“Cursed? I've been on one where everything went wrong. We were filming in Mexico, and bandits stole the equipment trucks while they were driving to the location, and one of the stars died, killed by a freak accident with a dollycam, and the weather kept screwing us up. Nobody got any sleep, and everybody got mean. Cost overruns, sniping tempers, infighting—we all hated what we were doing by the end. Then, you know, they couldn't save it in post. The thing was a huge flop. Worst shoot of my life. Is that what you mean?”