Fall of Light (3 page)

“Good.” He had dropped the register into deep and rich again. Opal wondered if he'd spoken high to break the tension. She wouldn't put it past him. He was always sensitive to emotional atmospheres. “That's my job.”

Kelsi headed toward him. Opal followed. As Corvus turned toward the light, she saw that he was just as she had left him, a demon-wood god mix, his mane of black hair raying out around the prosthetics that covered his face and neck. She had carried the dark brown/gleaming gold skin color of the Dark God a short way down his black-furred chest; below that, he was light tan, normal. She hadn't seen him out from under the blanket yet today; she didn't remember him being this buff during their last movie.

Kelsi walked all the way around Corvus. “Wow, Opal! Wow! That's amazing! I'd heard you were good, but I never—”

Corvus posed while Kelsi examined him.

“Fantastic,” Kelsi whispered.

Opal crossed her arms. “Thanks. It helps to have good base material.”

Corvus grinned, his Dark God expression more sinister than reassuring, but she could read beneath the layers she had applied to his face, and knew he was teasing her. She was glad they'd forged a good connection. Some of the actors she had worked with in the past had been horrors in several senses of the word.

Kelsi held up the black robe. “Well, so, want to slip into this, Mr. Weather?”

He put down the sports bottle, and Opal grabbed it. There were crates of water bottles on the Craft Services truck. She should stock some by her station.

Corvus stretched his arms behind him so Kelsi could slip on the sleeves. She slid the black robe up over his shoulders. “Any of this stuff bleed?” she asked Opal. “Do you have solvents to get it out of cloth?”

“It shouldn't stain; it's set until I use the removal goop.”

“No stains, huh?” Kelsi fastened the robe at Corvus's neck with a silver brooch shaped like a five-pointed star, center point down. She straightened the hood. The back of her hand brushed the colored part of Corvus's neck. She studied her hand, flashed it at Opal: no makeup adhered. “Neat.”

“Ticktock,” Corvus said.

Startled, Kelsi glanced at Opal's Batman clock. It was almost six; they were due at the forest clearing location. “Sorry.” She used hidden snaps to fasten the rest of the robe down the front, then reached way up to lift the hood and settle it, veiling most of his head. The hood left his face in shadow; only the extended chin, with its leaf beard, jutted out far enough to catch much light. “Okay. I'll ride over with you guys, if that's all right.”

“Sure,” said Opal. Then she glanced at Corvus: it was really his decision. He was the star, the one who could have tantrums and snits if he liked, so long as they stayed on schedule. He was so laid back she had forgotten he was talent and she was second- or third-class citizen. On some shoots, nobody ever let you forget your status; other shoots were more relaxed. Opal hadn't spent enough time on this shoot to get a sense of how it worked.

“Glad to have you,” Corvus said to Kelsi.

“I'll get my kit. Meet you at the car.”

Opal packed solvents and brushes and touch-up equipment in her makeup kit, along with duplicates of the pieces of latex she had applied to Corvus's face, in case of wardrobe malfunctions. “I have to stop at Craft Services and pick up more water—”

“Could you get me something to drink with calories in it? I don't want to eat with this on,” Corvus said.

“Yeah. Patty stocked protein shakes for you. I'll walk you to the car and get you settled, then run for it.”

“Good. I can see, but my vision is limited, and I don't want to bump my hands.”

“Rest your hands on my shoulders.” She stood in front of the door and waited until Corvus was right behind her, his large, warm, rubber-gloved hands heavy on her shoulders. They had done this before, too: she had acted as guide dog on
Dead Loss
. The doubled head he had worn for that role was much more of a challenge for him visually.

Opal opened the door at her end of the trailer and flicked off the lights. “Three steps down,” she said, “and the last one is—yikes!”

Erika's camera flashed, blinding her. She would have stumbled without Corvus's steadying grip on her shoulders.

“Stop it!” she yelled at Erika.

“No way. I've waited all afternoon for this.” Erika shot a stream of pictures, alternating between two cameras on straps around her neck.

“If we're late because of your interference,” Corvus said, his voice a low rumble, “we'll redirect the wrath to you.”

“I'm done for now,” Erika said. She smirked. “Thanks so much. Catch you later. Nice job, Opal.” She strolled away, taking her musky scent cloud with her.

Opal shivered with suppressed rage. The wrappings on her powers unwound; she felt red rivers rise. Energy pooled in her palms. She hadn't been this angry since she was sixteen, newly powerful, and her younger brother and sister had teased her beyond bearing. She could hold up her hands and let the power jab out of her into Erika's back. Erika would melt into a puddle of steaming flesh, her cameras slag.

Opal clenched her fists to restrain the eager power.

Corvus's hands on her shoulders steadied her. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Not yet,” in a Dark God voice, and that gave her the strength to chill her power and send it back to sleep. In the shocky aftermath, she swayed, and Corvus held her steady.

How could she even contemplate such a devastating thing? She was Opal, low-powered Opal who only used her gifts to change how things looked. Who inside her rose up in a killing rage?

Corvus's rubber-taloned fingers massaged her shoulders a little. His regular voice said, “You okay, Opal, hon? I guess we should have expected that. She's a pit bull.”

She hugged herself, settled down. “Sure. Sorry, Corr. Let's go. Three steps down, and the last one is steeper.”

“I'll find it by feel.”

They descended the steps. Once they touched down on the parking lot between the bed-and-breakfast, where the first unit had been filming all day, and the abandoned grocery store the production company had taken over as a housing for sound stages, Corvus moved up to walk beside her, one hand still on her shoulder. They walked to the black Lincoln the production manager had rented for Corvus's use.

A short dark man leaned against the car, reading a magazine. He wore pointy boots, jeans, and a brown leather jacket. “Hitch,” Corvus said. “This is Opal, my makeup artist. She comes with me every time. Opal, Hitch, my driver.”

“Pleased,” said Hitch, holding out a hand. Opal shook it and smiled.

Kelsi joined them. “I'm geared up! Let's rock and roll.”

“Boss?” Hitch said.

“Kelsi. Wardrobe. She's with us, too.”

Hitch shrugged and held the door for Corvus.

“I've got to get food and water,” Opal muttered.

“There's another Craft Services van at the site,” said Kelsi. “Dinner break's at nine. Somebody'll bring a load of sandwiches.”

“Oh, good.”

Kelsi jumped into the backseat. Opal joined her. Hitch piloted them away from the trailer village.

From the supermarket parking lot, people could walk anywhere in town; it was that small. Corvus, the director, and an actor Opal hadn't met yet were staying upstairs in the B&B. Most of the crew and any day players they needed stayed at a budget motel ten miles out of town, in the larger city of Redford off the highway. The production manager had rented a house across the square from the B&B in Lapis where she set up the office, reception, accounting, and a small room where the director, the director of photography, and anyone else who needed to could watch the dailies on DVD. The director of photography and the producer lived upstairs in the house. Other principal actors were living with various families around town.

Lapis had been small but busy before the Interstate was finished in 1966 and business and traffic moved a few miles west. One main road ran from north to south through town; two smaller roads ran east-west past the outskirts. Hitch took Sixth Street to Lost River Road. A mile east out of town, they came to a post with a paper plate stapled to it. One of the crew had written FOREST and an arrow pointing away from the road on the plate. There was a rutted track where the equipment trucks had churned up late spring mud on their way to the clearing where demonic rituals involving the Dark God were going to be filmed.

Mud spat up into the undercarriage of the Lincoln as they took the squishy road into the forest. The terrain was slippery. Opal wondered why the location manager had picked this place—until they broke out of the trees into a perfect clearing, firm ground, clear of trees, with a small brook running through one corner, and a stone altar and lichen-starred standing stones at the far end.

It was Magic Hour. Twilight still lightened the sky; the trees were visible but dark against the lingering light. Someone had brought in small bronze censers on tripods, suitably smoking, and an open fire danced in a ring of stones in front of the altar. A group of extras in long white robes were bunched up at the far end of the meadow. Light racks, camera tracks, and sound equipment stood ready near the altar. Chairs, the Craft Services truck, and equipment vans were arrayed at the near end of the meadow, hidden behind a photographed forest backdrop.

One of the young men directed Hitch off the road into a makeshift parking lot where someone had cleared a few trees. He pulled in and turned off the engine, which didn't silence the night. Portable generators roared near the equipment.

Hitch rounded the car and opened the door, helped Corvus out. Opal and Kelsi emerged. “The ground's pretty good here, but you better let me lead you anyway,” Opal said, turning so Corvus could rest his hands on her shoulders again.

“Anytime, hon,” said Corvus. He sounded distracted.

“Come on, come on,” yelled Neil Aldridge, the director, “we're eating energy here.” He wore black slacks and a black shirt. He was tall and muscular, with a shock of dark hair, heavy brow ridges, and a dissatisfied, thin-lipped mouth. He stood with his arms crossed, looking irritated. He appeared about forty-five. She hadn't seen any of his earlier movies. She and Corvus had wanted to consult with him about the Dark God in preproduction, but he had fobbed them off on the production designer, Dathan Riley, who was excited about the concept and worked with them to define and fine-tune it. Aldridge's voice was mellifluous, and carried well. He sounded kind. That was not his reputation.

The script supervisor, a sturdy woman with a clipboard, stood one step behind him. “The call was for six,” Neil said.

“Sorry,” said Opal. She checked her watch. They were a minute late. “Erika.”

“Damn,” muttered Neil. “Well, get out here and let me see what we've got.”

Opal led Corvus past Neil into the full glare of the lights near the altar. Something itched her feet, some dazzle or discomfort she didn't recognize.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and others, our monster,” said Neil. Like a ringmaster, he swept an arm toward Opal and Corvus.

All sound aside from the generators stopped.

Corvus gripped Opal's shoulders once, then gently pushed her aside. He stood with his arms crossed and looked over the assembled cast and crew. He moved his head and the hood fell away, revealing a stranger.

The horns weren't part of her prosthetics. They looked right, though, two short forward-thrusting spikes growing from Corvus's leafy temples, gleaming gold in their grooves. Opal opened her senses wide. Stranger magic tickled the bottoms of her feet, met her own force without meshing with it.

It climbed Corvus, enveloped him, resided most strongly in the places where she had changed him. Her alterations had left toeholds for it.

“Corvus,” she whispered.

The face turned toward her. The eyes were dark now, not so green, and the soul looking out was not the man she knew.

He smiled. His teeth were pointed, serrated like a shark's.

Applause burst out around the circle.

Corvus lifted both arms, basking, circled with his hands, then took a very theatrical bow, one leaf-skinned hand lifting a segment of his robe behind him.

“He's going to steal the picture,” Neil muttered. Then, louder, “All right, everybody, find your marks for a run-through. Can you see all right, Weather?”

“Perfectly,” said Corvus.

“I want you looming on the far side of the fire, behind the altar, looking hungry while your minions dance for you. Menace and lust.”

Corvus nodded. Opal raised her eyebrows, her gaze on his face. Did he want her to help him across the clearing to his mark? He nodded, gesturing from her toward the location. She stepped closer, and he settled his hands on her shoulders. They walked in tandem toward the fire and the altar. “Corr, are you all right?” she murmured.

He laughed. “Better than ever.” He didn't sound like himself.

A tall man in a black robe backed away as they approached, Corvus's stand-in. He had the height, and his face was the same color greeny brown as Corvus's mask, but nothing else about him looked like Corvus. “Evening,” he said.

“Hi, Fred,” Opal said. Fred had been Corvus's stand-in on
Dead Loss
, too.

“Whoa, Nellie,” said Fred when he saw Corvus. He hurried off to where the other stand-ins stood, behind the camouflage backdrop and out of sight of the cameras, smoking and whispering.

“Can you see your mark?” Opal asked. There was a piece of black electrician's tape on the ground beyond the altar.