Lilith - Hollywood Monsters E-Book

Dana Fredsti

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

"We've got intrigue, murder, and ghosts. Egos, images, revenge. It's Hollywood... in brilliant Dana Fredsti's hands" Josh Mallerman.Working in Hollywood is a living Hell. Quirky, fast-paced modern horror in the vein of Supernatural, Lucifer, True Blood, and Evil.All the best jobs in Hollywood go to the supernaturals. For a stuntman, it helps to be able to fly. For a romantic lead, it's an advantage to be an incubus or succubus, and if you smell Sulphur in your agent's office, you'll know why. Vampires, succubae, trolls, fallen angels, ghouls—anything that can take direction, be discreet, and not eat the extras.Lee Striga is an actress, stuntwoman, and demon hunter. Fresh from filming Voodoo Wars in New Orleans, Lee returns to Los Angeles. Back at the Katz Family stunt ranch she finds animals of all kinds taking refuge on the grounds, and the supernatural creatures who populate Hollywood on edge to the point of violence. People are vanishing without a trace, and clues lead to a legendary mansion famous for its horrible deaths—the location of Lee's next film assignment.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

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

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

HOLLYWOODMONSTERS

ALSO BY DANA FREDSTI

THE LILITH SERIES

The Spawn of Lilith

Blood Ink

Hollywood Monsters

THE ASHLEY PARKER NOVELS

Plague Town

Plague Nation

Plague World

BY DANA FREDSTI AND DAVID FITZGERALD

Time Shards

Shatter War

Tempus Fury

HOLLYWOODMONSTERS

DANA FREDSTI

TITANBOOKS

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HOLLYWOOD MONSTERS

Print edition ISBN: 9781785652646

Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785652653

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: October 2022

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 Dana Fredsti. All rights reserved.

Dana Fredsti asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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.

To my husband, David, and my editor, Steve Saffel. I couldnot have finished this book without the two of you.

“Competition has been shown to be useful up to a certain point and no further, but cooperation, which is the thing we must strive for today, begins where competition leaves off.”

—Franklin D. Roosevelt

“It’s hard to beat a person who never gives up.”

—Babe Ruth

PROLOGUE

DUSHANE MANSION

LOS ANGELES, CA

1925

Splashing and laughter emanated from the indoor pool through the archways across the spacious ballroom. French doors opened up onto a marble terrace, a perfect area to allow for spillover when things became too close inside. The doors were propped open by large planters filled with exotic plants, the scent of sage floating in on the night breeze.

Ned DuShane stood and surveyed his party with smug satisfaction, the three folds of his chin curving up into a multidimensional smirk as he watched the cream of Hollywood enjoy his generosity. Screen legends including Fairbanks, Barrymore, Shearer, and DuVal mingled with eager starlets, stuntmen, and struggling scenarioists.

Impossibly handsome bare-chested waiters in studded leather gladiator skirts and Roman sandals navigated the crush along with their female counterparts in flimsy silk togas, serving hors d’oeuvres and drinks.

The décor was a sultan’s dream—cobalt blue, purple, and cream tiles with gold accents. Alcoves with silk curtains that could be drawn across the openings to give privacy—or left open if that was what the occupantspreferred. Nothing was forbidden at one of Ned DuShane’s parties.

Smiling, he popped a rich canape in his mouth, quickly following it with more. Some sort of buttery dough filled with savory mushrooms. Tasty as hell, but it would take platefuls to satisfy his appetite. The smile grew wider.

At first glance most people thought Ned’s signature smile denoted warmth. His size—just over five feet, two-hundred-fifty pounds, all of it clothed in an expensive and impeccably tailored suit—worked in his favor, too. Fat men were all like Santa Claus, right? Ho ho ho, gonna bring you presents. His smile, the comfortable stomach, even the steely twinkle in his eyes made people trust Ned DuShane, making it easy to get his films funded. And he never chiseled any of his butter-and-egg men. He reported the profits, made sure the accounting was clean, and gave everyone a good return on their investment.

Even better, to his mind, Ned’s amiable façade—combined with the chance to hobnob with stars of the silver screen, maybe even be in one of his pictures—convinced people to trust him in other ways. Once they found out how wrong they were about him, it was too late to extricate themselves, not without the kind of consequences that drove strong men to eat a bullet.

As a result, even though his studio, Silver Scream, wasn’t one of the “Big Five”—or even one of the lesser three—Ned never lacked publicity or distribution for his pictures.

Letting his gaze travel freely around the crowd, Ned skipped over most of his guests to linger on those in whom he had a special interest. A curvy brunette with a heart-shaped face caught his attention. Bettina Gleason. Looked as innocent as a newborn, with huge brown eyes framed by impossibly thick, curly lashes. She was one of Silver Scream’s most successful ingenues, exuding innocence and sex-appeal in equal measure. The innocence was an act—Betty wallowed in depravity. The filthier andmore degrading the act, the more she begged for it.

She caught him looking at her and ran the tip of her tongue over lush lips painted a cherry red to match her silk dress. Ned nodded, just a slight movement of his chin, but it was enough to make those lips curve up in a smile that promised whatever he wanted. Whatever his friends and financiers wanted.

Bettina would do whatever it took to be a star.

“You throw one hell of a swanky bash, Ned.”

A familiar voice, practically oozing with oily charm, sounded next to him. Rudy Angel. A good-looking man in his early thirties, dark hair slicked back as he did his best to emulate the screen-idol whose first name he’d co-opted. A low-rent version at best, with none of the pizazz.

“Rudy, how ya doin’?” Hiding his contempt, Ned clapped a hand on the actor’s expensively clad shoulder.

“Hittin’ on all eight, Ned,” Rudy replied. Lifting his champagne coupe, he admired the sparkling liquid, the slur in his voice revealing that he’d already tipped a few. “This hits the spot. You ever gonna tell me who supplies your hooch?”

“Hey, that’s real French champagne,” Ned assured him, sidestepping the question.

Rudy laughed. “Sure, it is.” He drained his glass and looked around for one of the bare-chested serving boys, his gaze sliding past a nubile blonde girl without interest before alighting on a handsome waiter with a tray of full coupes. “’Scuse me, Ned,” he said even as he started across the room toward his target.

Ned was glad to see the back of the two-bit actor. He’d been sampling the rich food for the better part of two hours, and a low rumbling in his gut told him it was time to take a break from his guests. He began making his way through the crowd toward the main hall, where he could slip upstairs, disappear into his suite, and deal with things in privacy.

“Señor DuShane.” Manuel, one of the groundskeepers, stepped in front of him. He carried, of all things, a flashlight.

“What the hell is it?” Ned didn’t bother trying to hide his irritation. Manuel had no business being inside during one of his parties.

“Señor, there is something you must see. Flooding in the subbasement.”

“Jesus.” Ned shut his eyes, pressing a hand against his forehead. That was where he stored his highly illegal booze. “This can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“No, Señor DuShane. If we wait, the damage could be too much to fix.”

“So go ahead and fix it.”

Manuel shook his head. “It will not be cheap,” he warned, “and I wish to have your approval before moving forward.”

“Fair enough. Lead the way, José.” He chuckled at his rhyme, and if Manuel’s brow darkened briefly with a frown, well, he didn’t give a shit. For what Ned paid these wetbacks, he could call them whatever he liked.

Heaving a beleaguered sigh, Ned followed Manuel through the throngs of guests—most either drunk on liver-rotting hooch or flying high on cocaine—and through the door leading downstairs to the wine cellar, then down another flight into the mansion’s subbasement.

At the bottom of the second flight the gardener hit a switch and a single low-watt lightbulb flickered on above, illuminating a patch of bare cement corridor that stretched into darkness beyond. Construction on the subbasement had only begun in the last month or so, and most of it had yet to be wired for electricity. Manuel turned on his flashlight and shone the beam on the floor as they walked twenty feet or so down the corridor.

“Here, Señor DuShane.” Manuel stopped in front of a door leading to one of the rooms. He entered the room first, playing the light over the unfinished brick walls and hardpacked dirt. Water ran down the back wall where the smugglers’ hatch was set into the bricks about four feet high, and dripped from the ceiling to soak into the dirt.

“How the hell did water leak down here?” Ned asked, as much to himself as his employee.

“This is below the pool, Señor,” Manuel said in a deferential tone. “So far it is the only room it has reached, but as you can see, the damage here is very bad.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Good thing we already moved the booze out, butstill—”

Something smashed into the back of his head.

*   *   *

When Ned swam back up to consciousness, he was aware of two things—one, his head hurt like a sonofabitch, and two, his nostrils were filled with the smell of wet, moldy newspapers.

What thehell…?

He tried to move his arms, wriggle his fingers, but they wouldn’t cooperate. His neck seemed to currently be the only part of him capable of movement, so he looked down. He was in some sort of barrel, with his arms, legs, and torso encased in some sort ofsludge—

Wet cement. His body was submerged up to the neck in wet cement, slowly hardening around him.

He would have screamed if he’d been able. All that came out was a choked wheeze.

“Ah, Señor DuShane, you are awake.” Manuel stood in front of him.

“Whatthe…”Ned swallowed, his chest constricting with the effort.

“I know what you are thinking,” Manuel said, his tone as neutral as his expression. “That this must be a bad joke. A joke that is not funny.”

“Damn straight it’s not,” Ned snarled. Or tried to—fear and the cement squeezing the breath out of him made it more of a rasp.

“It is not meant to be, Señor. This is about Lupe.”

“Lupe…?”

“Your housekeeper.”

“Lupe went to Mexico to visit her parents,” Ned choked out, fighting to keep the panic out of his voice. Sweat broke out on his brow. Lupe, who’d been particularly beautiful—and uncooperative. She was buried on the property where it butted up against the mountains.

“That is impossible, Señor.”

“How the hell would you know?”

Manuel’s expression didn’t change. “Our family, except for my niece and nephew, are dead.” A beat. Then he added, “Lupe was my sister.”

The implications hit Ned hard and fast. The drops of sweat turned into a trickle, dripping steadily down his face, the salt stinging his eyes. Reflexively, he tried to wipe it away, but his arms remained where they were. He tried to think of something to say, some bluff that would buy him time. For the first time in his life, his vaunted silver tongue failed him.

Manuel held up a piece of cloth, and at first Ned thought the man was going to take pity on him. Wipe the sweat out of his eyes, and then pull him out before the cement finished hardening. The groundskeeper just wanted to scare him, that was all, and when he was free again? Well… Ned couldn’t give the man back his sister, but he sure as hell could join her on the back acres.

Manuel shook his head. “You, Señor DuShane, are full of shit, and you will remain so.”

“What the hell doyou—”

A dirty rag filled his mouth, cutting off his furious words. He could only watch as Manuel reached up for the light string, clicking it off.

Ned tried to scream, to plead, but only muffled grunts made it past the rag. Pausing at the door, Manuel was only a silhouette, framed by the dim lighting. “Good night, Señor.”

The door shut, leaving the room—andNed—in total darkness.

Ned felt the coiled knots of his intestines loosen as a stabbing painknifed his gut. More sweat dripped down his face. Big greasy drops, the kind generated by fear and pain. He had to get out of there before his bowels exploded right thenand—

Where would it go if the back door was blocked?

Ned found out, and screamed behind the rag stuffed between his lips.

CHAPTER ONE

VOODOO WARS

EXT. BAYAU – NIGHT

MARIE LAVEAU and PERRINE, both ethereal yet sexual in their white cotton shifts, face off on opposite sides of the clearing, the voodoo serviteurs cowering around the perimeter.

MARIE

For your treachery, Perrine, I will see you flayed before Erzulie and Baron Samedi.

PERRINE(laughs cruelly)

Like your lover was flayed by Louis?

She flashes a triumphant smile at LOUIS LALAURIE, standing in the background. Imposing in black dress clothing. Pure evil.

MARIE(quietly, to Louis)

I will destroy you.

She suddenly whirls around, grabs a torch from the ground. Raises it and it turns into a sword, the blade rippling with blue flames. Louis’s eyes widen with surprise and unaccustomed fear as he recognizes Marie’s murderous intent.

Before Marie can launch the stroke, however, Perrine seizes a torch of her own and attacks, her torch undergoing the same transformation. Perrine parries Marie’s sword just in time, flames crackling up and down the lengths of both blades.

A kickass fight ensues, both women utilizing their physical skills as well as their sorcerous powers. Shooting bolts of energy from their free hands. Invisible spirits raise winds, strike invisible blows. Snakes boil out of the earth.

Marie drops her sword and shoots bolt after bolt of power from her palms, Perrine finally falling to the ground, whimpering in pain and fear as Marie strides forward, standing over her.

PERRINE

Louis, my love, save me!

LOUIS(lips curling in scorn)

You are neither worthy of my help nor my love. Marie is the only woman who is a true match for me. I have wanted no one else since I first saw her invoke Damballa… the sweat of worship glistening on her skin…

He stares at Marie with open lust.

You are mine, voodoo queen.

CLOSE ON PERRINE…

Her expression a combination of betrayal, heartbreak… and the terrible fury of a woman scorned. She and Marie exchange one energy-charged look between them. They don’t need words. They both know what needs to happen next.

Both women turn as one to face Louis, rising into the air in a united front. Marie once again wielding her flaming sword as Perrine sends bolts of energy from her hands.

Another kickass fight takes place.

BAYOU EF’TAGEUX

NEAR NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

PRESENT DAY

Dressed in Marie’s white chemise and full skirt, doing my best to look both sexy and ethereal—yeah,you try it—I picked up one of the “ensorcelled” broadswords that would ripple with flames during each take.

Real flames.

I’ll admit I’d had major doubts about this when Cayden Doran, the film’s co-producer, co-writer, stunt coordinator, and second unit director—Cayden wears a lot of hats—revealed his plans for Voodoo Wars’ climatic battle. It had seemed like a bad idea, then and now, shooting in a clearing next to a bayou and waving flammable weapons around all the foliage.

Ideally, for an action sequence this complex and potentially dangerous, we would’ve been filming it on a studio lot. But no. Devon Manus, the film’s director, wanted the authenticity of the bayou, complete with the dilapidated eighteenth-century house in the background. The very flammable eighteenth-century house, all weathered with warped gray boards and cobwebs.

Since the climactic fight took place in a torrential downpour, we had a local weather witch with mad skills that were augmented by all the ambient Louisiana humidity. Even so, CGI seemed a wiser choice. Any flames that might withstand the rain would be difficult to put out if anything ignited—like, say, the house… or an extra. Both Cayden and Devon were confident they could handle any mishap. I trusted Cayden more than Devon, but still… playing with fire wouldn’t have been my call.

While we waited, the two of them held a quiet powwow behind the main camera setup on the far side of the clearing, near the side of the house. Devon was a well-built man who always looked pleased with himself. Sun-kissed blond hair. Like Cayden, he had the kind of tanned skin that only comes from outdoor activity. Copper-ringed brown eyes. He looked anywhere between thirty and fifty.

In his mid-thirties or thereabouts, Cayden outdid him. He topped the director by about half a foot. Pale blue eyes. Hair a shaggy mane, somewhere between red and auburn. Both men wore light khaki cargo pants tucked into sturdy leather lace-up hunting boots, Cayden in an off-white expedition shirt rolled up at the sleeves to show off muscular forearms, while Devon went with a short-sleeved bush shirt that screamed “crocodile hunter.” This allowed everyone to notice when he flexed his admittedly well-developed biceps.

The testosterone was as stifling as the humidity.

As the extras relaxed, Leandra Marcadet, the curvaceous actress playing Marie Laveau, sauntered off the set, deliberately choosing a path that took her past Cayden. She brushed against him with the casual drive-by attitude of the cat she was, and then headed for the craft service tables. Cayden managed to look smug and indifferent at the same time.

Taking a long pull from a bottle of ice-cold water, I looked around, a wave of sadness washing over me as I realized this was my last day working with the cast and crew of Voodoo Wars. I would especially miss Angelique, who played Perrine and did her own stunts.

I loved working with her. It’s kind of like finding a good dance partner. Some stunt players are competent. Others match you move for move. With steady training, Angelique would someday be as good with weapons as I was—and, not to brag, I’m damn good. Her heritage as a feline shapeshifter gave her an athleticism and grace that would take her far. I hoped to get her out to the West Coast and into the Katz stunt crew.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Standing close by, Angelique directed her question to Cayden, a Cajun lilt to her voice.

He nodded. “The spell produces a fire specifically bonded to your weapons. If it touches your hair, clothing… anything that hasn’t been spelled, it’ll go out.” We must have both looked dubious, because Devon walked over and put his arms around our shoulders.

“Ladies, you’re both too valuable for us to be less than a hundred percent positive about this.” Devon was half Irish gancanagh—thinksexed-up leprechaun—and half Australian manly man. He tended to favor whichever dialect got him what he wanted at any given moment. This time it was the Irish brogue.

I was surprised he didn’t call us “lasses.”

“Yeah, but this is the last day of filming,” I pointed out.

“Ah, but there are sure to be reshoots,” he replied with a grin, “so you can trust me.”

I shrugged. “Fair enough.”

Cayden muttered some arcane-sounding words and pointed at the swords. The flames licked their way up the blades, but no real heat came from the fire. Pretty damn cool—in addition to his other credits, Cayden also was a sorcerer.

I always preferred working on films where the cast and crew are aware of the weirder things in life. Some folks, when faced with the presence of creatures that have populated the nightmares of mankind for centuries, will shut down completely, end up in therapy for years, or utilize the age-old coping technique of compartmentalizing. It’s a lot easier if everyone’s reading from the same script.

We ran our choreography, marking it at half speed to make sure it was locked into our brains and bodies before going for a take, and then I asked for one more rehearsal. While I was confident of Angelique’s skills, she’d been injured just a few weeks earlier. Thanks to her shifter blood, she’d healed quickly and was ready to rock and roll in less than two weeks.

Even though her injuries wouldn’t factor into the stunts, I didn’t want to take any chances. Sometimes she had to be dissuaded from overdoing it.

Like Leandra—and all the serviteur extras on set—Angelique was part of the Marcadet clan, a family of feline shifters. The Marcadet lineage had started when a slaver brought a leopard shifter from Africa in the early 1700s, selling him to Antoine Marcadet, a French plantation owner with a reputation for abusing his slaves. After six months, Antoine, his family, and the overseer were found with their throats ripped out. The tracks of what looked to be a pair of large cats led off and vanished into the bayou.

Most of the plantation’s slaves had run off, including a young woman from a tribe of indigenous werepanthers from Florida.

The two shifters managed to stay hidden during the subsequent hunt for the missing slaves. The search had ended when most of the slave hunters were found slaughtered at the edge of the swamp. Co-opting the surname of their former “master,” the leopard shifter and his mate kept to themselves and raised children, occasionally finding other therianthropes to bring into their clan.

Angelique’s clan were a thriving extended family, good-looking and impossibly graceful, with skin tones ranging from “I take my coffee black” to “a splash of coffee in my cream, please.”

My skin veered toward the latter, depending on how much sun I got, but I was pretty much in perpetual stealth mode when it came to pinpointing my ethnic background. Thick, wavy, dark brown hair. Full lips, strong cheekbones, straight nose. Eyes so dark a blue, they looked almost black in some lights. I used to think I’d won some sort of genetic lotto, but then I found out my ancestress was Lilith, Mother of Demons, the first woman on earth. This explained how I managed to pass as pretty much any ethnicity—a very handy attribute when it came to stunt doubling.

That was the upside to the family heritage, which came with an obligation to kill the spawn of Lilith while she languished in a hell dimension. No 23andMe results had ever dropped a bombshell as messy.

“Lee, you ready?”

That knocked me out of my thoughts. Mike, one of the two Ginga brothers—aboriginal shifters from Australia—sidled up beside me, grinning and showing a few too many sharp, pearly whites. Dark, weathered skin and curly dark brown hair threaded with blond and bronze highlights from hours in the sun. Eyes an unusual shade of yellowish gold, with pupils that shifted between normal to a reptilian slit, like little eyes of Sauron.

Mike and his twin brother Ike were in charge of the rigging on Voodoo Wars, which meant—among other things—they’d been responsible for making me and Angelique rise into the air in a safe, controlled manner while making it look totally kickass. That sequence was in the can, and oh, was I glad. They were really good at their jobs, but it’s just that some things really aren’t comfortable, and a snug flying harness giving you a wedgie while you’re being pulled around by wires is one of them.

CHAPTER TWO

FORD RIDING STABLES

LOS ANGELES, CA

PRESENT DAY

The Ford family was eating dinner when Banjo started barking. Gary Ford looked up in annoyance, a forkful of medium-rare steak halfway to his mouth as their two-year-old German shepherd mix scrabbled at the kitchen door.

“Dammit, dog, what the hell’s gotten into you?”

Banjo whined and continued to scratch at the door.

“Probably has to do his business,” Rose commented. She was nearest to the door, so she got up to let the dog out, wincing a little as her lower back seized up. She’d taken a fall off one of their friskier horses and the muscles were still unhappy. As soon as she opened the door, Banjo shot out into the backyard and raced toward the fenced-in field, where a dozen large shapes grazed in the darkening twilight.

“Horses are still in the field,” she said, shooting a glance at their twin daughters. Deceptively angelic-looking with white-blond hair and long-lashed, cornflower-blue eyes, Claire and Molly were, to put it nicely, a handful.

Heckle and Jeckle were what he and Rose called them. “The Hellions” was the more widely—and less affectionately—known nickname given to Claire and Molly pretty much as soon as they’d figured out how to walk.

“They’re just lively,” Gary would say in response to any complaints about their behavior.

“So are hellspawn,” their neighbor Connie had retorted after the twins had painted their chickens blue. They’d used water-based paint, so there’d been no real harm done, but pointing that out hadn’t won Gary or the twins any points.

They were ten years old, strong and healthy and just as full of piss and vinegar as ever. While Rose sometimes wished they’d settle down, she loved her daughters dearly and never wanted them to lose their sense of self, even if she wished it could be less associated with doing mischief.

Oh well, least they weren’t mean-spirited.

“Girls, I thought I told you two to bring the horses into their stalls before you came inside.” Gary tried to look stern, but his much-vaunted authority stopped short when it came to the twins. They’d had him wrapped around their fingers since birth.

“We thought Luis was bringing them in,” Molly replied. Claire nodded and both of them looked innocent as could be. Rose knew better.

“Luis was cleaning out the stalls and oiling the saddles,” she said. “I heard your father tell you that, when he asked you to bring the horses in.”

“But it’s getting dark outside,” Molly protested.

“Then you should’ve done what your father told you to in the first place, shouldn’t you?”

The twins exchanged a look. Rose could tell they were trying to figure out how to spin this in their favor. She was half tempted to hear them out—their stories were always entertaining, part of the reason they got away with so damn much—but it was going to be dark soon. The horses needed to be put into their stalls, and the girls needed to learn a lesson. Besides, they had motion-detector lights that would give them plenty of illumination. It wasn’t like they had to go out with flashlights.

“Get a move on, girls,” Rose said mildly.

“But, MO-om—” Claire began.

“Now.”

Rose’s mildness turned to steel in that one word, and the twins immediately got to their feet and headed out the back door. The light above the door clicked on.

Shaking her head, Rose looked at her husband and sighed. He glanced back at her, shamefaced. He started to speak, but she held up a hand.

“Don’t bother,” she said. “Until you actually lay down the law with those two, I don’t want to hear it. But lord help me, one of these days I’d really like to be able to be the good cop.”

Gary reached out, covering one of Rose’s hands with his own. “I do not deserve a woman like you.”

Rose smiled. “Proof that miracles happen.”

Gary opened his mouth to reply but a pair of high-pitched screams from outside stopped him short. He listened intently, but there weren’t any more cries.

“They’re just crying wolf,” he said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Getting back at us like they did when we made them clean their rooms before they could watch Netflix.”

“No doubt,” Rose agreed. It was one of their favorite tricks. She took a bite of steak, following it up with a sip of a very good cabernet.

“Mommy!”

The scream ripped through the air, punctuated by barking and the neighing of frightened horses, and was quickly followed by another.

“Daddeeee!”

Rose’s heart skipped a beat. Another scream—this time it was Claire, Rose thought—filled with pain and terror. The girls weren’t playacting.

“Oh my god.”

Jumping to her feet, Rose shoved her chair back so hard that it slammed against the wall. Her back threatened to seize up but she refused to acknowledge the pain. She was out the door, Gary right behind her. Both were nearly knocked over by a stampede of horses thundering past the house, their eyes rolling in panic, hoofbeats thudding on the hard-packed dirt as if chased by the devil himself.

“What the hell!” Gary roared as their livelihood bolted down the driveway leading to the main road, shrill, frightened whinnies trailing behind them.

Another pair of screams sounded somewhere near the paddock gate, accompanied by Banjo’s increasingly high-pitched and frantic barking. Then the screams cut off with terrifying abruptness and Banjo’s barks reached a fever pitch before stopping, the cessation punctuated by a strangled cry.

“Girls!” Back pain and horses forgotten, Rose sprinted across the yard through the deepening gloom, out of range of the security light.

*   *   *

Gary shot one last conflicted glance at the horses vanishing down the driveway, cursed under his breath, and ran after his wife, who was already at the open paddock gate. Another motion-detector light mounted on the gate clicked on as she ran through. In its illumination he could see something moving in the field beyond. Something the size of a small pony, but it didn’t look right. It wasn’t a horse. Wasn’t Banjo. And not the girls. Something… something wrong and out of place.

He stopped in his tracks. Something deep inside, some primordial instinct, told him that death was in that field.

“Rose, wait!”

But she was just another shadow in the gloom, and Gary couldn’t bring himself to follow her, even though he knew his wife and daughterswere in mortal danger. His legs were frozen in place, heartbeat too fast and too loud, the noise echoing inside his head until it drowned out all else. A pain ripped through his chest and left arm like molten lava.

With a loud grunt of pain, he crumpled to the ground, dead before he even realized he was having a heart attack.

*   *   *

Rose heard her husband. Knew something was deeply wrong even as she saw several odd shapes with far too many limbs moving in the middle of the field.

They were huddled over her girls. She saw those limbs handling them, rolling them up and around as swiftly as a sewing machine refilled a bobbin, wrapping something around them that looked like cotton candy threads until they were just vaguely human-shaped bundles.

“Claire! Molly!”

At the sound of her voice, the bundles wriggled and squirmed. One of the shapes paused in its movement and turned in Rose’s direction, six ruby-red orbs reflecting in the light.

Oh god.

Rose’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared, unconsciously mimicking the panicked horses, as she saw what had her daughters. She almost turned and ran, but her maternal instincts were too strong. Reaching out, she grabbed a rake that had been left leaning against the paddock fence.

Have to have a word with Luis about that, she thought in an absent-minded way. She hefted it like a stave and ran toward the monstrosities that dared to hurt her children.

“Let go of my babies!” she shrieked.

Then something wrapped around her ankles, yanked, and brought her toppling to the ground with no time to catch herself. She hit hard, rake flying off to one side, her chin smashing into the dirt with enough force to break teeth. Blood poured out of her mouth and nose, choking her.

Something stung her in the middle of her back, the pain making her convulse, body arching up and backward into a bow before a merciful numbness spread out from the site of the sting, working as swiftly as Novocain.

*   *   *

The security light blinked off as the last hint of sun vanished behind the mountains in back of the ranch.

CHAPTER THREE

True to Cayden’s word, the fire didn’t ignite anything it wasn’t supposed to light.

After Angelique and I finished shooting the voodoo queen showdown, it was time to film the final duel between Laveau and Louis LeLaurie. This consisted of genuine sword-wielding badassery from Laveau, and lots of posturing with magic “jazz hands” on the part of LeLaurie.

Thankfully it didn’t involve any more rigging.

Langdon Pinkton-Smythe, an actor for whose face the word “lugubrious” might have been coined, played Louis LeLaurie. He did his own stunts because, like most ghouls, he’s extremely durable.

The final two shots of the day consisted first of Marie shoving her sword through Louis’s heart, and then his entire body bursting into flames. We had to do the first shot from several different angles, and Langdon took having the ensorcelled flaming steel thrust into his body with remarkable aplomb. Certainly more than I showed every time he screamed and sent carrion-scented ghoul breath into my face. A nice enough fellow—even though his pretentious name unfortunately suited him—but there wasn’t a mint strong enough, curiously or otherwise, to blunt his halitosis.

We had to get the shot that would show him actually bursting into flames, but instead of using Nomex and gel, Langdon’s wardrobe would be spelled so only his clothing would catch fire. Cayden really did have some amazing skills.

“And… action!”

I drove the blade in, and Langdon’s clothes lit up like a torch. He screamed, writhed, and otherwise overacted—exactly what Voodoo Wars called for.

“And cut!”

The crew and extras broke into an enthusiastic round of applause. Tikka, the youngest extra at four years of age, ran toward me on chubby legs, changing from human toddler to feline cub as she leapt through the air into my arms. I dropped my sword a millisecond before she hit my chest, needle-sharp claws finding purchase in my chemise and skin. I’m not much for kids, but this butterball was a charmer. Cuddling the fat little feline as she purred, nestling under my chin, I wondered if I could smuggle her home in my luggage.

“Great job!” Devon said with enthusiasm. His gaze fell on Langdon, now clad only in a pair of regrettable European thong underwear. Tall, skinny, and unnaturally pale, the ghoul’s body reminded me of a graveyard worm. So not a visual I needed.

“Hey,” Devon yelled, “someone get a blanket for our villain!”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Langdon said. “Ghouls don’t need much in the way of warmth.” He giggled, his own particular brand of laughter that creeped me out every time I heard it.

We wrapped a little before sunrise. The various departments packed up camera equipment, set dressing, and props. After changing into jeans and a tank top and securing my waist-length mane into a single braid, I helped gather up the swords, a habit ingrained by years of working with the Katz Stunt Crew. Always make sure your weapons are stored away safely, no matter how exhausted you might be at the end of a shoot. Just one of the lessons that Sean Katz—founder of the KSC and the man who’d raised me after my parents’ death—drilled into my head since the age of five.

“Cher, you were amazing.” I turned in time to be enveloped in a heavily scented hug from Leandra. “Just magnificent,” she continued with dramatic sincerity. “I am so lucky to have you as my stunt double.”

This was quite a change from the reception she’d given me when we first met. Back then, she’d done everything but pee on Cayden to let me know that he was her property. Then I’d helped save her cousin, and ever since I’d been part of the family.

Leandra and Angelique, on the other hand, would always get into spats. They were cats. Fur was bound to fly.

“You will be at the wrap party tonight, yes?” She hugged me again, rubbing her face against mine in a show of affection. Her tropical flower perfume tickled my nose, but I fought the impulse to sneeze.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I replied, returning the hug.

“See you then, cher.” With that, Leandra sauntered up the deeply rutted drive that led to the main road. Most of the production vehicles were parked up there, including the town cars that ferried the principal cast to and from Hotel Monteleone in the New Orleans French Quarter.

The plan was to head back to the hotel and get some much-needed rest until the wrap party, which was being held in one of the larger hotel suites. I was all for partying, but even more enticing was the thought of a long soak in my room’s large garden tub, followed by a few hours of sleep.

The back of my neck itched, and I gave it an absent-minded scratch. Mosquitoes were plentiful, and they were buzzing around me like I was a buffet. I slapped at one, wincing as it splatted against my shoulder, smearing blood on my bare skin.

Yuck.

“Tikka! Tikka, it’s time to go!” Josie, Tikka’s mother, looked around for her errant daughter. “Now where did you go?” She turned to an older man. “Jace, did you see where that cub of mine went off to?”