Fall of Light (7 page)

“Where do you guys get your ideas about witches?” Opal asked, with a touch of acid. She regretted the question the moment after it came out. It wasn't her job to critique scripts or supply magical reality.

Travis and Bethany grinned. “Watching other peoples' movies,” said Travis.

Bethany lost her smile. “Yeah, but Trav, this particular project—”

“Oh, right. We actually did some original work on this project. Bethany got the idea while she was staying at the Lapis B&B,” Travis said.

“You visited Lapis before you wrote the script?” asked Corvus. “Why on earth?”

Bethany said, “My folks live in Lapis. I grew up around here. A couple years ago, we were having a big family party, and not everybody could stay at my folks' house, so I spent my first night ever in the scary B&B. When I was a kid”—Bethany's gaze softened—“I thought the B&B was run by ghosts. Mr. and Mrs. Gates—well, they're still there. I thought they were old when I was a kid, but now they're positively ancient. You can see the cobwebs on 'em. They manage to keep the place clean, though.

“Anyway, I had such a dream in that house. More like a nightmare. Most of the plot for the movie, in fact. The next morning I got my cousin to drive me out to that clearing, which was a place we never went when we were kids. It was supposed to be haunted, too. I mean, when I'd sleep over at my girlfriends', all the kids knew some story about something horrible that happened there. And it was creepy out there. That altar, those stains. The story kind of—well, I talked it over with Trav, and we figured we could make something out of it. It's one of those gift things. Kind of drops into your lap.”

The waitress finally brought them coffee and took their sandwich orders.

“You thought that clearing was haunted when you were a kid?” Opal repeated after the waitress left.

“Yeah. My brother wanted to sneak over there one Halloween, but I was petrified and wouldn't do it. Everybody said kids had died there in some horrible way—bled out on the altar rock, or something worse. There were lots of rumors of Bad People in the woods. Nobody said the
W
word, though. They were more like bogeymen and bogeywomen.”

She went on, “Now that I think about it, there are lots of places around here that felt off when I was a kid. We had a few places it was safe to go, like the lake and the library, and the rest of the world was filled with scary places.”

“You have any trouble getting permits for the locations?” Opal asked. She knew some sites where people practiced magic; the sites had their own powers, and made it hard for nonmagical people to find them or stay on them. Was Lapis trying to protect itself from her or from others?

“I don't know. Not my department. The locations were perfect, though, which I guess they would be, since this is the place I was describing in the script.”

“I wonder if they scouted anywhere else,” Opal muttered.

“Is there something wrong with here? I thought everything was going great,” said Travis.

“This place feels weird to me,” Opal said. “Which doesn't make a bit of difference to anybody who matters. I just—I think there's something going on under the surface.”

“You
trying
to creep me out?” Bethany asked.

“No. No, sorry. Corr—”

“Maybe I know what you're talking about,” he said. “The non-posthypnotic suggestions?”

“Right. Really, I'm
not
trying to force you anywhere near your role.”

“You guys are speaking code now,” said Travis.

Opal bit her lip, tried to figure out whether to share her concern with anyone. What the heck. Travis and Bethany were writers. They were close to being wallpaper, too . . . depending on whether the director and his team included them. “Corvus falls further into character than he needs to, even when he's not on the set,” she said. “And that Dark God guy—not really a fun person.”

“I thought he was fun,” said Travis. “I love writing for him. Stuff almost writes itself. Deliciously creepy.”

Opal frowned and checked Corvus's reaction to this. He looked puzzled.

The waitress brought their sandwiches, and they ate.

“So,” said Bethany when Opal had finished half her sandwich, “what's not to like about Dark God? Personally, I think he's not creepy enough. Trav made him all seductive instead of terrifying.”

“It's a trend,” Travis said. “Horrifying heroes. Vampires and werewolves are really hot in romance right now. Why not gods?”

“We're writing a romance?” asked Bethany.

“Of course. Twisted, but that resonates with people at the moment.”

“Oh. I wish I'd known. Well, anyway, Opal—”

“He called me a handmaiden and thanked me for selecting such a perfect vessel for him.”

“I what?” said Corvus. “Are you saying I said that?”

“You did. Ask Lauren. Also, his face is alive,” Opal said. The minute it was out of her mouth, she thought,
This is a mistake. I shouldn't be talking to outside people about this stuff. Never break the wall of silence that surrounds our magic.

But this is not
our
magic. I don't have to keep it secret.

“My face is alive?” Corvus asked, more confused than ever.

“The face I put on you is alive.”

“Can I use this stuff in the script?” Travis asked.

“How are you going to use something about a mask being alive?” said Bethany. “It's been done, and it's not our movie.”

“Not the mask,” Travis said. “The handmaiden and vessel stuff.”

Opal sighed, and decided that on the whole, it was probably a good thing they weren't taking her seriously.

“I called you a handmaiden?” Corvus said, and pressed the knuckle of his index finger against his lips, then dropped his hand. “I wonder what I meant.”

“I
am
a handmaiden,” said Opal. “I wait on you and serve you.”

He studied her, his brows lowered. Finally a smile flared, as though he knew she was kidding. His gaze was warm, and she felt again the queer tight twist in her chest, the love she couldn't stop. She wanted to help and protect him, give him all the tools he needed to be great.

She had felt like this about Gayle Graceland, the first star she had been personally attached to on a project, in
Weather Witch
, even when Gayle was a raving bitch, throwing things that broke and couldn't easily be replaced, and occasionally hitting crew with them. Adoration had engulfed Opal. She had put up with all kinds of lunatic behavior from Gayle; the love pressed her into servitude, pulled her best skills out of her, forced her to make sure Gayle was perfect in every take, even when others whispered commiseration to Opal behind the scenes.

After Gayle's part wrapped, Gayle had invited Opal on a spa vacation. The grip on Opal's heart had vanished. She envisioned the trip: Gayle behaving badly, abusing Opal, Opal picking up after her and trying to calm everyone hurt by her. Opal had refused the invitation. Later, she read all about Gayle's supposed spa antics in the tabloids—slapping a masseuse, starting a mud fight—and she felt nothing but relief that she hadn't gone. The picture came out; Gayle's performance got great notices, while her personal life was chewed up and spit out by the media.

Opal got a better job, and fell in love again. Her next film hadn't been a monster film and she'd been one of a core of makeup artists under the supervision of a key artist. She'd fallen for Gerry that time, even though she didn't always make him up. He looked good enough not to need much help. They'd gone out after the film wrapped. The relationship had died a natural if public death.

Corvus was the only person she'd worked with so far who kept a grip on her heart, all unknowing, even after they finished a picture. She had gone on thinking about him, wishing she were with him, even after
Dead Loss
was made and out.

He had never given her a reason to think he reciprocated her feelings.

Now they were working on a second job together. She hadn't had to let go of the love.

In the break between pictures, Opal had gone home and talked to her mother, a newscaster and social commentator, who knew about being famous and loved for how she looked and behaved on camera.

“Crushes are strange,” her mother said. “I have fans who send me all kinds of things. Photographs. Poetry. Pastry. Underwear, some of it used. Impassioned letters begging me for fingernails or locks of hair or a lipstick kiss on the return envelope. I use my talents to turn on the charm, but I always try not to turn it too high. People watch me. They feel they know me. They want to own me. Sometimes it's disturbing, and other times it's my dream come true, the height of my desire. If it gets sick and twisted, I can deal with it: I have the skills to shut the fans down before they hurt me or themselves.

“So, my dearest daughter, have you asked yourself what you get from this love, why you let yourself fall into it?”

“No,” Opal said, after consideration. “I wondered whether I should try to cure myself of it.”

“You could shut it off with a thought,” said her mother. “It's a choice you've made. It must pay off somehow.”

Opal thought about Gayle. Everyone else on the
Weather Witch
shoot had hated the star, but she looked so good on film they had to work with her. Not hating her had helped Opal get her job done, no matter what Gayle did. If Opal had stood her ground against unreasonable behavior or demands, or even asked for the respect she deserved, everything would have taken twice as long. Her love for Gayle had been useful; it kept the film close to budget and gave Opal the power to do her job even after it would have become unbearable for anyone in her right mind. She had cruised through work in an altered state of fatuous adoration and done fine.

Later she had bumped into the key makeup artist from
Weather Witch
at a party, and been confused by the contempt the man showed her. It took her a while to remember what she had been like under the influence of Gayle.

Corvus was a different story. Gentle, likable, helpful, talented, and willing to work with her. Somebody she wasn't embarrassed to be in love with.

“You do an amazing job no one else could do,” Corvus said to her now. “Somehow I don't think ‘handmaiden' covers it.”

“Thanks,” she said. She stared down at her plate, then raised her eyes to meet his gaze. The smile he gave her was her favorite, the one that promised laughter. “I'm not so worried about the handmaiden part. It's the part where he said he was using you for a vessel that really bothers me. It was like you were possessed.”

His laugher came, deep and infectious. “I was pulling your leg,” he said.

4

Opal slid up her sleeve below the table, checked the bruises on her wrist where the Dark God had gripped her. Pretty strong pressure for a joke. Didn't jibe with anything she knew about Corvus: he had never hurt anybody that she'd heard of, and she'd spent months in his orbit.

More was going on here than an actor acting like someone he wasn't. She knew the feeling of power settling on someone, knew it had come from outside of him.

She tilted her head to look at him again, and found him leaning forward, the smile gone, his heavy brows pinched together in worry. “I didn't mean to upset you.”

She sucked on her lower lip. “Big guy, I'm the one who knows who you are under the mask. You shouldn't even
think
about messing with me.”

“Define
messing
.”

“Yeah, Opal, define
messing
,” said Travis.

Opal flushed. Stupid writers, always looking for hidden meanings. “Pulling my leg. Corvus, you wouldn't play a mean joke on me for no reason. Why pretend you would?”

“I'm not comfortable with the direction the conversation's going.”

“Oh.” She thought about that, smiled. “Let's change the subject, then.” She needed to collect more information before she decided what to do about it.

“All right.”

“Let's finish eating and I'll take you back to your room,” Opal told Corvus.

“I'm done.” Corvus rose, loomed over the table.

Opal unfolded her paper napkin and wrapped the second half of her sandwich in it. She stood, too, and tucked it into her coat pocket to eat after she had dropped Corvus off in Lapis. “Good night,” she said to Bethany and Travis. “Hope you can finish and get some sleep.”

“We never sleep,” said Travis. “Thanks for the ideas.”

Corvus got the check from the waitress and paid before they headed out into the night. Opal drove with him sprawled in the passenger seat beside her. By the time they reached the bed-and-breakfast, he was asleep. She debated the merits of waking him versus using a persuasion on his sleeping self, and, after a scan of the area to make sure no one else was around, decided on the second option. She went around the car, opened his door, and spoke to his body, bypassing his mind. “Gently, gently, and all in concert,” she whispered, “rise from where you are, walk in beauty, stealth, and grace; carry yourself to where you can rest.”