The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (15 page)

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know Mr. Teller had hired more character actors!” She pointed to me. “Are you going to be some sort of bruiser thug working for the Witch Queen?” She pointed to Weatherby. “And you must be some little peasant boy who the monster eats!”

Teller approached her, hands outstretched. “Angie, baby, these are the security fellows I hired. They’re Yanks, you know, and they’re supposed to be awful good at this sort of thing.”

I nodded. “Just pretend we’re not here,” I said.

Angelica Witt smiled. “Oh,” she said. “That’ll be tough.”

Weatherby coughed. I looked at him and saw his pale face going a little red. Like any fourteen-year-old, the kid was just starting to get it bad for the dames. “We’ll do everything in our power to keep you safe, Miss Witt,” he stammered.

Angelica didn’t make fun of him, but gave a quick nod. “That’s good to hear,” she said, and offered Weatherby a comforting smile.

“All right, all right – quiet on the set!” Clarence Teller was a thin man with thinning hair, in square spectacles, a worn olive green vest and rumpled shirt. His eyes were darting around and he bit his tongue – looking like he was waiting for something to blow up. He walked over to his chair and sat down, looking at the script on his clipboard and then at the set. “Right, in this scene, Angelica’s chasing that phantom she saw in the graveyard outside of her new boyfriend’s manor, and she gets attacked by a wild man. Niles is back there, already, just waiting for the signal. Patrick, baby, that’s when you come out and save her.”

“With the battleaxe?” Patrick asked.

“With what else?”

“Six years with the Royal Shakespeare Academy for this…” Patrick muttered, as Angelica took her place.

Teller nodded to the cameramen and they zoomed in with the bulky mechanisms, which reminded me of the bazookas we had used to knock out Panzers in the woods of France. Teller watched as Angelica Witt and her make-up assistants walked into the middle of the graveyard. They finished touching her up and then he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Remember Angelica, it’s cold at night and you ought to be shivering. Everyone ready? And….action!”

The cameras started rolling and the magic began. Angelica took a few steps through the graveyards, and she did her best to shiver and look longingly at the camera. I had to admit, she was a pretty good actress. I wouldn’t mind seeing her in another kind of picture – minus that nightgown, of course.

“H-hello?” she asked, just like a terrified ingénue about to see the monster for the first time. “Is anyone there?”

The dark bushes behind the mausoleum rustled. A black loping shape leapt out of them and landed before Angelica, knocking aside several of the cardboard graves. It was a great hound, black as midnight and with long fangs, slicked back ears and glaring red eyes. The dog could rival a grizzly bear for size. Its growl was like an engine revving to life.

“Goddamn,” I whispered to Weatherby. “Those are some good special effects.”

“That’s no special effect,” Weatherby replied. “That’s a Gytrash, a Bharghest, a Black Shuck – a Hellhound!”

Angelica screamed, and it sounded just a little too real. Teller turned to me and Weatherby. “That’s not Niles!” he cried. “That’s something else – something awful!” The great hound was stalking slowly towards Angelica on its silent paws, is great fangs barred. She took a panicked step back, then tripped over her nightgown and tumbled to the grass.

I was already reaching for my automatics. “Stay here!” I told Teller, dashing in front of the cameras and into the set. I started firing, putting round after round into the hairy flanks of the Black Dog. I felt the familiar pulse of recoil as I unloaded the Colt automatics. The blasts echoed across the wide fields and the moors beyond. But even over the gunfire, I could hear the Black Dog roar.

The beast turned to face me and emitted a low growl. The good news was that it turned away from Angelica. The bad news was that it wanted to take a bite out of me. “Get out of here, sister!” I screamed to Angelica, and she ran from the fake graveyard as the hound approached me. I saw its muscled legs coil up, preparing a pounce. There wasn’t enough time to reload.

“Weatherby?” I asked, as I reached for the Ka-Bar combat knife in my boot heel. “You got a way to put this dog down for good?”

He was looking through the pockets of his frock coat. “Keep it busy, Morton!” he called. “I seem to have misplaced my sprig of holly…”

I shook my head. I was about to get mauled by some ferocious ghost dog the size of a grizzly bear and he was looking for holly. I squared my shoulders and looked back to the black dog. It leapt for me, flying through the air like a plummeting comet of dark fur. All I saw was its fangs, big as daggers and glowing white like a full moon in a cloudless night sky. I threw myself backwards, but the black hound still landed on me and lunged for my throat.

I planted my blade between its eyes, driving it through fur, flesh and bone. That slowed it down – but did nothing else.

“Weatherby!” I shouted, holding back the hellhound by its throat. “Any time now!”

“All right! Take this, and apply it vigorously!” He tossed me a small twig of holly, with a few leaves and red berries. The twig was sharpened, like a tiny spear. I caught it with one hand and slammed the sharp end into the side of the black hound’s throat.

For a few seconds, the hound continued to press forward, howling as its chomping teeth neared my throat. Then a shudder ran through the black dog, and its paws went rigid. I could feel its fur going mushy under my hands. I stood up quickly. The fur fell inwards, the legs curled up and the whole dog seemed to melt. Soon it was nothing but a large pile of ash, with its red eyes turned into two glowing coals. I kicked at the ash, scattering it amongst the cardboard gravestones.

Teller ran over to me, followed by Weatherby and Angelica. “Quick thinking with the holly, kid,” I said. “But what the hell was that thing?”

“Your words are apt,” Weatherby explained. “It’s a hellhound, known by a variety of names in the English countryside – such as gytrash, or bhargest. They are summoned by certain powerful spiritual entities, and serve them like loyal hunting dogs.”

“And you think one of those powerful spiritual entities is trying to sabotage
Curse of the Witch Queen
?” Teller shook his head. “I don’t recall pissing one of them off – unless there was one in the British Board of Film Censors or in the producer’s office.” He turned to Angelica. “You all right, honey?”

“Fine,” she said, straightening her dress. “But what about Niles?”

Something stirred in the bushes behind the graveyard. A tall Englishman in a ragged fur loincloth, with a wide pale face and dark eyes, stepped out from the bushes. “I say, what happened?” he asked, holding up his papier-mâché club. “Did we bugger up the scene?”

One of the cameramen held up his hand. “Actually, Mr. Teller, we caught the whole thing on film,” he said. “The Black Shuck showing up, the gunfight, and Mr. Candle here turning it to ash. You want us to scrap it?”

Teller shook his head. “Nah, we’ll fix it in post. Let’s everyone take a break, eh? I think we’ve had enough action for now.” He turned to Weatherby and me. “So, you don’t have any idea who summoned this thing?”

“It could be any number of otherworldly forces,” Weatherby said. “To use the vernacular, maybe someone just has it out for you.” I had removed my trench coat and was looking at the long jagged cut on my arm. Weatherby produced some bandages from his frock coat and patched me up as best he could. The black shuck’s claws hadn’t cut deep, but they did hurt.

“But why would anyone hate me?” Teller asked. “I just make horror movies!”

Before I could answer that question, a sleek Lincoln Town Car rolled over past the driveway and into the grass before the film set. The door opened and a well-dressed man with silver hair and a pearl gray three-piece suit stepped out, thin-brimmed fedora in his hand. He approached us, nodding and smiling.

“Clarence!” he called. “How’s that movie magic coming, old boy?”

Clarence Teller sighed. “Not so good, Albert,” he admitted. He turned to me and Weatherby. “This is Albert Riordan, my producer. Al? These are those yanks I hired for security. They already done their job, and quite well. We had a monster attack on the set, and poor Angelica nearly got gobbled up!”

Angelica smiled with a professional actress’s good humor. “I’m all right, Mr. Riordan,” she said. “Just call it method acting.”

Riordan shrugged. “Well, no harm done, I suppose. So there’s really no problem at all, then. You’ll be out filming in the moors today?”

“I’m not sure, Albert. There’s some kind of…” He looked at Weatherby as he struggled for the words. “Powerful spiritual entity that’s trying to stop the film, and it might be dangerous for the cast and crew. It’s bizarre, I know – but I’ve seen it with my own eyes and I urge you understand. Now, I know we’re a little over-budget, and behind schedule, but with this sort of unknown menace lurking about really don’t think it’s safe—”

“Come now, Clarence. The American market for British horror isn’t gonna last forever, you know. We’ve got to give them what they want – slambang action, beautiful women menaced by malevolent monsters, and more blood, fire and rage than even they can handle. And maybe you can even splice some of that monster attack into the final film? Should be just what the doctor ordered, I’d wager.”

“Um, maybe,” Clarence agreed hesitantly. “But I don’t know if we should go to the moors…”

“And neither do I.” I stepped next to Riordan. I knew people like him from my army days – idiot commanders who figured a medal and a rank made them wiser than Solomon and more powerful than God. “Mr. Riordan, me and the kid have dealt with this sort of mumbo-jumbo before. It doesn’t let it up and it doesn’t let go. My advice is to lay low until we can figure out who’s behind it and deal with them.”

Riordan nodded. “Thank you for your opinion,” he replied. “Now, Clarence, I know you may be a little skittish, but
Curse of the Witch Queen
must be finished. And I can easily bring in another director, if you insist on being difficult.”

Clarence nodded. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. He looked back at the cast and crew. “All right, everyone!” he called. “Pack it up! Get to the lorries! We’re going to film a few scenes on the moors, and then we’ll call it a day!” He looked back to Riordan. “I hope you’re happy,” he said.

“Oh, believe me,” Riordan replied. “I am. Ta-ta.” He walked back to his town car.

Weatherby and I stood together, alone and unmoving in the blizzard of activity as the crew started hauling cameras, props, set pieces and equipment to the trucks parked before Bly Studios. Weatherby shook his head. “It’s not right,” he said. “Mr. Riordan should not endanger the lives of these people, not for the sake of a mere film!”

“I thought you didn’t like them,” I pointed out.

He looked up at Angelica. She had slipped into a thick robe against the cold of the countryside. “They’re not so bad,” he said. “They’re doing a job. Kind of like us, in a way.”

“Sure,” I said. “Except they can do another take if they flub a line. We’ll just get mashed up by a monster.” I patted his shoulder and pointed to the trucks. “Come on, kiddo,” I said. “Let’s go to the moors.”

We shared a car with Patrick Darling and Angelica Witt. We all crammed together in the back of the little truck. Weatherby sat next to me, as far away from Angelica as possible. He kept sending shy glances her way, and I could see why. He treated her like she was a primed land mine, and perhaps he was right. She sat next to Darling, who was whined about the state of his career.

“Did you know how the Times characterized my performance of the title role in the Scottish Play?” he asked. “They said it was ‘magnificent and multifaceted.’ And now the most complex emotions I must display are ‘be angry about a monster trying to eat my girlfriend,’ or something similar.”

“The Scottish Play?” I asked, trying to change the subject. “Ain’t they all English around here? Darling’s whining didn’t suit me.

“It refers to Macbeth, love,” Angelica explained. “Actors believe it’s a curse to say the name.” She smiled. “Curses and things are all over this country, I think. It seems like every old castle’s got a ghost or two in it, every hill has some troll or ogre that lorded over it, and there’s always some witch-burning or depraved local noble lurking around, if you look for them hard enough.” She smiled. “But it’s all in good fun.”

“I’m not so sure,” Weatherby said softly. Maybe it was his schoolboy crush on Angelica, or maybe it was the subject, but his usual rudeness vanished. “Not when you have to live with it, I think.”

“Well, I guess all the gothic business would get a bit dreary after a while,” Angelica said. She leaned over and patted Weatherby’s shoulder. He shuddered and his face went red and then he smiled like an idiot. “But it’s my job, love. And I guess it’s yours too, in a way. That’s why vacations exist, I reckon. And you know, for everyone else, all the people who see Mallet movies, that’s what the dark gothic stuff is – a vacation. A bit of escapism, to brighten up their day.” She smiled up at me. “What do you think, Mr. Candle?”