C
hristian very stubbornly hadn’t done his homework.
Rebel Without a Cause
remained unwatched in its can, as did
On the Waterfront
and
A Place in the Sun
. If Nim Wei had been an idiot to cast him, that was her problem. He would come to her read-through just as ignorant as she’d found him.
He pulled on one of his new midnight blue silk shirts, but that was only because they were comfortable. The black knife-pleat trousers went better with it than jeans, so he wore those, too. His reflection in the closet mirror rather startled him, as if—after five hundred years—he truly could become someone new.
“Sharp,” Roy observed from the open doorway into his room. “You should have cut your hair years ago. You look like a real twenty-year-old now.”
Christian grimaced and undid the top button on his collar. That priss from the shop was right. One button was the correct amount to leave open.
Roy made a humming noise. “What time is Grace picking you up?”
“She’s not. I’m going to run there. Stretch my legs.”
“Nervous?”
“Of course I’m not,” he said.
Roy’s head was down, but he was smiling like he knew something Christian didn’t. He turned away before Christian could get angry.
“Break a leg,” Roy threw over his shoulder. “I won’t wait up.”
N
im Wei looked around her spacious Spanish-style dining room and felt a warm glow of satisfaction spread through her icy veins. Grace was circling the long dark table, laying out bound copies of the script. Each was as neat as her pedal pushers and sweater set. In the four years since they’d met, Grace had proved an unexpected blessing. Nim Wei never would have guessed that having someone to share her quest, someone she could help as much as she was helped by, would add such savor to daily life. With Grace beside her, her dream falling into place meant more than ever.
Her immortal heart actually skipped when Grace glanced up and smiled at her. Nim Wei loved that this little mortal had no fear of her.
“Viv called,” Grace said. “From her date. She’s going to be a few minutes late.”
“That’s all right.” Feeling expansive, Nim Wei waved the concern away. “People will want some time to chat anyway. You know the boys never settle down right away.”
She could hear them now in the other wing, joking and scuffling with each other as they cleaned up for the evening. The younger members of the cast, at least the main characters, had been staying at Nim Wei’s big 1930s house. She wanted them to be comfortable with each other, so they’d resemble real friends on-screen.
Teen-Age Vampire
was going to be important—not Oscar worthy, maybe, but more than another monsters versus mortals B movie. As good as
Rebel
, she was hoping, the sort of film people remembered.
Grace surprised her by breaking into a laugh. “You’re nervous. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wring your hands like that.”
Nim Wei looked down at the offending digits and laughed herself—perhaps a bit shakily. “I don’t think I have, either.”
“It’s going to be fine, boss. Carmela has beer and snacks and coffee, and Wade is bringing his recording equipment. We’ll both take notes, and you and Wade can fine-tune the shooting script all night if you want to.”
“Right,” Nim Wei said, blowing out a breath. “Wade Matthews is the best director of photography in the business. He’s not going to let this train racket off the rails.”
“Neither are you.” Grace propped her hip on the table’s end. “And neither am I. We’ll do our best, and it’s darn well going to be enough.”
Nim Wei had to blink a sudden burn from her eyes. She suspected she would have hugged Grace if that had been her style. Queens didn’t hug people, though, not even when they were disguised as directors.
“Christian had better not be late,” she said instead. “He’s the weak link in all of this.”
“He’ll be fine,” Grace assured her, probably because she had no idea how many different kinds of trouble Christian could stir up. “You know the boys are bound to love him. All that guy’s guy coolness. They’ll be vying for his attention in no time.”
Nim Wei was counting on it . . . and a lot more besides.
N
im Wei’s house was an ivy-covered Spanish Revival mansion with a red clay-tiled roof. It sat on grounds as flat as if they’d been bulldozed, which were softened by rioting bougainvillea and emerald grass. Lemons the size of grapefruits weighted the well-kept trees. The crowning glory was the stunning view of the blue Pacific from the bluff the property bordered. Taken altogether, it was the sort of house humans pictured when they dreamed of California and movie stars: expensive and plush and just the teeniest bit wild.
Fresh from his run, Christian took a moment to catch his breath in the handsome cobble-lined courtyard. Laughter issued in bursts from the open windows, as if a party were under way. The laughter was accompanied by the music mortals had lately dubbed “rock and roll.” Christian thought he recognized Bill Haley and the Comets. Apparently, “around the clock” was the only way to have fun.
As he stood there, letting the driving beats push against his skin, Christian’s incisors began to pulse in time. He could smell Grace among the others, could pick out her soft laughter. He buttoned his new black jacket over a sudden heaviness at his groin. He really should have stopped to eat before coming here.
But maybe the discomfort would keep his complaints against her uppermost in his mind. That, he thought, was desirable.
Preferring not to announce himself, he opened the door and walked in.
He found Grace in the living room off the entryway. She was dancing with a loose-hipped, freckle-faced, sandy-haired human boy. He was holding her by the hands while they bounced and twisted from side to side. Showgirl legs notwithstanding, Grace looked a lot more awkward than her companion.
“Shake it, Grace,” another young man called from the sidelines. “You’re almost loosening up.”
Grace dissolved into laughter and stopped dancing, both palms rising to her flushed cheeks. Christian could tell the attention simultaneously pleased and embarrassed her.
“Oh, hey, man,” said the boy she’d been gyrating with. “Looks like our star has arrived.”
Someone shut off the record player, and everyone turned to him. Six young men were scattered around the large, sleekly furnished room, plus an older man and woman seated on a long white couch. Cautious by habit, Christian took a quick survey of their minds. A few of those present hid resentment, but most were just curious. He tried to thaw the ice he knew had crackled over his own features.
“I play Charlie,” said Grace’s dancing partner, offering his hand to pump Christian’s. “The big boss lady has us sticking to our characters’ names, so I guess you’d be Joe. Over by the bar, sucking back those beers, are Philip and Matthew.”
Two gawky but good-looking human males waved sketchily at him. Their snug white T-shirts and peg-legged black jeans made them seem even skinnier than they were. Their gleaming greaser haircuts were very like what Christian himself sported.
Satisfied their presence had been noted, Charlie indicated the older couple on the white couch. “These are Mr. and Mrs. Reed, your movie girlfriend’s uncaring parents.”
“We prefer
ineffectual
,” laughed the man. He had a voice like someone who’d performed Shakespeare, his elocution too formal to have been what he was born with.
Charlie bowed to him with overdone and teasing respect, then chopped his hand one at a time at the last trio. “Bonehead, Growler, and Mace, your muscle-bound mortal enemies.”
These three boys were indeed more physically formidable than the others. Sandy the stylist must have been at them, too. They had matching clean-cut “Joe College” haircuts, not a look generally associated with villains. Christian began to see how the factions were supposed to shape up within the film. The conformists weren’t to be trusted. The rebels were the heroes.
Only Christian wasn’t dressed as his character.
He couldn’t tell how deeply the trio had taken their intended alliances to heart. Each came forward to shake his hand and, while all seemed to feel a compulsion to test the strength of his grip, only Bonehead could be counted among the actors who resented his presence.
“Rockin’ boots,” said the one called Growler, his vocal tones as deep as his character’s name implied.
“Thank you,” was all Christian could think to say.
“Your dad couldn’t make it,” Mace put in. “Hot date with a starlet. Naomi’s going to tar his ass when she finds out.”
The sense that he’d dropped into a rabbit hole seized Christian. Adrenaline jetted into his bloodstream, as if his dead father truly were about to show up. For just a second, he felt his old nausea and helplessness. He reminded himself he wasn’t vulnerable to Gregori’s abuse—and hadn’t been for some time.
“That’s too bad,” he said as calmly as he could. “I’d have liked to meet everyone.”
“We all hate you, of course,” Charlie said blithely. “You’re a regular Lana Turner at Schwab’s Drugstore.”
Christian was vaguely familiar with the story of the female star’s serendipitous discovery. “I don’t look as good in a sweater,” he said, deadpan.
The boys laughed louder than he expected, and with more good humor. Surprisingly, they all seemed willing to like him, or at least to give him a chance. This was a reception Christian wasn’t used to, not without employing his thrall.
“You must have killed your screen test,” said the gawky black-haired boy who played Matthew.
Christian was pretty sure
killed
was good and not murderous. He opened his mouth to admit Nim Wei hadn’t asked for a test. Grace stopped him by coming over to squeeze his arm. “Would you like something to drink, Christian? Miss Wei keeps a well-stocked bar.”
“Just water,” he said. “If she’s got bottled.”
Grace went to get it. She was wearing snug calf-length pants tonight, and her long, curved legs were spectacular from the rear.
“Oh, yeah,” Charlie murmured beside his shoulder. “We’ve all been drooling over that dolly.”
Christian jerked his head around to the boy, his upper lip twitching with his instinct to issue a fangy threat. Did this nosebleed think Grace was anywhere near his league? That he could crack a few jokes and dance with her like a monkey, and she would simply fall in his lap?
Oblivious to his danger, which meant Christian’s glamour must have remained in place, Charlie met Christian’s gaze and grinned. “No joy on that front so far. She’s either Mormon or very shy.”
An assortment of objections fought to spit out of Christian’s mouth, none of them an appropriate response to Charlie’s man-to-man friendliness.
“Sorry, sorry,” Nim Wei broke in, thankfully saving him. Christian tried to remember if he’d ever heard her say she was sorry for anything. “Wade and I got to talking camera angles and lost track of time.”
The queen of all the world’s city vampires had entered her living room accompanied by another man. A tiny shiver tripped across Christian’s shoulders. The man was in his early forties, with black-rimmed glasses and smiling light gray eyes. Though professorial in dress, he was tall and trim and stood like a fighter with his arms relaxed. His gaze traveled the room until it found Christian, at which point his smile broadened.
“Oh, good,” Nim Wei said. “You made it.”
Christian was so caught up in staring at the queen’s companion that he didn’t immediately realize she was speaking to him. She beckoned with one small hand.
“Come meet Wade Matthews, our cinematographer.”
Christian’s knees were unusually stiff as he crossed the black-and-white geometric carpet. Something was happening. He felt eerily like he had when he first met Grace in his barn. Wade Matthews took his right hand and squeezed it, his left coming up to brace Christian’s elbow. The grip was more a welcome than a mere greeting: the gesture of a man who was both self-assured and warmhearted. His eyes held Christian’s with an openness few humans practiced—and even fewer
upyr
. The love that radiated out from his presence actually caused Christian to catch his breath.
“So good to finally meet you,” Wade Matthews said, his hand still enclosing Christian’s. He had a tenor’s voice with a smoker’s rasp. “I hope you’re not worried about this being your first movie. Everyone on this project is wonderful. We’re all committed to making sure your performance is right up there with the rest.”
The greenest fledgling couldn’t have missed the ripple of emotion that ran around the room. When the cinematographer claimed they were wonderful—obviously believing it—every cast member longed to be as good as he said, not just in talent but in kindness. Christian’s mouth fell open at the strength of the effect. Wade was human. He had no thrall, no artificially intensified charisma. He made his colleagues want to be better by simple virtue of his faith in them.
“Thank you,” Christian said, his eyes blinking rapidly in surprise. “I appreciate all the help I can get.”