Angel at Dawn (18 page)

Read Angel at Dawn Online

Authors: Emma Holly

Tags: #Ghost stories, #Vampires, #Horror, #Paranormal, #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal romance stories, #Motion picture producers and directors, #Occult fiction, #Ghosts, #Occult & Supernatural, #Love stories

No human could be so beautiful. He’d drive other humans mad.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly.
“You . . . you did something,” she stammered, trying desperately to throw off the impression of strangeness. “I thought I saw—”
Though she couldn’t tell what emotion lay behind his expression, she knew it intensified as she trailed off.
“What do you think you saw?” he prompted.
She felt him waiting, breath suspended, like this was a test she could pass or fail. Philip and Matthew had shaken from their fugues and were helping Charlie up off the ground. Their fellow actor was limping, but that was all. An amoeba-shaped puddle glistened on the asphalt where he had lain. It could have been blood or anything dark and wet. Motor oil from a school bus.
She dragged her eyes reluctantly back to her tormentor. His face was almost normal again.
“Nothing,” she said through the lingering tightness in her throat. “I was upset. I must have been seeing things.”
Christian gazed at her a moment longer and then nodded.
Though it made no sense, she couldn’t help thinking she’d disappointed him.
 
 
C
hristian was aware that Grace had glimpsed beneath his glamour. He didn’t think he’d meant to drop it, but he’d seen his own eyes glowing and knew he was no longer hiding his true nature. Apparently, exposing himself to her didn’t matter, no more than his inability to thrall her did.
Grace was able to deny the most obvious truth without any help from him.
Eight
G
race didn’t think waking up with a knot in her gut was good. Normally on the first day of shooting, she’d be as excited as a kid at Christmas.
A kid who wasn’t her, of course. Her childhood holidays hadn’t been worth stashing in a time capsule. The only thing she’d ever gotten for asking if they could buy a tree was the back of her father’s hand.
Money doesn’t grow on them,
he’d informed her, after which he’d laughed loudly at his own wit.
“That’s over,” she told her hollow-eyed reflection in the pink Plymouth’s side-view mirror. “You left that life behind years ago.”
Despite the pep talk, her hands were trembling as she turned the key in the ignition. She drove the fifty-yard distance between the cottage and the main house with her jaw clenched tight. Luckily, Miss Wei wasn’t in her most observant condition when she slid in the other side. Her sunglasses were her darkest, her trademark mile-long scarf pulled close around her face.
“Bloody hell,” she swore in the British accent she sometimes slipped into when she hadn’t quite woken up. “I abhor early-morning location shoots!”
Grace didn’t know a lot about her employer’s history. She supposed Miss Wei might have lived in England, or even been born there. No doubt, talking like an American gave her one less difference from the studio system’s “old boys” to overcome.
“First day,” Grace said, once she thought her voice was steady. “You’ve got to be looking forward to that.”
Miss Wei groaned and sank lower in her seat. “I am. I just don’t have the energy to show it.”
Grace had plenty of energy—most of it nervous. Her palms were so clammy she wished she were wearing gloves.
Today will be fine,
she tried to convince herself.
Busy. Exciting. Everybody chomping at the bit to get out of the starting gate.
The fact that Grace was revisiting her worst nightmare didn’t have to ruin that.
 
 
N
ot unlike an invading army, the crew for
I Was a TeenAge Vampire
had commandeered a section of a suburb outside LA. Impressed in spite of himself, since he hadn’t expected quite so large a production, Christian rubber-necked behind his Ray-Bans as he inched his Thunderbird into the controlled chaos. His path was narrowed by the big trailer trucks that formed a line along one side of the otherwise well-groomed street. The neighborhood was a postcard of the America Americans longed to believe in, everybody with their house and their car and their identically placed palm tree. On this day, lighting equipment, generators, wardrobe, and makeup found places in paradise. The scent of scrambled eggs and coffee wafted out from a mobile kitchen, reminding Christian he hadn’t fully addressed his own dietary needs.
Last night, Roy had brought him what he termed a “present” from a community blood bank.
Drink it or I’ll tar your heinie,
Roy had threatened.
It’s O-negative, just like that gal the queen has been dangling in front of you.
Christian had sucked down the plastic bag’s cold contents, grudgingly thanked Roy, then felt compelled to inform him that he didn’t give a damn what blood type it was.
Fine then,
Roy had snapped.
Next time I risk life and limb stealing you a pint, it’ll come from a rat.
Christian smiled to himself at the memory. Roy wasn’t comfortable with straightforward thanks anyway. Plus, he’d probably bribed someone for the blood.
Spotting an empty stretch of curb ahead, Christian squeezed his black convertible into it. Though he’d put the top up, driving it in daylight wasn’t ideal.
“Cool car,” said a mortal as Christian left its questionable shelter. Short and stocky, the man was clad in a plaid cotton shirt and jeans. Like many of the humans who were milling purposefully about, he carried a walkie-talkie and clipboard.
He smiled at Christian in a friendly way. “Christian, right? Our Joe Pryor?” Suddenly distracted, he frowned down at his clipboard. “I don’t remember seeing you on today’s call sheet.”
“I’m not here to shoot a scene,” he said, feeling oddly cowed by the man’s knowledgeable air. “This is my first acting job. I thought I’d get a sense of how things worked.”
The man considered him with his head canted to the side. “Evelyn!” he bellowed without warning. “Escort Mr. Durand to the AD so he can watch filming.”
A harried young woman bustled over. Shifting her clipboard underneath one arm, she shook his hand briskly. “Christian, yes? Our Joe Pryor? It’s very nice to meet you. I’m a PA. Let me know if you want coffee.”
Christian nodded as if this made perfect sense to him. He followed the frazzled woman to the single-story suburban home around which the movie army’s actions were centering. A snakelike tangle of electric cords spread across the golf-course green lawn. The cords led to a picture window where three burly men were gingerly removing one pane of glass.
“Reflections,” said his female escort. “Miss Wei wants a shot from outside. Can’t have the DP showing up on film.”
Christian concluded everyone but him understood what was going on around here. He’d finally watched the movies Grace recommended and read a book Roy had picked up along with the blood. The book was by Stanislavski and was called
An Actor Prepares
. The actor might have prepared, but Christian the vampire remained at sea. The movie business was a foreign country, peopled by natives whose positions all seemed to be identified by letters—hardly conducive to calling up “affective memory” as the book advised. Despite the Coppertone Christian had slathered on this morning, his head had begun to spin.
“Christian!” exclaimed a blissfully familiar voice.
“Grace,” he responded, so obviously grateful to encounter her that she laughed. Evelyn the PA gave Grace a small salute and left. “Please don’t call me ‘our Joe Pryor,’ ” he added. “I’m getting the impression that’s my new name.”
Smiling, Grace took him by the arm to steer him into the epicenter of the hubbub. To his surprise, her hand was cold and shook just a bit. Annoyed anew that he couldn’t read her, he surmised she was feeling awkward over what she’d managed to deny she’d seen him do to Charlie.
If she was, she wasn’t going to mention it.
“Crew develop a sense of ownership,” she explained. “If the film is a hit, it’s a victory for them, too.”
“Everyone wants to work on a winner.”
“Exactly,” she agreed.
They’d reached the living room of the house, which was overrun with people and equipment. Christian took off his Stetson and held it before his chest as he looked around. Most of the furniture had been removed for the sake of space. Two men in earphones sat before some sort of recording console. Christian spotted Wade and Nim Wei and Viv standing together, though only Nim Wei seemed to be talking. Viv was either nervous or getting into character. She was tugging the sleeves of her white sweater over her hands, making her appear even younger than she was. The doorway behind the trio revealed a blindingly bright and colorful kitchen. The silhouettes of more crew moved there.
“We’re shooting the breakfast scene,” Grace said, leaning closer to his shoulder so he could hear. “The one between Mary and her parents before her first day of school. Miss Wei is reminding Viv what emotional notes she wants her to hit. After the grips finish setting up the lights and booms, she and Wade will run through the blocking. Then, depending on how fresh the boss lady wants everyone to stay, she might have them do a quick rehearsal.”
“And she’ll do that for my scenes, as well?”
“Absolutely,” Grace said. “It’s the director’s job to make sure the actors are comfortable and know where they are in the story.”
Grace must have thought it was
her
job to reassure him.
“Grace, I don’t know what Naomi told you to do, but I don’t need hand-holding.”
“Of course you don’t,” she said, her attention plainly not on him. For some reason, her gaze had drifted to the fireplace across the room. Christian couldn’t see what would have drawn her attention. The hearth was made of beige-painted brick and had a plain wooden mantel. An ugly round mirror hung above it, with a dull gold sunburst raying out from its face. Grace swallowed and touched the pulse beating in her throat.
He couldn’t help but notice how rapid her heart rate was. In an instant, he forgot his personal irritations. Worry flooded him so swiftly he stepped around to face her.
“Is something wrong?” he asked. “You’ve gone ashen.”
She looked at him, but he had the sense she was seeing someone else. It took a second before her expression cleared.
“I’m fine,” she said with an awkward laugh. “Between you and me, this house gives me the willies.”
 
 
G
race had no sooner uttered the confession than she regretted it. A deeply incised furrow appeared between Christian’s brows, his concern impossible to miss even with his sunglasses on.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m fine. This house just reminds me of a place I lived as a teenager. It was a long time ago.”
Christian bent to peer in her face. “Maybe you need air.”
“It’s nothing,” she reiterated, trying not to sound like she was gasping. She lifted her clipboard with a too-bright smile. “Have to work anyway. Lots of lists to check off. Why don’t you take one of those empty chairs? We’ll talk more when I have a minute.”
She turned away without watching what he did. Her face was as hot as if she were fevered, the channel of her spine beginning to trickle sweat. She’d been dreading this day since the location scout first showed them his Polaroids. The ranch-style house they’d obtained permission to film in was too like the house her father had nearly killed her in. If she hadn’t had a job to do here, she’d have run for the literal hills.
Pull yourself together, Grace,
she ordered, bracing her shoulder on the wall next to the sound men.
She should have chosen a different spot, but her knees were shaking too much to move. She could see the fireplace clearly from where she leaned, an eerie twin for the one George Gladwell had flung her into when she was seventeen. The brick in their Ohio house had been just that putty color, the wood-plank mantel just as stupidly faux rustic. This one seemed to have a gouge precisely where her head would have hit.
The memory of the long-ago impact slammed back to her: the solidness of the pain in her skull, the flash of light, and then the darkness. She’d died for a couple minutes, lost in that void from which there was no escape. The men from the ambulance her mother called had revived her.

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