Fade Out

One of the other people standing in a group around the director onstage waved her hand. She had a clipboard, a microphone headset, and a tense, worried expression. Claire didn’t recognize her. “Sir, I tried calling her cell phone six times. It went to voice mail.”

“You are the assistant director! Find her! I don’t want to hear about this voice mail nonsense!” He dismissed her with a flip of his hand and glared at the rest of the group. “Well? We must shift the schedule, then, until she gets here, yes? Script!”

He held out his hand; some quick thinker slapped a bundle of paper into his hand. He flipped pages. “No, no, no—ah! Yes, we will do that. Is our Stanley here?”

A big, tattooed guy shouldered through the crowd. “Here,” he said. That, Claire guessed, was Rad, the one Eve and Kim were going gaga over. He looked—big. And tough. She didn’t see the appeal; for one thing, he wasn’t anything like Shane, who was almost as big, and probably just as tough. Shane wore it like part of his body. This guy made a production out of it.

“Good, we’ll do the bar scene. We have Mitch? Yes? And all the others?”

Claire stopped listening and glanced at Michael. “Where’s Eve? They’re missing a her.”

“I don’t know.” He looked at the crowd of people rushing around the stage, resetting the scenery, going over lines, arguing with one another. “I don’t see her anywhere.”

“You don’t think—”

Michael was already walking down the aisle, heading for the stage.

“I guess you do think.” Claire hurried after him.

Michael put himself directly in front of the frazzled-looking assistant director, who had a cell phone to one ear, and a finger jammed in the other. She turned a shoulder toward him, clearly indicating she was busy, but he grabbed it and swung her around to face him. Her eyes widened in shock. Michael took the phone from her hand and checked the number. “It’s not Eve’s,” he told Claire, and she saw the intense relief that flooded over his face. “Sorry, Heather.”

“It’s okay, it’s still voice mail.” Heather, the assistant director, looked even more worried. She was biting her lip, gnawing on it actually, and darting her eyes toward the livid director, who was stomping around the stage throwing pages of the script to the floor. “Eve’s in the dressing room. Man, I am so fired.”

Michael zipped off, ruffling their hair with the speed of his passage, leaving Claire standing with Heather. After a hesitation, she stuck out her hand. “Hi,” she said. “Claire Danvers.”

“Oh, that’s you? Fu

“Taller?”

“Older.”

“So who’s missing?”

Heather held up a finger to silence her, tapped the device strapped to her belt, and spoke into her headset mike. “What’s the problem? Well, tell him that the director wants it that way, so just do it, okay? I don’t care if it looks good. And quit complaining.” She clicked it to OFF and wiped sweat from her forehead. “I don’t know what’s worse, having a crew who’s a bunch of newbies, or having a crew who’s been doing this kind of thing since they still used gas in footlights.”

Claire blinked. “You’ve got vampires on the crew.”

“Of course. Also in the cast, and of course, Mein Herr, there.” Heather jerked her chin at the director, who was lecturing some poor sap trying to position a potted plant. “He’s kind of a perfectionist. He imported the costumes from vintage shops. You tell me, who worries about authentic fabrics when you’ve just cast two Goth girls as the leads?”

Heather wasn’t so much talking to her as at her, Claire decided, so she just shrugged. “So, who’s missing?”

“Oh. Our second female lead. Kimberlie Magness.”

Kim. Claire felt a slow roll of irritation. “Does she usually show up on time?” Because that would be a surprise.

Heather raised her eyebrows. “In this production, everybody shows up on time. According to Mein Herr, to be early is to be on time, and to be on time is to be late. She’s never been late.”

Still.

Kim.

Probably nothing at all.

“Where is my Stella?” the director bellowed suddenly, and the sound bounced around the stage and also out of Heather’s earpiece. She winced and turned down the volume. “Stella!” He drew it out, Brando-style.

And in the wings of the stage, Eve stepped out from behind the curtains, tightly holding Michael’s hand. She was dressed in tight black jeans, a black baby-doll shirt with a pentagram on it, and lots of chains and spikes as accessories.

From the director’s sudden silence, and Heather’s intake of breath, Claire figured that wasn’t what Eve was supposed to be wearing. “Oh no,” Heather whispered. “This isn’t happening.”

“What?”

“He insists on rehearsal in costume. Something about getting inside the characters. She’s supposed to be in her slip.”

The director stomped to Eve, stopping inches away from her. He looked her up and down, and said coldly, “What do you think you are doing?”

“I have to go,” she said. Her knuckles were white where she gripped Michael’s hand, but she stared the director right in the eyes. “I’m sorry, but I have to.”

“No one leaves my rehearsals except in a body bag,” he said. “Is that how you’d prefer it?”

“Is that really how you want this to go?” Michael asked quietly. “Because somebody could leave in a body bag, but it won’t be her.”

The director showed teeth in a grimace—it actually looked painful for him to smile. “Are you threatening me, boy?”

“Yes,” Michael said, completely still. “I know I’m new at this. I know I’m not a thousand years old with a pile of bodies behind me. But I’m telling you that she has to go, and you’re going to let her.”

“Or?”

Michael’s eyes took on a shine—not red, but almost white. It was eerie. “Let’s not find out. You can spare her for the day.”

The director hissed, very softly, and held the stare for so long, Claire thought things were about to go very, very wrong . . . and then a mild-looking man in a retro bowling shirt stepped up and said, “Is there a problem? Because I am responsible for these two in Amelie’s absence.”

And Claire blinked, and realized it was Oliver. Not really Oliver, because he looked . . . different—not just the clothes, but his whole body language. She’d seen him do that before, but not quite this dramatically. His accent was different, too—more of a flat Midwest kind of sound, nothing exotic about it at all.

The director threw him a look, then blinked and seemed to reconsider his position. “I suppose not,” he finally said. “I can’t have this kind of disruption, you know. This is serious business.”

“I know,” Oliver said. “But a day won’t matter. Let the girl go.”

“We’re going to find Kim,” Eve said. “So really, we’re still on company business, right?”

The director’s face tensed again, on the verge of an outburst, but he swallowed his words and finally said, “You may tell Miss Magness that she may have one rehearsal as a grace period. If she is late one second to any other time I call, she will be mine.” He didn’t mean fired. He meant lunch.

Claire swallowed. Heather didn’t seem surprised. She made a note on her clipboard, shook her head, and then cocked her head again as a burst of words came out of her headphone. “Dammit,” she sighed. “Are you kidding me? Great. No, I don’t care how you do it; just make it happen.” She clicked off and looked at Claire. “Wish me luck.”

“Um, luck?”

Heather mounted the stairs to the stage and approached the director to whisper something to him. He shouted in fury and stomped away, waving his arms.

Michael and Eve took the chance to escape down to where Claire waited.

Oliver followed them.

“Nice shirt,” Claire said, straight-faced.

He glanced down at it, dismissed it, and said, “Now tell me what’s going on. Immediately.”