actor?”
“Were?
Were
?” He echoed the DeNiro bit, going a little over the top, letting his lower lip tremble and one eyelid twitch.
“Sorry, nothing personal.”
“Everything’s personal in the Graveyard, Dollface.”
“I guess I’m still getting used to all this.” She waved her hand at the sky, which looked like an upside-down bowl of mashed potatoes. “Being dead, I mean.”
Royce, ignoring her with all the self-absorption of an unknown celebrity, said, “Were I an actor, the world would have been saved.”
Bone wasn’t sure the grammar was correct, but he’d spoken with an emphatic British accent and she dared not challenge him. “I didn’t know the world were lost.”
He swooped an oily lock of hair from his forehead, eyes grown weary now with the gravity of it all. “My rightful place among the stars was denied, and the design of heaven thus was frustrated.”
“Shakespeare?”
Royce shook his head and the lock fell back over his eyes. “Nah. Mine. I’m a screenwriter, too.”
With lines like that, you ought to be as famous as…as famous as…
She couldn’t think of any famous screenwriters.
“Tell you what, Royce,” Bone said. “I just wanted to see a movie, not
be
a movie. Maybe we can just go for a walk or something.”
“Brando.”
“Huh?”
“I would have been good for him. His problem was he didn’t have anybody to push him. He settled because he didn’t have any challengers.”
“He had James Dean.”
Royce’s face twisted as if someone had dropped a handful of hell’s hottest coals down his pants. Puffs of smoke boiled from his ears and his eyes grew narrow, the pupils glistening yellow. When his lower lip curled in a pout, she finally noticed the resemblance.
“Hey, come to mention it, you kinda look like him,” she said, figuring it would flatter and placate him.
After all, Dean had been a deity of the cinema, all the more revered because his career had been cut so tragically short. He’d courted some of Hollywood’s most beautiful starlets, and the rumors had tied him to some men as well. Sure, he was pretty much squaresville now, compared to Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, Robert Pattinson, and the modern breed of boy candy, but legends never die.
“James.” Royce spat the name as if it were a slimy bug that had flown into his mouth. “The no-talent hack didn’t do nothing right but die young.”
“A tad jealous, are we?” Bone had known some kids in the high school drama club, and the ones that weren’t gay had been insufferably vain. But competing for attention with a dead person seemed like overkill even for a drama queen.
“You don’t get it,” he said. “You’re just like all the rest.”
“Thanks for making me feel special.”
He ruffled his hair and thrust his hips forward. “Come on, Dollface. You been dead how long now?”
“A year and nine months, give or take a few centuries.”
“And you figure I’m dead, too.”
“You’re in Darkmeet, aren’t you?”
“I can’t be dead, because I was never born.”
“Excuse me?” She wasn’t sure about all these crazy afterlife rules. For all she knew, half the souls here were waiting for someone to call their number, like picking up an order at a Chinese restaurant.
“It should have been me.”
“What?”
“It should have been Royce Dean who lived in Hollywood, who got a star on the Walk of Fame. I should have been the showstopper and the scene stealer. I should have gotten the dough and the dames and the fast cars.” Royce’s face twisted in a mocking sneer. “But it all went to
him
.”
Royce spun, hurling a fist at the monument beside him. As the punch cracked against faux marble, Bone cringed, momentarily forgetting that Royce was unborn and couldn’t feel pain.
“Hey, those are the breaks,” Bone said.
He turned away. His shoulders shuddered.
Christ. Is he… he’s CRYING.
He suddenly became much more irresistible. She drew closer, hating herself. But a
“Were?
Were
?” He echoed the DeNiro bit, going a little over the top, letting his lower lip tremble and one eyelid twitch.
“Sorry, nothing personal.”
“Everything’s personal in the Graveyard, Dollface.”
“I guess I’m still getting used to all this.” She waved her hand at the sky, which looked like an upside-down bowl of mashed potatoes. “Being dead, I mean.”
Royce, ignoring her with all the self-absorption of an unknown celebrity, said, “Were I an actor, the world would have been saved.”
Bone wasn’t sure the grammar was correct, but he’d spoken with an emphatic British accent and she dared not challenge him. “I didn’t know the world were lost.”
He swooped an oily lock of hair from his forehead, eyes grown weary now with the gravity of it all. “My rightful place among the stars was denied, and the design of heaven thus was frustrated.”
“Shakespeare?”
Royce shook his head and the lock fell back over his eyes. “Nah. Mine. I’m a screenwriter, too.”
With lines like that, you ought to be as famous as…as famous as…
She couldn’t think of any famous screenwriters.
“Tell you what, Royce,” Bone said. “I just wanted to see a movie, not
be
a movie. Maybe we can just go for a walk or something.”
“Brando.”
“Huh?”
“I would have been good for him. His problem was he didn’t have anybody to push him. He settled because he didn’t have any challengers.”
“He had James Dean.”
Royce’s face twisted as if someone had dropped a handful of hell’s hottest coals down his pants. Puffs of smoke boiled from his ears and his eyes grew narrow, the pupils glistening yellow. When his lower lip curled in a pout, she finally noticed the resemblance.
“Hey, come to mention it, you kinda look like him,” she said, figuring it would flatter and placate him.
After all, Dean had been a deity of the cinema, all the more revered because his career had been cut so tragically short. He’d courted some of Hollywood’s most beautiful starlets, and the rumors had tied him to some men as well. Sure, he was pretty much squaresville now, compared to Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, Robert Pattinson, and the modern breed of boy candy, but legends never die.
“James.” Royce spat the name as if it were a slimy bug that had flown into his mouth. “The no-talent hack didn’t do nothing right but die young.”
“A tad jealous, are we?” Bone had known some kids in the high school drama club, and the ones that weren’t gay had been insufferably vain. But competing for attention with a dead person seemed like overkill even for a drama queen.
“You don’t get it,” he said. “You’re just like all the rest.”
“Thanks for making me feel special.”
He ruffled his hair and thrust his hips forward. “Come on, Dollface. You been dead how long now?”
“A year and nine months, give or take a few centuries.”
“And you figure I’m dead, too.”
“You’re in Darkmeet, aren’t you?”
“I can’t be dead, because I was never born.”
“Excuse me?” She wasn’t sure about all these crazy afterlife rules. For all she knew, half the souls here were waiting for someone to call their number, like picking up an order at a Chinese restaurant.
“It should have been me.”
“What?”
“It should have been Royce Dean who lived in Hollywood, who got a star on the Walk of Fame. I should have been the showstopper and the scene stealer. I should have gotten the dough and the dames and the fast cars.” Royce’s face twisted in a mocking sneer. “But it all went to
him
.”
Royce spun, hurling a fist at the monument beside him. As the punch cracked against faux marble, Bone cringed, momentarily forgetting that Royce was unborn and couldn’t feel pain.
“Hey, those are the breaks,” Bone said.
He turned away. His shoulders shuddered.
Christ. Is he… he’s CRYING.
He suddenly became much more irresistible. She drew closer, hating herself. But a
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