like Moose-joke intimate, but actually intimate—with Janus.
“Wow, that’s—” Steven stopped short, straightening as someone approached behind me. “Hello, sir.”
Sir? I wondered, turning to find—ugh, Taggert. Again.
“You don’t have to call me sir,” Taggert said with that same easy, sleazy smile, but something in his manner suggested that maybe he reveled in being called sir. More than a little, even. “How’s it going, Steven? I hear you’ve got some script problems on your new project.”
“It’s in rewrites,” Clayton admitted a little stiffly. “You know me, I stay out of all that.” He smiled faintly. “They just pay me to read it and come up with the requisite emotion to go along.”
“Oh, come on now,” Taggert said, steering carefully around me to land a hand on Steven’s shoulder. “They pay you for more than that—your pretty face and your manly manner, for example.” Taggert clenched a fist and made a stiff grimace. “You’re one of the only real rugged guys in this generation, you know. We’re having to import that kind of talent from England and Australia nowadays by the bucketload.”
I thought about that for a second. Hemsworth, Hiddleston, Cumberbatch—hey, maybe he was right. At least we still had Chris Evans and Chris Pratt. Wait, how many Chris’s did this town have, anyway?
“Well, thank you, sir,” Clayton said, all mannerly and gentlemanly and—uh, yeah, manly, too. He reminded me of one of those old-timey cowboys from the westerns, like a better-looking John Wayne with his chivalry and manners and stuff.
“That project,” Taggert said, acting like he was thinking it over, trying to recall, but proving that he wasn’t going to be winning any awards for his performance, “it’s like Die Hard in a National Park, right? You’re the ranger from Yogi Berra?”
“Uh, Yogi Berra was a baseball great,” Clayton said with a disarming smile, “but yeah, my character is a park ranger. He’s an outdoorsman, and—”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Taggert said, making a frame out of his hands and putting Clayton in the middle of it. “All-American guy and whatnot. Sounds like a real stretch for you, really pushing your craft.” He grinned, and I beat back my desire to practice amateur dentistry again.
Another round of screams came from behind Steven, out the glass doors on the deck, somewhere below where I saw a pool glimmering. “What’s that?” Taggert asked as we all turned. “You think the president snuck back in just to tell someone else off?”
“Well, he’s not doing it to me, so I’m guessing not,” I said, feeling slightly annoyed. Steven gave me a puzzled look. Another scream sounded in the silence, more urgently this time, and desperately familiar—
Klementina .
“Kitten,” Taggart whispered, but I was already flying into motion.
16.
Kat
Kat certainly didn’t intend to scream, but it came stumbling out from between her lips anyway, after the others had gone through a round of it. Seeing a man walk through a wall tended to do that, ghostly and incorporeal, like he was smoke passing through solid surfaces.
“Kat Forrest,” the red-haired demon of a man said in a harsh, grating voice. His beard and hair were so tangled, so … gross. “I told you I was coming for you.”
That wasn’t what had prompted the scream, though; no, it was him sticking his hand right through Bree Lancer’s chest, then pulling it out, taking what looked like her heart with it—that was what caused the scream from Kat.
Others followed, of course, and then the inevitable flight from the scene, with more screams, more cries, more gasps, shouts of “OHMIGOD!” and the like. Kat didn’t move, standing still and staring right into the eyes of the red menace as Bree Lancer’s corpse splashed into the pool and sank. The red-haired man stood there, hand extended over the water, and let the drops of crimson fall, disappearing into the churning
“Wow, that’s—” Steven stopped short, straightening as someone approached behind me. “Hello, sir.”
Sir? I wondered, turning to find—ugh, Taggert. Again.
“You don’t have to call me sir,” Taggert said with that same easy, sleazy smile, but something in his manner suggested that maybe he reveled in being called sir. More than a little, even. “How’s it going, Steven? I hear you’ve got some script problems on your new project.”
“It’s in rewrites,” Clayton admitted a little stiffly. “You know me, I stay out of all that.” He smiled faintly. “They just pay me to read it and come up with the requisite emotion to go along.”
“Oh, come on now,” Taggert said, steering carefully around me to land a hand on Steven’s shoulder. “They pay you for more than that—your pretty face and your manly manner, for example.” Taggert clenched a fist and made a stiff grimace. “You’re one of the only real rugged guys in this generation, you know. We’re having to import that kind of talent from England and Australia nowadays by the bucketload.”
I thought about that for a second. Hemsworth, Hiddleston, Cumberbatch—hey, maybe he was right. At least we still had Chris Evans and Chris Pratt. Wait, how many Chris’s did this town have, anyway?
“Well, thank you, sir,” Clayton said, all mannerly and gentlemanly and—uh, yeah, manly, too. He reminded me of one of those old-timey cowboys from the westerns, like a better-looking John Wayne with his chivalry and manners and stuff.
“That project,” Taggert said, acting like he was thinking it over, trying to recall, but proving that he wasn’t going to be winning any awards for his performance, “it’s like Die Hard in a National Park, right? You’re the ranger from Yogi Berra?”
“Uh, Yogi Berra was a baseball great,” Clayton said with a disarming smile, “but yeah, my character is a park ranger. He’s an outdoorsman, and—”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Taggert said, making a frame out of his hands and putting Clayton in the middle of it. “All-American guy and whatnot. Sounds like a real stretch for you, really pushing your craft.” He grinned, and I beat back my desire to practice amateur dentistry again.
Another round of screams came from behind Steven, out the glass doors on the deck, somewhere below where I saw a pool glimmering. “What’s that?” Taggert asked as we all turned. “You think the president snuck back in just to tell someone else off?”
“Well, he’s not doing it to me, so I’m guessing not,” I said, feeling slightly annoyed. Steven gave me a puzzled look. Another scream sounded in the silence, more urgently this time, and desperately familiar—
Klementina .
“Kitten,” Taggart whispered, but I was already flying into motion.
16.
Kat
Kat certainly didn’t intend to scream, but it came stumbling out from between her lips anyway, after the others had gone through a round of it. Seeing a man walk through a wall tended to do that, ghostly and incorporeal, like he was smoke passing through solid surfaces.
“Kat Forrest,” the red-haired demon of a man said in a harsh, grating voice. His beard and hair were so tangled, so … gross. “I told you I was coming for you.”
That wasn’t what had prompted the scream, though; no, it was him sticking his hand right through Bree Lancer’s chest, then pulling it out, taking what looked like her heart with it—that was what caused the scream from Kat.
Others followed, of course, and then the inevitable flight from the scene, with more screams, more cries, more gasps, shouts of “OHMIGOD!” and the like. Kat didn’t move, standing still and staring right into the eyes of the red menace as Bree Lancer’s corpse splashed into the pool and sank. The red-haired man stood there, hand extended over the water, and let the drops of crimson fall, disappearing into the churning
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