Читать книгу: «Fade To Black»

Prologue

Comic Con, Los Angeles

Blood-bone stepped out onto the show floor, his massive black cape sweeping around him, his supercharged sword lighting up the space around him in all colors of the rainbow. The black-masked and black-suited villain was from the new cable show Wolfson, which was topping ratings charts across the nation.

The character of Lars Wolfson, the hero of the show, had made several appearances that day as well, some costumes better than others.

But just as they liked to say women love bad boys, people of both sexes and all ages seemed to really love a good villain.

Young men and women, children, old men and old women clapped and all but swooned and rushed over to him. Blood-bone was the most popular new villain to grace the pages of comic books since the beginning of the written-and-drawn comic world.

He suddenly cried out, “Those who oppose me—pay! They pay the ultimate price.”

The crowd around the actor—or would-be actor, dressed up for Comic Con—grew substantially, people everywhere snapping photos.

“We bow to you, Blood-bone!” the crowd called out in turn.

“Jerk,” Cara Barton declared beneath her breath.

“He’s just playing, creating a good show,” Marnie Davante said.

“Lord, who are you? Pollyanna? Mary Poppins?” Cara asked her, letting out a long sigh.

“He’s just playing. Let him entertain. Relax. Try to have fun,” Marnie said, offering Cara her beautiful and natural smile.

Marnie. She was the type who would make the best of it.

Cara wished that she could. But it was dismal.

No. It was beyond dismal. Continuing to plug a show that had been off the air for ages, just because she had no other options.

And still, sitting at their booth, Cara smiled as graciously as she could. It was a smile that she’d practiced over the years, yet still felt plastered into place.

“How’s this?” she asked Marnie.

“Grim, but it will do,” her friend said, laughing.

Grim. Yes.

However, Cara kept smiling.

* * *

It was amazing; it was an unbelievable thrill. He was able to watch as if he were a fly on the wall, as if he were at a screening, seeing it all unfold. He knew the angles from which the cameras would be rolling; he could just see it all.

And he was the puppeteer. He was the producer, the director...

Everything all rolled into one.

He could already picture the blood.

Cold-blooded Comic Con? He needed a better title...

Act 1, Scene 1...

Cameras rolling.

Action!

* * *

The damned wannabe actor in the Blood-bone costume was really becoming annoying.

The few people who had been coming toward Cara Barton and the old Dark Harbor cast were now rushing off to see Blood-bone.

It was a comic-book convention, Cara reminded herself. And she knew how a comic con went.

Monsters roamed the floor in costumes that rated between the ridiculous and the divine. Superheroes in stretchy, skimpy attire were just as plentiful—some looking quite good, and some who obviously owned no mirrors. Booths sold T-shirts, toy weapons, jewelry, corsets, steampunk clothing and other items, makeup, art and just about anything that might relate to the comic world in any way.

The fans loved connecting with their favorite comics and movies and TV series. Writers’ row offered comics, graphic novels and novels of all kinds.

Artists’ row offered some fantastic pieces, from those who had long been in the business to those who were just starting out.

And then there was Actors’ Row.

The place where used-up B-list stars came to die.

Well, as far as Cara was concerned, it really was a kind of death—it was where one came to pray to sell enough twenty-dollar-a-shot autographed pictures to pay the rent for the month. Maybe that train of thought was a little melodramatic. The show was in syndication, and they all made residual money, but it did not provide for the lifestyle that many a popular actor had become accustomed to, so, in a sense, it was about a particular kind of survival.

But that was all going to hell. They’d been just about to get some fans—and then Blood-bone came out of the woodwork, swinging his great cape and his laser sword. If only he weren’t out there—probably paid a fortune by the convention organizers to give the attendees a bit of a thrill for free.

Oh, the bastard! She didn’t even know who was behind the mask. Blood-bone wasn’t even always portrayed by the same actor. And at this freak show, anyone could dress up. There were actually dozens of Blood-bones roaming the convention room floor; it was by far the most popular costume of the year. Hell, she could put on the damned costume and lift shoes and play Blood-bone. In fact, if they’d let her, she would. That could mean some big bucks again!

But this Blood-bone was evidently committed to pretending to be the real thing. He postured and postulated. Everyone ran up to him, waving autograph books, begging him to pose for selfies with them.

It made her sad.

Yes, sad for herself and for many others.

Just one booth down, the great-great-great—oh, so many greats—grandson of a German shepherd of tremendous TV fame was letting out a sad little yelp now and then.

There was a leak in the ceiling. It happened to be right above Actors’ Row. The aging star of a long-ago weekly Western TV series was valiantly trying to save his photos from the dirty droplets that fell now and then.

It was heartbreaking to see the poor pup and the faded star reduced to this. And now, with that wretched Blood-bone figure running around, for the most part the actors were being left alone.

Ignored.

At least the dog didn’t know that he was a has-been.

Only every now and then someone would pause and look and remember them. After all, Dark Harbor had been an extremely popular show in its day.

Cara had actually sold a few pictures—mainly thanks to the rest of the cast, especially Marnie Davante. Just a few more and rent for another month in West Hollywood—where she could still hope for the guest spot on a show now and then—was guaranteed.

She looked down the table. There was Jeremy Highsmith. Her TV husband. All those years.

And, now, go figure!

Maybe it was all bearable.

Along with the stupid Blood-bone guy, it didn’t help that they’d happened to draw the booth next to Malcolm Dangerfield, the new superhero of cable television.

Malcolm was not dying in any way.

Malcolm was charging a hundred dollars a shot for pictures taken on a cell phone.

People were paying it.

That made Cara’s position very hard—well, in her mind. Marnie didn’t care; she was chatting with their onetime castmates: Jeremy Highsmith, Roberta Alan and Grayson Adair.

The lines to pay a hundred dollars for a selfie with Malcolm were deep. And now, on top of that, Blood-bone was right in front of them, drawing any possible customers away. Cara didn’t think that Blood-bone would be there long, though. She could see that Malcolm Dangerfield was gone, that his publicist was managing his line. He had probably gone to complain to the comic con management about the Blood-bone guy in full costume who was messing with his line.

“Oh, my God!” someone screamed. Cara waited for the screamer to call out Malcolm Dangerfield’s name. Or to go running across the floor, amazed that they’d seen the “real” Blood-bone.

But the screaming fan wasn’t coming for Malcolm or Blood-bone.

“It’s Madam Zeta!”

Cara smiled. A real smile.

She was not Madam Zeta.

Nope!

But she was with Madam Zeta.

People might not be coming for her, but at least they were coming toward her little group.

Madam Zeta had been played by Marnie Davante.

And Marnie was seated next to Cara—on her right side at the booth.

Marnie smiled, and her smiles were always real. She was ready to greet a fan. She was a good kid.

A really good kid, Cara knew. Marnie hadn’t wanted to be here; she hated doing comic cons. She didn’t say as much to Cara because she was a nice person. She had agreed to come along because she knew that signing pictures was how her old costars—Cara, Jeremy, Roberta and Grayson—survived.

None of them had gone on to find work on another series.

But Marnie had moved on. Marnie had kept acting. Cara had kept waiting for a new TV series or, at the least, a good supporting role in a movie.

Marnie had gone back to theater, which she loved. Theater didn’t always pay well in LA, but Marnie had also caught the occasional commercial or modeling gig. Like everyone else, she went to dozens of auditions for roles, but she seemed to accept that easily and kind of kept on ticking—just like the Energizer Bunny.

Marnie hadn’t cared if Hollywood was calling—or if she was cast in a road show, just as long as she was working and she fulfilled her professional obligations. She had done okay, maybe not as a multimillion-dollar-earning star, but as a working actress. She was even about to open her own theater, which would be named for her dad—The Peter Davante Theater for Young Artists.

Fancy name for a kids’ theater, but hey, to Marnie, it was living the dream. Personally, Cara thought that working with young people—children—was akin to water torture. But Marnie loved theater and she loved kids, so...go figure. For her, it worked.

But Cara felt that Marnie also thought that the conventions were where washed-up stars came to die. Metaphorically, at least. There were, of course, those few—like Malcolm Dangerfield—who were at the top of the game, making enough in a few hours to pay Cara’s rent for the next year.

And then there was Marnie.

She was here—simply smiling through the torture of waiting for fans—out of friendship.

To be fair to herself, Marnie had been young when their show had been canceled—barely twenty-four. And Cara had been...

Well, hell. Not twenty-four.

The cancellation of their show—Dark Harbor, the story of a town inhabited by vampires and other strange supernatural beings—had been a true death knell for her career.

* * *

It was playing out beautifully, as if it had all been rehearsed. Here, Actors’ Row, the lineup...a dog, an old dude from some mostly forgotten weekly flick...and then...

Yes, them. The cast from Dark Harbor.

And it was coming closer and closer...

He could feel it.

He didn’t know exactly when, and he hadn’t known that he would feel this...exhilarated!

But it was alive, kinetic...wired! With anticipation.

Yes, it was coming...

Soon. So soon. He could almost taste it on the air.

* * *

For Cara, there hadn’t been a lot of great offers to follow the lamented demise of Dark Harbor. A few little bits, guest star gigs, here and there. Her agent tried her best.

But when no decent acting offers were forthcoming, there were always conventions. And there had been talk—just a rumor so far—that there might be a Dark Harbor reunion show. A producer had apparently been a huge fan and now wanted to bring them back.

So far, though, none of the core actors had been approached. Or so they all claimed.

It was still just speculation. And she didn’t dare believe the rumor—it was too painful. But then again, she had seen a tall guy with a superhero T-shirt under his blazer walking around, watching them all. Someone had said he was Vince Carlton, a cable show producer and director.

The money from a reboot might not be huge. Still, Cara’s agent had mentioned a call that suggested such a thing might be possible—if so, was she willing?

Of course!

Anything would be better than eight-by-ten-picture money.

But it would all be too depressing to believe that it might happen—and then have their hopes dashed on the rocks of Hollywood capriciousness.

For now, fan conventions and picture sales were important.

Thankfully—for Cara and the rest of the cast—there was Marnie. She was like the best kid in the family, the one who looked after and took care of her siblings. She would always make the group complete and show up when needed, helping them all survive the torment of comic cons.

There had been five main players in the series. Cara had been the matriarch of the supernatural family, and still, she’d admit, was the least of the five characters.

But Marnie’s role—that of Madam Zeta—had become beloved, and her character was now a classic. Therefore Marnie was the most important person in their group.

And sometimes they weren’t invited—or offered any kind of prime slots—unless Marnie agreed she would be with them.

The show had ended five years ago.

Their days in the sun seemed to be over.

Sometimes, Cara wasn’t sure if she was more bitter toward the no-name Blood-bones of the world, the Malcolm Dangerfields—with their hundred dollars a pop for a photo—or Marnie, who would always just take her damned lemons and make lemonade.

No! Cara thought. Once again, she wasn’t being fair to herself.

Not fair. She loved Marnie. The woman couldn’t help being gracious and elegant and kind. She was blessed with a sweeping headful of burnished brown hair and bright blue-green eyes, legs that were certainly what men considered to be wickedly long and a patrician face with perfect features. She was also quick to smile, quick to sympathize and ready to help out. It was her presence here that had allowed them to sell many pictures. Madam Zeta had been the darling of the show. And Cara knew that while she loved Marnie, she was envious, as well. None of Marnie’s fault—she was simply still young, and Cara was not.

She realized she was staring at Marnie, who looked back at her curiously.

“I’m not a bad person, am I?” Cara asked her.

“Of course not! You can be a bit Hollywood jaded, but hey, we’re in Hollywood. That’s to be expected,” Marnie assured her with a shrug and a grin.

“Madam Zeta, Madam Zeta, Madam Zeta!” Someone was screaming again, racing up to the Dark Harbor booth.

It was a man, tall, gangly and blond and fairly good-looking; when he called out, a few other people turned away from the Blood-bone character on the floor and paid attention to the little group of five in the Dark Harbor booth.

“Oh, cool! It’s the whole cast!” someone else cried.

And suddenly, Comic Con was good. People had heard. Lots of people were looking at the booth with real interest.

Fans began to come up, and before Cara knew it, they were all signing the best cast picture they had. It featured Marnie as Madam Scarlet Zeta, the family psychic with superhuman strength, who also earned them what they needed to keep up their decaying mansion and most often ferreted out the deadly creatures in Dark Harbor. On each side of Marnie, the rest of the cast was gathered: Roberta Alan as Marnie’s older sister, Sonia Zeta, the family member granted the power of cloaking those around her; Grayson Adair playing Nathan Zeta, brother of Scarlet and Sonia, the family member gifted with ability to freeze vampires; Jeremy Highsmith as Theodore, patriarch of the family and the bearer of the legacy that allowed the family to fight off evil and protect the town.

Also, of course, there was Cara herself, as Elizabeth, the dignified and elegant matriarch, caring mother, ever aware that her children met far too much danger, and ever ready to give her life for theirs.

They had that one photo that could be pretty damned hot—that family photo. When it was signed by all of them, it sometimes became a collectible item—sold on internet auction sites to overseas fans for more than they ever got for it. That photo often kept a roof over Cara’s head. It was their priciest at fifty dollars, whether they were all in attendance at an event or not. It was up to the buyer to hunt down the rest of the cast if they wanted the complete set of signatures.

And they were all there that day. Now the ball was rolling!

They could sell hundreds.

Naturally, it was that one that young, tall and good-looking man wanted, except that he also wanted a few solos of Marnie—though none of the others. She always chatted and tried to get people to buy more, but it didn’t even matter that they weren’t buying more.

The young man had started an influx of people. They were buying the cast photo.

“Madam Zeta! Mrs. Elizabeth—all of you! Amazing,” the young man said.

“Marnie Davante,” Marnie said, smiling and taking the young man’s hand. “And you’re...?”

Who cares? Cara wondered. Just sell him a picture.

“David Neal,” the young man said. “We actually have an appointment next week.”

“Oh?”

“Stage managing position,” he replied.

“Oh, wonderful!” she said enthusiastically.

“Marnie does love kids,” Cara put in.

Jeremy Highsmith—on Marnie’s other side—cleared his throat. “I think we have a bit of a line forming.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like—” Marnie began.

“The cast picture,” David Neal said.

* * *

So close... So close... He could stand there and smile, anticipate and nearly smell and feel and taste it in the air...

Blood...

Death...

The drama and horror were almost unbearable.

* * *

Cara was in heaven. So many people.

They were signing the “family” photo when the Blood-bone character came swinging his way toward their booth, cape flying behind him, mask in place and sword streaking colors through the air.

He wielded the sword well, as if he’d had training in swordplay. Well, many actors had.

He wielded it straight to the booth.

He pushed past some of the fans, and they all laughed, of course. It looked like it was a bit of impromptu theater.

Blood-bone pointed at Marnie. She rose from her chair and pointed at him, playing along.

“Be gone, Blood-bone. You may play your evil games in your show, but you may not come back to threaten ours!”

Blood-bone swaggered toward Marnie, his lighted sword swirling almost hypnotically.

“You won’t get past me!” Marnie told him.

He kept coming. So many people were watching!

Cara leaped up by Marnie. She set her arm around the woman’s shoulders.

“Don’t you dare come for my precious daughter!” she cried.

There was no way that she wasn’t getting some attention and play out of this. Who knew who might be out there? Another job could be on the line. That producer could see how dedicated they were.

“I know his every evil thought! He will never get by us!” Marnie cried. She was grinning, and that smile of hers seemed to draw an even larger crowd. Yes, it was all play.

All fun.

And Cara had to get in on it, big-time.

“Indeed, we will smite you. I warn you again—touch my daughter, you evil thing, and we will see that you rot in hell forever!”

The Blood-bone character looked at her. She could have sworn that beneath the black mask, the man smiled.

He raised his sword...

Cara pushed past Marnie.

“Don’t you dare!”

But his sword was poised.

And it came down. Again and again.

Cara really didn’t know what hit her. At first, there was nothing, and then there was an incredible burst of pain. The kind of pain that brought brilliant stars bursting before her eyes, that brought a sea of darkness, black sweeping away the tiny bursts of light...

She gasped.

She felt something trickling on her.

Felt herself falling...

She heard Marnie scream, felt Marnie’s arms go around her.

Theater, it was all theater, all show...

But it wasn’t.

Blood-bone was gone, swooping his way back into the crowd.

Cara was bleeding; her grasp on Marnie was weakening.

“No, no, no, stay with me, Cara. I love you, my friend, stay with me,” Marnie ordered.

But Cara knew that she could not.

Comic Con. It was a comic convention.

And Cara had just never imagined that—for her, at least—she could be so very right.

That it could be, quite literally, where old stars came to die!