Keeper of the Moon - By Harley Jane Kozak Page 0,74

called?

She reached Guard Gate #3, the Melrose entrance. She could try talking her way in, but she knew she would be turned down, that any cover story would prompt corroborating phone calls, and the whole thing would end badly.

She looked at the sky, the clouds racing by, a hawk circling high above, and she pictured herself in a bungalow inside Metropole Studios, one of the old flat one-story buildings that had been built in the 1940s. She knew exactly how they looked from auditions, five in the past six months, and also from a film job she’d gotten once as a teenager. Only a day’s work, but she’d memorized the whole place, the tiny streets, the big soundstages. Everything.

For teleporting, that was what mattered: the ability to picture the destination.

She got as close as possible to the wall around the studio, minimizing the distance she would have to travel to conserve her energy. She closed her eyes, loosened her shoulders, relaxed the tension in her face, took five deep breaths and let herself dissolve as she pictured just where she wanted to be.

And then she was there.

Chapter 13

Metropole was bustling with activity. Sailor knew, from having checked the trades on line that morning, that two features were currently shooting there, along with another three TV shows.

Two hefty guys moved a wall-sized flat on wheels across a cobblestone street, and she asked them if they knew where Knock My Socks Off was shooting. One said, “Never heard of it,” which was probably a lie, but whatever. A block later she asked a Goth-type girl she took for an actress or maybe a designer, who said, “Follow me. I’m headed that way.” The Goth girl turned out to be in the accounting department. Sailor considered asking her about Charlotte Messenger, but the chance of the film star being friends with someone in accounting were so remote as to be nonexistent. The Goth pointed to a building marked 51 and then peeled off to a bungalow.

“And...action!”

Sailor heard the words but couldn’t see their source because they were amplified. She stopped so as not to inadvertently walk into a shot.

A few minutes later she heard “And...cut” and resumed walking, circling Building 51 to find the film crew in an alley they’d created behind the huge soundstage.

She’d done her research, so she knew what Giancarlo Ferro looked like. And she’d grown up around movie sets, so she understood the working/not working phenomenon. A movie crew was a huge group, everyone doing different jobs. Someone’s job was to maximize the number of people working at the same time, so that while a shot was being set up by the camera department, actors were in Makeup and Hair, and sets were being constructed for an upcoming scene. Still, at any point there were people who weren’t working. And when someone wasn’t working, they were killing time, which meant they welcomed diversions.

Giancarlo Ferro wasn’t working; he was waiting. It was now or never.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ferro...Giancarlo,” Sailor said, walking right up to him. “My name is Sailor Gryffald. Can I talk to you for just a minute? It’s about Charlotte Messenger.”

It was a risky approach, and the minute the words were out of her mouth she realized how crazy they sounded, how unprepared for this she was. Stupid, stupid.

Giancarlo’s face clouded over. “Who are you? What are you doing on my set?”

“I’m not a journalist or anything.”

“What are you, then?”

“I’m—” She could hardly tell him she was a Keeper; Giancarlo was entirely mortal and unaware he’d been dating an Elven. Saying she was an actress was also not an option. Unemployed actors were Hollywood’s Untouchables. “I have information you might be interested in.” She took off her sunglasses.

He looked at her eyes and blanched. “What’s wrong with you? What are you, some kind of freak?”

“I have a mild version of the illness that killed Charlotte.”

“Get away from me.” He backed away from her, looking around wildly. “Get her away from me! I can’t get sick! I have a film to finish!”

Immediately, three or four people converged on Sailor, crew people with clipboards and headsets, and demonstrating varying degrees of belligerence, either real or for the benefit of their boss. She put up her hands. “All right, all right. I’m not contagious, and I’m not here to make him sick or upset him, I just want to—”

“What’s your name? How did you get on the lot?” a man asked, his voice shrill, and another one yelled, “Security! What the