Fade To Black. Heather Graham
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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