Hollyweird (8 page)

ALY

“Are we in Chalmun's Cantina?” I whispered to Jameson as a drool-worthy hunk, who could've stepped out of any Abercrombie ad except for the wolf's tail wagging from the back of his jeans, walked by. There was a definite resemblance to the
Star Wars
bar, but instead of being populated by Bith, Aqualish, and Ithorians, this bar had Lycanthropes, Piskies, and Bean Shìth.

“No.” Jameson chuckled. “This”—he pointed to a blue neon sign hanging on the wall—“is
Get Your Freak On.”

I gave him a “you're not serious” look.

Grinning, he said, “It's apropos, don't you think? They can be their true selves here.”

“I'll say,” Desi said, a bit breathless. “I think I've died and gone to heaven.”

Trapped somewhere between disbelief and the proof is in the (hullo, that girl has actual horns) pu
tt
ing, not pudding, I'd say Jameson had
put
more than enough proof before me. Still … “This really isn't a movie set or some elaborate Hollywood joke?” I asked, giving one last shot at not having my world spun on its axis.

Jameson gave me a sympathetic smile and squeezed my hand. “No and no. I know it's a lot to take in, but you said you had to see to believe.”

“And I do,” I said with a sigh, no longer able to deny the facts before me. Expecting Des to huzzah over my admission, I turned to find her oblivious to us, staring at every
thing
—no, every
one
—with wide-eyed wonder like a googly-eyed kid looking at an ocean of toys in New York's FAO Schwarz. “Des, don't stare,” I hissed, not caring to have any sort of confrontation should someone take offense.

“I know it's hard,” Jameson agreed, “but it's rude, and here you're the freak.”

Des's gaze jerked to him. “I am,” she said in awe, “aren't I?”

An amused Jameson led us to a quiet corner booth where we could be a little more surreptitious in our creature watching. (And to think I'd enjoyed people-watching in airports!)

As soon as we sat down, a buxom redhead with waist-length hair, creamy buttermilk skin, and sage eyes strutted over to our table in thigh-high pirate boots, skin-tight jeans, and a billowy black peasant top. Envious of how well she wore the look, I gave her an admiring smile. Her full burgundy lips parted in an answering smile and revealed two fangs. My insides jolted, but I tried to still any outward reaction.

“What can I get you?” she asked, in as cheery a tone as any IHOP waitress.

“Pepsi, please,” I answered, not daring to look at Desi.

“What do you recommend?” My BFF asked all nonchalant, as if we were regulars at this—what would you call this place?—paranormal pub.

“Depends on what you're into, sugar.” The waitress pointed to Des's tee. “We've definitely ‘got blood,' plus beer and brain blends. All three are on tap.”

I bit my tongue, hard, to curb my gag reflex.

“Hmmm,” Des said, as if the choices were too many and too delectable for her to decide.

“If you want to try something new,” Jameson said, “I recommend the sheemeala.”

Des shrugged a shoulder. “Why not?”

Shleigh—that's what her nametag said—gave Jameson a saucy wink. “And for you, feather?”

Jameson cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

“Coffee. Black, please. And two of your double-stack burgers.”

“Feather?” I asked, once Shleigh had walked out of earshot.

Des snickered. “Bet he's a lightweight. Except when it comes to eating.”

Looking down, Jameson traced the scars in the wood tabletop. “Something like that.”

“So what's sheemeala?” Des asked.

Jameson lifted his head and I could swear the points of his ears had pinkened.

“A honeyed drink,” he answered. “Similar to mead, but made by fairies.”

“No way!” Des said, clearly delighted. “So it's got a little extra somethin' somethin' in it?”

Jameson smiled. “Only a little. It's more about the rich taste.”

As we waited for our order, I tried to memorize details since pictures were a no-no. Freaks, as it was affectionately called, had a futuristic-disco fusion look with its glass, LED-lit bar, cube seats, and dance floor. The walls had bubble lights of color that pulsed to the dance music and cast a glow on all the patrons. By itself, the bar rocked for its hip décor, but watching a witch and a werewolf get down to some Timberlake made it one-of-a-kind. A couple times I gave my thigh a hard pinch under the table just to make sure I hadn't slipped into some trippy dreamworld.

I ended up taking a sip of Des's drink after she dubbed it “honey on crack.” She was right. If I'd thought Cristal tasted like starlight, this tasted like a sun-warmed field of wildflowers kissed by magic.

“I can't believe things like this”—I tapped Des's glass—“and people like them”—I nodded toward the crowd—“have always existed without my knowing. Without most the world knowing.”

“I told you—”

Aiming a stink-eye at Des, I dared her to finish that sentence.

She broke off, took a sip of her drink, and then said, “Even for me, it's a shock. Believing and knowing are totally different. It makes me wonder how much unseen there really is.”

“A lot,” Jameson said, cupping his warm mug with both hands. “Most people just don't look deep enough.”

“And it's okay that we know about … this?” I waved my hands to indicate all of Freaks.

“It's not like they're gonna kill us, Al,” Des said, then seemed to think twice and look to Jameson for confirmation. “Are they? Can they tell we're human? We don't look like the only ones here.”

“Whoa,” Jameson said, holding up his hand. “No one is killing anyone. Most of the PNs recognize you as humans and, no, you're not the only ones here.”

“PNs?” I asked.

“Preternaturals,” he said. “And yes, it's okay you know. Lots of people do. Obviously it's not global knowledge, but that's because both sides prefer it that way. Most humans write off the supernatural because it scares them, so they rationalize it away.”

“I certainly did,” I said, remembering all the excuses I'd made up for Dakota's red eyes. For a split second I felt foolish, but then I realized there was no way in hell I could've imagined he was Satan's son, let alone that there was an entire paranormal underworld.

“Well, of course you didn't believe your own eyes,” Jameson said as he swirled a fry in ketchup. “Who would?”

“I still can't believe you didn't tell me when you saw that,” Des pouted.

“I can. She had no reason to suspect all this.” Jameson defended me around a mouthful of burger. “Most PNs keep a tight rein on things to protect themselves from the zealots who'd come after them for being different.”

Des nodded gravely. “If this became common knowledge, it would become an Us vs. Them world.”

“Unfortunately that's probably true,” Jameson said. “So we keep things on the DL and coexist with a little magic and smoke and mirrors.”

“That's right,” Des said. “You told us earlier that a lot of celebs are PNs.”

“What better place for them?” he asked with a little shrug. “Hollywood is all about illusion and glamour.”

“Tell us who. No!” Des swiped away her suggestion. “I want to guess. There's just some people who've stood out, like that old guy who hosts the New Year's Eve show with Seacrest. What's his name?”

“Dick Clark,” I said, remembering how my dad had been upset when the
American Bandstand
legend passed the baton to Ryan.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “That dude
never
,
ever
seemed to age before his stroke. You can't look that good for eons unless you're a vampire, am I right?”

“You're right,” Jameson said. “But he didn't have a stroke. He was attacked by a ghoul.”

“Whoa!” Desi hooted before giving a new name. “Robin Williams.”

Jameson snorted. “Do you need to ask? Have you seen how hairy that dude is? Forget a five o'clock shadow. He's got a three, six, nine, and twelve o'clock shadow. If he didn't shave round the clock the whole world would know he's a were.”

Laughing, I couldn't help but get caught up in the game. “Okay, okay. You cannot tell me Joan Rivers is normal, and I don't buy that all of this”—I waved my fingers around my face—“is due to plastic surgery.”

“No,” Jameson said with a smirk. “She's a hag in more ways than one.”

“Oh!” Des gasped. “What about Lindsay Lohan? There's something hinky there. PN or human?”

“PN,” Jameson said. “But a hard one to guess.”

“Tell!” I demanded, feeling like Perez Hilton must when he gets delish dish.

Jameson smiled at my impatience. “She's a succubus,” he said, then paused over Des's second gasp. “A soul-sucking demon,” he explained for my neophyte benefit, “who depletes anyone she's in a sexual relationship with so she can remain beautiful. When her partner is a husk of their former self, she finds new prey.”

“Shazam,” Des muttered. “That's just harsh.”

“There are worse,” Jameson groused. “Don't even get me started on that stupid siren, Paris Hilton.”

“What about Brit?” I asked. “She's been all over the map, psyche-wise and stardom-wise.”

“Yeah.” Jameson's mood took a noticeable nosedive at my question and he rubbed his chin, a cue I'd learned meant he felt uncomfortable. “She's not a PN.” His grave gaze moved between Des and I. “And she was before my time.”

“You mean … ” My scalp prickled with dreaded understanding.

“Dakota considers Britney Spears one of his greatest successes.”

“Damn,” Desi whispered softly. “That's just sad.”

“He did that to her?” I asked unnecessarily, horror razoring my tone. “He took her from a sweet Mousketeer to a scandal-riddled, troubled mom?”

“Afraid so,” he answered, shaking his head. “But I think she's working hard to turn herself around. Maybe if I'd been here—”

Light-bulb moment! “That's why you work for someone you despise,” I said. “You're trying to stop him, aren't you?”

“As much as I can, but—”

“Al?” Desi said, and something about her tone made me snap my gaze away from Jameson. She had a funny look on her face, somewhere between suspicion and epiphany. Her eyes were locked on Jameson and he obviously saw something in her face, too, because he licked his lips and rocked his jaw back and forth as if waiting for a blow.

What had I missed?

“Des?”

“There's one question we haven't asked,” Desi said, never breaking her stare down.

Was she kidding? It seemed more like a trillion, quadrillion questions hadn't been asked. She wanted me to figure out just one.

“And that would be?” I prompted.

She slid me a brief look out of the corner of her eyes before turning her magnifying glass back on Jameson.

“Who,” she asked him in a firm but not accusatory tone, “or what, are
you
?”

Jameson

I'd expected that question, but it still punched me in the solar plexus.

“Well?” Des asked. “PN or human?”

“Er,” I hedged. “Both.”

Des and Aly looked at each other in confusion while I threw a fifty on the table. How could I answer their question when it went against the code? “Come on,” I said, mourning the half-eaten burger I left behind as we headed for the exit.

Outside, we walked a half a block down La Brea Avenue before I stopped in front of a tattoo shop called
Ink It Over
to speak to the girls. “I'd like to tell you, but—”

“Dude,” Des barked. “What're you afraid of? Obviously we're not prejudiced against PNs.”

“Yeah,” Aly said in a hurt tone. “Haven't we proven ourselves?”

“You have,” I rushed to assure them. “It's just … against the rules.”

“Rules?” Aly asked.

I rubbed my hands over my face before looking at them again. “I have a strict code of conduct I'm required to follow.”
And I can't screw up my one chance at getting back in good graces with the big guy
.

“And if you don't follow the rules, what happens?” Des asked. “Do you belong to some kind of magical mafia? Will your powers, whatever they are, get whacked?”

That wasn't too far off. “I'm sorry,” I said, kicking a rock across the sidewalk. “He'd totally—”

A burly biker with a beard and a crossbones do-rag walked out of the shop behind us with a Saran Wrapped arm just as Aly gasped, “It
is
the mafia.”

I nodded at the dude and gave a heh-heh laugh until he passed by. “No!” I said, horrified at her inadvertent comparison of my boss to Al Capone.

“Then are you part of a clan, a pack, a coven?” Des pushed.

“Stop,” I said in exasperation. “It's not like that.”
A little help here
,
I silently pleaded.

“Why so super-secret then?” Des asked. “You've had no problems telling us about weres, fangs, sirens, hags, and succubuses.”

“Succubi,” Aly corrected. “Not buses.”

“Succubi,” Des repeated, then asked me, “What makes you so special?”

Aly gave me a quizzical look. “Does everyone of your ilk keep themselves secret?”

“Ilk?
Ilk
?”
Des repeated, stepping onto the base of a lamppost and then hanging off it by one arm. “Who says that?”

“What?” Aly said in a haughty tone. “It works perfectly well in this context.”

“Whatev, word nerd.” Des hopped down and turned back to me. “So, how 'bout it? Is everyone of your
ilk
”—
she leaned on the word and gave Aly a cheesy grin—“required to keep a super-secret identity?”

“Yes, but—”

“But? But how are we supposed to trust you if we don't even know
what
you are?” Des asked.

“Clearly he's a good guy,” Aly said, and I felt grateful for her defense. “He wouldn't be trying to stop Dakota if he wasn't.”

“You can't know that,” Des argued. “He could have his own agenda. He's asked us to believe him and everything that he's shown us, but he's unwilling to reveal himself.” She crossed her arms over her chest and gave me an evil eye. “Seems awfully suspicious to me.”

“She's got a point.” Aly bit her lip.

“Rules are meant to be broken,” Des said.

“Oh, Des.” Aly gave a long-suffering sigh. “You're always wanting to break the rules. Even when it's unwarranted.”

“It's not unwarranted here. We need to know exactly what we're involved with.”

“Believe me,” I said, arms held wide as I tried desperately to re-steer this careening conversation. “I'd tell you everything, but—”

“You're being hypocritical,” Des accused me.

I felt caught in a freakin' tornado of feminine force. My head started to pound. “I … I … ” I stammered, not knowing if I'd snap under pressure and spill everything or run while I still could. Then I heard the haunting strains of a six-string guitar and Robert Plant singing about a lady and gold.

“Excuse me,” I said, stepping away and digging in my pocket for
the
phone. It was HIM. My hand trembled as I flipped it open and saw the little envelope icon indicating a text message. My gaze skittered to the girls, now whispering amongst themselves and staring at me, before pressing okay.

From: God
It's all good. U better tell them the truth.
CB: 777-777-7777
10:07 PM

Permission granted. Sagging in relief, I blew out ten pounds of tension and then sent up a silent thank you.

“You can quit scowling, Des.” I stepped forward with a happy grin. “I just got permission to tell you everything.”

She looked at the phone I held up in my hand.
“ ‘Stairway to Heaven'?”
she asked, in reference to my ringtone.

“Yeah, that's what I couldn't—”

“You're an aaaangel,” Aly said, and not with the reverence you'd expect. Her voice sounded somewhere between doubtful and distressed.

The ringtone sounded again and I absently pressed okay.

From: God
Maybe Zeppelin was a little obvs?
CB: 777-777-7777
10:09 PM

Great, just great.

I huffed out a frustrated breath and decided to get everything out in the open. “Yeah, I'm a fallen angel”—as their jaws dropped at the word “fallen” I rushed to finish my explanation—“but I'm trying to earn my wings back by messing with Dakota's plans. He's got something big and bad going down, and I have to find out what it is ASAP and put a stop to it without blowing my cover.”

“He doesn't know—” Des halted herself. “Stupid question. If he knew, he wouldn't have you working for him. Why can't he tell you're a
feather
but that vamp could?”

Damn smart girl, that Des.
“Vamps and weres can pretty much identify any PN because of their heightened sense of smell,” I told her. “Dakota doesn't have that ability, but he's got plenty of others.”

“Do you?” Des asked.

“I can hear better than most, but that's about it.”

Aly's face looked whitewashed. “But that means … if you're an angel … that means you're dead?”

Oh, hell
, I thought.
Her mother's passing had really hurt her. I didn't want to add to that. Yeah, technically I was the walking dead. But not like a vampire. When a human is bitten by a vampire, their sire brings them to the edge of darkness, a place where they teeter between the living and the expired. If medical help reaches the victim in time, they can be fully revived, but if they're left in that netherworld between breath and death, they turn into a vampire. Not quite dead, not quite alive. Angels, on the other hand, are people in good graces who've actually died, and now are working at the right hand of God.

As for me, specifically—well, “I'm in purgatory, until I hopefully earn my way back in,” I finally said. “I did pass away, but I'm not like a ghost. You can see me, hear me, feel me. I'm as real as you are, but … ” I grasped both Aly's hands in mine so she could feel my warmth, my living flesh. “I have no heartbeat.”

Her eyes crinkled in sorrow and disbelief. Sliding her hands from mine, she laid them on my chest, over my heart. For just a moment, I could swear on a stack of Bibles that I felt it thunder, heard it ba-boom.

“Why did you fall?”

I laid one hand over hers, my other hand still gripping my phone. As I looked into her eyes, the rest of the world dissolved away.

“I used to be a troublemaker—cocky, convincing, cute; just ask me, I would've told you—and like a lot of people our age, I thought I was invincible. I wasn't. When I died so young, I—”

“Are you really nineteen?” she blurted out. “Or more like one hundred nineteen?”

“I'm really nineteen,” I assured her. “I died about nine months ago in a hit-and-run accident. And I was pissed. Really freakin' pissed. Despite being a handful, I was let into heaven, but I didn't look at it as the gift it was. Instead, I tried to raise hell in heaven and promptly got my wings clipped, a makeover so no would recognize me, and my butt booted down here. It wasn't until I got assigned to Dakota that I understood what a real bad-ass was and I didn't want to be anything like that. I've been here just over six months, working undercover, paying penance.”

“I'd say you've been doing a good job,” she said. “You've protected us.”

“Thanks,” I said, touched by her words. “Let's hope
He
”—I pointed up with my phone—“agrees.”

“So, you don't really look like this?” she asked as she gently tugged her hands free and then playfully plucked at the spiky ends of my hair.

I smiled. “Close. My hair was a lot longer and a tad darker. My eyes were blue instead of green. And I had a scar through my eyebrow.” I pointed over my left eye. “But otherwise, this is pretty much me.”

“You're just different enough that you won't scare anyone you once knew?”

“I might give them pause, but—”

“But they'd rationalize away the similarities,” she finished.

“Right. And this way, I still feel like me.”

“So, is there like a whole extreme makeover department up there?” Des asked. “Cosmetic surgeons, dentists, beauticians … ”

“Not exactly,” I said with a laugh, turning my attention to her. I'd been so wrapped up in Aly I'd completely forgotten Des for a moment. I pointed my phone at her. “It's more presto change-o than that.”

“Gimme that,” Des said, yanking the cell out of my hand.

“Holy shit-ake mushrooms!” she cried out, even as she self-censored. “A Seraphone. This ain't no Verizon or T-Mobile model; you actually have a celestial cell.” She scrolled through my texts. “A direct line.” Her hands shook as she peered at my phone in beatific astonishment. “This is like Ellen Degeneres's old ‘Phone Call to God' skit my mom has shown me over and over again.” Her thumb hovered over the buttons. “Can I?”

My ringtone sounded again, startling Des into a yelp.

When she looked to me for permission, I nodded. She clicked okay on the message and a rapturous smile spread across her face. “
He
said:
Hello, Desdemona. Thank you for helping Jameson
.”

Desi hugged my Seraphone to her chest, but Aly's eyes were swimming with unshed tears.

“Aly?” I asked.

She swallowed several times, trying to regain composure, and when she couldn't, she walked away.

Catching up to her, I gently grabbed her arm and turned her to face me. “Your mom?”

She nodded and a lone tear streamed down her face. “It's been two years since I lost her. I've tried to imagine her in heaven, watching over me, but I … ” She grabbed my shirt front. “If you can be here, why can't she?”

“I'm here because I was stupid. She wasn't. She's up there.” I looked heavenward. “Where she belongs.”

Her gaze followed mine to the smog-shrouded ceiling of California. Not your most impressive view of heaven, or the best way to give a girl comfort. But then, despite a still, breezeless night, the pollution parted to reveal a black, diamond-encrusted sky. Aly gasped at the clear perfection.

“Watching over me?” she asked.

“Always,” I answered with complete certainty.

“Wow,” Des said. “God is truly cinematic.”

I chuckled and took my phone from her. “If he can't be dramatic, who can be?”

“True enough,” Aly said, with the first smile that I'd seen radiate throughout her entire being.

“I'm almost tempted to think you spiked my drink,” Des said with a tonsil-baring yawn. “There's a whole freakin' society we never knew about, Joan Rivers is a hag, you're a naughty angel, and the Lord almighty just texted me. By the way, he's the only one besides my mom who can get away with calling me Desd—that other name, so don't go getting any ideas. Man, I couldn't make this sh—stuff up if I tried.”

“No kidding,” Aly agreed. “It's all so … life altering. What do we do from here?”

What she should do and what I wanted her to do—totally different things. I wanted to take her in my arms. I wanted her to stay forever. I wanted her to be mine.

“I hate to say it,” I replied, “but you guys should cut your trip short and go home before Dakota can get to you or Missy.”

“No way,” Des scoffed. “You dump all this on us and then expect us to just go home like nothing's changed?”

“What else are you going to do?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Aly said, and then exchanged a knowing look with her best friend. “But Desi's right. We don't leave for another four days and … and I think we're
supposed
to be here. God did thank her for helping you.”

Now she gets faithful!
My cell seemed to ring in answer to her statement and I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

“What's he say?” Aly and Des asked in sync.

They're right. They're meant to stay.

The girls cheered, and a part of me did too, but I couldn't help thinking they had no idea what they were getting involved in. Before I could say as much, Aly's phone sang the first bars of
Paranormal PI's
theme song, and she stared at it in disgust. “I so need to change that.”

“Uh oh,” she said after reading the text. “It's from Missy.”

Des grabbed the Blackberry and held it up so we could read the message.

911! Get back here ASAP!