heart’s still beating,’ Francis said.
She could hear it, thumping irregularly.
Marty spluttered, fluid leaking from his mouth. His face was almost scarlet.
His heart slowed.
‘I think he’s having a heart attack,’ she said.
‘He’s only thirty-five,’ Francis said. ‘No, thirty-six. It’s his birthday today.’
A doctor was called for. Kate thumped Marty’s chest, wishing she knew more first aid.
The camera rolled on, forgotten.
‘If this gets out,’ Francis said, ‘I’m finished. The film is over.’
Francis grabbed Marty’s hand tight, and prayed.
‘Don’t die, man.’
Martin Sheen’s heart wasn’t listening. The beat stopped. Seconds passed. Another beat. Nothing.
Ion was at Francis’s side. His fang-teeth were fully extended and his eyes were red. It was the closeness of death, triggering his instincts.
Kate, hating herself, felt it too.
The blood of the dead was spoiled, undrinkable. But the blood of the dying was sweet, as if invested with the life that was being spilled.
She felt her own teeth sharp against her lower lip.
Drops of her blood fell from her eyes and mouth, spattering Marty’s chin.
She pounded his chest again. Another beat. Nothing.
Ion crawled on the bed, reaching for Marty.
‘I can make him live,’ he whispered, mouth agape, nearing a pulseless neck.
‘My God,’ said Francis, madness in his eyes. ‘You can bring him back. Even if he dies, he can finish the picture.’
‘Yesssss,’ hissed the old child.
Marty’s eyes sprang open. He was still conscious in his stalling body. There was a flood of fear and panic. Kate felt his death grasp her own heart.
Ion’s teeth touched the actor’s throat.
A cold clarity struck her. This undead youth of unknown bloodline must not pass on the Dark Kiss. He was not yet ready to be a father-in-darkness.
She took him by the scruff of his neck and tore him away. He fought her, but she was older, stronger.
With love, she punctured Marty’s throat, feeling the death ecstasy convulse through her. She swooned as the blood, laced heavily with brandy, welled into her mouth, but fought to stay in control. The lizard part of her brain would have sucked him dry.
But Katharine Reed was not a monster.
She broke the contact, smearing blood across her chin and his chest hair. She ripped open her blouse, scattering tiny buttons, and sliced herself with a sharpening thumbnail, drawing an incision across her ribs.
She raised Marty’s head and pressed his mouth to the wound.
As the dying man suckled, she looked through fogged glasses at Francis, at Ion, at the camera operator, at twenty studio staff. A doctor was arriving, too late.
She saw the blank round eye of the camera.
‘Turn that bloody thing off,’ she said.
18
The principals were assembled in an office at the studio. Kate, still drained, had to be there. Marty was in a clinic with a drip-feed, awaiting more transfusions. His entire bloodstream would have to be flushed out several times over. With luck, he wouldn’t even turn. He would just have some of her life in him, some of her in him, forever. This had happened before and Kate wasn’t exactly happy about it. But she had no other choice. Ion would have killed the actor and brought him back to life as a new-born vampire.
‘There have been stories in the trades,’ Francis said, holding up a copy of Daily Variety. It was the only newspaper that regularly got through to the company. ‘About Marty. We have to sit tight on this, to keep a lid on panic. I can’t afford even the rumour that we’re in trouble. Don’t you understand, we’re in the twilight zone here. Anything approaching a shooting schedule or a budget was left behind a long time ago. We can film round Marty until he’s ready to do close-ups. His brother is coming over from the States to double him from the back. We can weather this on the ground, but maybe not in the press. The vultures from the trades want us dead. Ever since Finian’s
She could hear it, thumping irregularly.
Marty spluttered, fluid leaking from his mouth. His face was almost scarlet.
His heart slowed.
‘I think he’s having a heart attack,’ she said.
‘He’s only thirty-five,’ Francis said. ‘No, thirty-six. It’s his birthday today.’
A doctor was called for. Kate thumped Marty’s chest, wishing she knew more first aid.
The camera rolled on, forgotten.
‘If this gets out,’ Francis said, ‘I’m finished. The film is over.’
Francis grabbed Marty’s hand tight, and prayed.
‘Don’t die, man.’
Martin Sheen’s heart wasn’t listening. The beat stopped. Seconds passed. Another beat. Nothing.
Ion was at Francis’s side. His fang-teeth were fully extended and his eyes were red. It was the closeness of death, triggering his instincts.
Kate, hating herself, felt it too.
The blood of the dead was spoiled, undrinkable. But the blood of the dying was sweet, as if invested with the life that was being spilled.
She felt her own teeth sharp against her lower lip.
Drops of her blood fell from her eyes and mouth, spattering Marty’s chin.
She pounded his chest again. Another beat. Nothing.
Ion crawled on the bed, reaching for Marty.
‘I can make him live,’ he whispered, mouth agape, nearing a pulseless neck.
‘My God,’ said Francis, madness in his eyes. ‘You can bring him back. Even if he dies, he can finish the picture.’
‘Yesssss,’ hissed the old child.
Marty’s eyes sprang open. He was still conscious in his stalling body. There was a flood of fear and panic. Kate felt his death grasp her own heart.
Ion’s teeth touched the actor’s throat.
A cold clarity struck her. This undead youth of unknown bloodline must not pass on the Dark Kiss. He was not yet ready to be a father-in-darkness.
She took him by the scruff of his neck and tore him away. He fought her, but she was older, stronger.
With love, she punctured Marty’s throat, feeling the death ecstasy convulse through her. She swooned as the blood, laced heavily with brandy, welled into her mouth, but fought to stay in control. The lizard part of her brain would have sucked him dry.
But Katharine Reed was not a monster.
She broke the contact, smearing blood across her chin and his chest hair. She ripped open her blouse, scattering tiny buttons, and sliced herself with a sharpening thumbnail, drawing an incision across her ribs.
She raised Marty’s head and pressed his mouth to the wound.
As the dying man suckled, she looked through fogged glasses at Francis, at Ion, at the camera operator, at twenty studio staff. A doctor was arriving, too late.
She saw the blank round eye of the camera.
‘Turn that bloody thing off,’ she said.
18
The principals were assembled in an office at the studio. Kate, still drained, had to be there. Marty was in a clinic with a drip-feed, awaiting more transfusions. His entire bloodstream would have to be flushed out several times over. With luck, he wouldn’t even turn. He would just have some of her life in him, some of her in him, forever. This had happened before and Kate wasn’t exactly happy about it. But she had no other choice. Ion would have killed the actor and brought him back to life as a new-born vampire.
‘There have been stories in the trades,’ Francis said, holding up a copy of Daily Variety. It was the only newspaper that regularly got through to the company. ‘About Marty. We have to sit tight on this, to keep a lid on panic. I can’t afford even the rumour that we’re in trouble. Don’t you understand, we’re in the twilight zone here. Anything approaching a shooting schedule or a budget was left behind a long time ago. We can film round Marty until he’s ready to do close-ups. His brother is coming over from the States to double him from the back. We can weather this on the ground, but maybe not in the press. The vultures from the trades want us dead. Ever since Finian’s
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