Hollywood Monsters, page 1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Leave us a Review
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
HOLLYWOOD
MONSTERS
ALSO BY DANA FREDSTI
THE LILITH SERIES
The Spawn of Lilith
Blood Ink
Hollywood Monsters
THE ASHLEY PARKER NOVELS
Plague Town
Plague Nation
Plague World
BY DANA FREDSTI AND DAVID FITZGERALD
Time Shards
Shatter War
Tempus Fury
HOLLYWOOD
MONSTERS
DANA FREDSTI
TITAN BOOKS
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HOLLYWOOD MONSTERS
Print edition ISBN: 9781785652646
Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785652653
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
www.titanbooks.com
First edition: October 2022
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 Dana Fredsti. All rights reserved.
Dana Fredsti asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
To my husband, David, and my editor, Steve Saffel. I could
not have finished this book without the two of you.
“Competition has been shown to be useful up to a certain point and no further, but cooperation, which is the thing we must strive for today, begins where competition leaves off.”
—Franklin D. Roosevelt
“It’s hard to beat a person who never gives up.”
—Babe Ruth
PROLOGUE
DUSHANE MANSION
LOS ANGELES, CA
1925
Splashing and laughter emanated from the indoor pool through the archways across the spacious ballroom. French doors opened up onto a marble terrace, a perfect area to allow for spillover when things became too close inside. The doors were propped open by large planters filled with exotic plants, the scent of sage floating in on the night breeze.
Ned DuShane stood and surveyed his party with smug satisfaction, the three folds of his chin curving up into a multidimensional smirk as he watched the cream of Hollywood enjoy his generosity. Screen legends including Fairbanks, Barrymore, Shearer, and DuVal mingled with eager starlets, stuntmen, and struggling scenarioists.
Impossibly handsome bare-chested waiters in studded leather gladiator skirts and Roman sandals navigated the crush along with their female counterparts in flimsy silk togas, serving hors d’oeuvres and drinks.
The décor was a sultan’s dream—cobalt blue, purple, and cream tiles with gold accents. Alcoves with silk curtains that could be drawn across the openings to give privacy—or left open if that was what the occupants preferred. Nothing was forbidden at one of Ned DuShane’s parties.
Smiling, he popped a rich canape in his mouth, quickly following it with more. Some sort of buttery dough filled with savory mushrooms. Tasty as hell, but it would take platefuls to satisfy his appetite. The smile grew wider.
At first glance most people thought Ned’s signature smile denoted warmth. His size—just over five feet, two-hundred-fifty pounds, all of it clothed in an expensive and impeccably tailored suit—worked in his favor, too. Fat men were all like Santa Claus, right? Ho ho ho, gonna bring you presents. His smile, the comfortable stomach, even the steely twinkle in his eyes made people trust Ned DuShane, making it easy to get his films funded. And he never chiseled any of his butter-and-egg men. He reported the profits, made sure the accounting was clean, and gave everyone a good return on their investment.
Even better, to his mind, Ned’s amiable façade—combined with the chance to hobnob with stars of the silver screen, maybe even be in one of his pictures—convinced people to trust him in other ways. Once they found out how wrong they were about him, it was too late to extricate themselves, not without the kind of consequences that drove strong men to eat a bullet.
As a result, even though his studio, Silver Scream, wasn’t one of the “Big Five”—or even one of the lesser three—Ned never lacked publicity or distribution for his pictures.
Letting his gaze travel freely around the crowd, Ned skipped over most of his guests to linger on those in whom he had a special interest. A curvy brunette with a heart-shaped face caught his attention. Bettina Gleason. Looked as innocent as a newborn, with huge brown eyes framed by impossibly thick, curly lashes. She was one of Silver Scream’s most successful ingenues, exuding innocence and sex-appeal in equal measure. The innocence was an act—Betty wallowed in depravity. The filthier and more degrading the act, the more she begged for it.
She caught him looking at her and ran the tip of her tongue over lush lips painted a cherry red to match her silk dress. Ned nodded, just a slight movement of his chin, but it was enough to make those lips curve up in a smile that promised whatever he wanted. Whatever his friends and financiers wanted.
Bettina would do whatever it took to be a star.
“You throw one hell of a swanky bash, Ned.”
A familiar voice, practically oozing with oily charm, sounded next to him. Rudy Angel. A good-looking man in his early thirties, dark hair slicked back as he did his best to emulate the screen-idol whose first name he’d co-opted. A low-rent version at best, with none of the pizazz.
“Rudy, how ya doin’?” Hiding his contempt, Ned clapped a hand on the actor’s expensively clad shoulder.
“Hittin’ on all eight, Ned,” Rudy replied. Lifting his champagne coupe, he admired the sparkling liquid, the slur in his voice revealing that he’d already tipped a few. “This hits the spot. You ever gonna tell me who supplies your hooch?”
“Hey, that’s real French champagne,” Ned assured him, sidestepping the question.
Rudy laughed. “Sure, it is.” He drained his glass and looked around for one of the bare-chested serving boys, his gaze sliding past a nubile blonde girl without interest before alighting on a handsome waiter with a tray of full coupes. “’Scuse me, Ned,” he said even as he started across the room toward his target.
Ned was glad to see the back of the two-bit actor. He’d been sampling the rich food for the better part of two hours, and a low rumbling in his gut told him it was time to take a break from his guests. He began making his way through the crowd toward the main hall, where he could slip upstairs, disappear into his suite, and deal with things in privacy.
“Señor DuShane.” Manuel, one of the groundskeepers, stepped in front of him. He carried, of all things, a flashlight.
“What the hell is it?” Ned didn’t bother trying to hide his irritation. Manuel had no business being inside during one of his parties.
“Señor, there is something you must see. Flooding in the subbasement.”
“Jesus.” Ned shut his eyes, pressing a hand against his forehead. That was where he stored his highly illegal booze. “This can’t wait until tomo
“No, Señor DuShane. If we wait, the damage could be too much to fix.”
“So go ahead and fix it.”
Manuel shook his head. “It will not be cheap,” he warned, “and I wish to have your approval before moving forward.”
“Fair enough. Lead the way, José.” He chuckled at his rhyme, and if Manuel’s brow darkened briefly with a frown, well, he didn’t give a shit. For what Ned paid these wetbacks, he could call them whatever he liked.
Heaving a beleaguered sigh, Ned followed Manuel through the throngs of guests—most either drunk on liver-rotting hooch or flying high on cocaine—and through the door leading downstairs to the wine cellar, then down another flight into the mansion’s subbasement.
At the bottom of the second flight the gardener hit a switch and a single low-watt lightbulb flickered on above, illuminating a patch of bare cement corridor that stretched into darkness beyond. Construction on the subbasement had only begun in the last month or so, and most of it had yet to be wired for electricity. Manuel turned on his flashlight and shone the beam on the floor as they walked twenty feet or so down the corridor.
“Here, Señor DuShane.” Manuel stopped in front of a door leading to one of the rooms. He entered the room first, playing the light over the unfinished brick walls and hardpacked dirt. Water ran down the back wall where the smugglers’ hatch was set into the bricks about four feet high, and dripped from the ceiling to soak into the dirt.
“How the hell did water leak down here?” Ned asked, as much to himself as his employee.
“This is below the pool, Señor,” Manuel said in a deferential tone. “So far it is the only room it has reached, but as you can see, the damage here is very bad.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Good thing we already moved the booze out, but still—”
Something smashed into the back of his head.
* * *
When Ned swam back up to consciousness, he was aware of two things—one, his head hurt like a sonofabitch, and two, his nostrils were filled with the smell of wet, moldy newspapers.
What the hell…?
He tried to move his arms, wriggle his fingers, but they wouldn’t cooperate. His neck seemed to currently be the only part of him capable of movement, so he looked down. He was in some sort of barrel, with his arms, legs, and torso encased in some sort of sludge—
Wet cement. His body was submerged up to the neck in wet cement, slowly hardening around him.
He would have screamed if he’d been able. All that came out was a choked wheeze.
“Ah, Señor DuShane, you are awake.” Manuel stood in front of him.
“What the…” Ned swallowed, his chest constricting with the effort.
“I know what you are thinking,” Manuel said, his tone as neutral as his expression. “That this must be a bad joke. A joke that is not funny.”
“Damn straight it’s not,” Ned snarled. Or tried to—fear and the cement squeezing the breath out of him made it more of a rasp.
“It is not meant to be, Señor. This is about Lupe.”
“Lupe…?”
“Your housekeeper.”
“Lupe went to Mexico to visit her parents,” Ned choked out, fighting to keep the panic out of his voice. Sweat broke out on his brow. Lupe, who’d been particularly beautiful—and uncooperative. She was buried on the property where it butted up against the mountains.
“That is impossible, Señor.”
“How the hell would you know?”
Manuel’s expression didn’t change. “Our family, except for my niece and nephew, are dead.” A beat. Then he added, “Lupe was my sister.”
The implications hit Ned hard and fast. The drops of sweat turned into a trickle, dripping steadily down his face, the salt stinging his eyes. Reflexively, he tried to wipe it away, but his arms remained where they were. He tried to think of something to say, some bluff that would buy him time. For the first time in his life, his vaunted silver tongue failed him.
Manuel held up a piece of cloth, and at first Ned thought the man was going to take pity on him. Wipe the sweat out of his eyes, and then pull him out before the cement finished hardening. The groundskeeper just wanted to scare him, that was all, and when he was free again? Well… Ned couldn’t give the man back his sister, but he sure as hell could join her on the back acres.
Manuel shook his head. “You, Señor DuShane, are full of shit, and you will remain so.”
“What the hell do you—”
A dirty rag filled his mouth, cutting off his furious words. He could only watch as Manuel reached up for the light string, clicking it off.
Ned tried to scream, to plead, but only muffled grunts made it past the rag. Pausing at the door, Manuel was only a silhouette, framed by the dim lighting. “Good night, Señor.”
The door shut, leaving the room—and Ned—in total darkness.
Ned felt the coiled knots of his intestines loosen as a stabbing pain knifed his gut. More sweat dripped down his face. Big greasy drops, the kind generated by fear and pain. He had to get out of there before his bowels exploded right then and—
Where would it go if the back door was blocked?
Ned found out, and screamed behind the rag stuffed between his lips.
CHAPTER ONE
VOODOO WARS
EXT. BAYAU – NIGHT
MARIE LAVEAU and PERRINE, both ethereal yet sexual in their white cotton shifts, face off on opposite sides of the clearing, the voodoo serviteurs cowering around the perimeter.
MARIE
For your treachery, Perrine, I will see you flayed before Erzulie and Baron Samedi.
PERRINE
(laughs cruelly)
Like your lover was flayed by Louis?
She flashes a triumphant smile at LOUIS LALAURIE, standing in the background. Imposing in black dress clothing. Pure evil.
MARIE
(quietly, to Louis)
I will destroy you.
She suddenly whirls around, grabs a torch from the ground. Raises it and it turns into a sword, the blade rippling with blue flames. Louis’s eyes widen with surprise and unaccustomed fear as he recognizes Marie’s murderous intent.
Before Marie can launch the stroke, however, Perrine seizes a torch of her own and attacks, her torch undergoing the same transformation. Perrine parries Marie’s sword just in time, flames crackling up and down the lengths of both blades.
A kickass fight ensues, both women utilizing their physical skills as well as their sorcerous powers. Shooting bolts of energy from their free hands. Invisible spirits raise winds, strike invisible blows. Snakes boil out of the earth.
Marie drops her sword and shoots bolt after bolt of power from her palms, Perrine finally falling to the ground, whimpering in pain and fear as Marie strides forward, standing over her.
PERRINE
Louis, my love, save me!
LOUIS
(lips curling in scorn)
You are neither worthy of my help nor my love. Marie is the only woman who is a true match for me. I have wanted no one else since I first saw her invoke Damballa… the sweat of worship glistening on her skin…
He stares at Marie with open lust.
You are mine, voodoo queen.
CLOSE ON PERRINE…
Her expression a combination of betrayal, heartbreak… and the terrible fury of a woman scorned. She and Marie exchange one energy-charged look between them. They don’t need words. They both know what needs to happen next.
Both women turn as one to face Louis, rising into the air in a united front. Marie once again wielding her flaming sword as Perrine sends bolts of energy from her hands.
Another kickass fight takes place.
BAYOU EF’TAGEUX
NEAR NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
PRESENT DAY
Dressed in Marie’s white chemise and full skirt, doing my best to look both sexy and ethereal—yeah, you try it—I picked up one of the “ensorcelled” broadswords that would ripple with flames during each take.
Real flames.
I’ll admit I’d had major doubts about this when Cayden Doran, the film’s co-producer, co-writer, stunt coordinator, and second unit director—Cayden wears a lot of hats—revealed his plans for Voodoo Wars’ climatic battle. It had seemed like a bad idea, then and now, shooting in a clearing next to a bayou and waving flammable weapons around all the foliage.
