“Don’t despair, Laddin. It will happen for you. I know it will. There are still two months left before your birthday. You remember who Charoum is, yes?”
“He’s the Angel of Silence.” Of course he knew. Charoum’s prediction had been the topic of discussion for nearly every day of his twenty-eight years.
“Exactly! And when the Angel of Silence speaks, it’s very important to listen.”
“Yes, Grandmama.” And he had listened his whole life as everyone speculated on what the vision could mean. Most thought he would die, but Grandmama had insisted he’d transform into a magical being.
For the past ten months, his mother and grandmother had called every day to make sure he still breathed. Laddin just wanted it to be over. Death, rebirth, or becoming a crazed leprechaun—it didn’t matter to him so long as something happened, because at this point, he was pretty sure he’d spent his entire life anticipating an event that his grandmama had imagined to add excitement to her only grandson’s birth. And if it created endless speculation about his twenty-eighth year, then so much the better for her.
Him, not so much.
He was about to invent an excuse to get off the phone, but then it vibrated in his hand. A quick look had him rolling his eyes, but he knew he had to answer it. “I’m sorry, Grandmama. Mom’s calling. I have to tell her I’m still breathing.”
“Of course, Laddin. Don’t worry. It’ll happen soon.”
“I’m sure it will,” he lied. Then he clicked over to his mother. “Hi, Mom. I’m still alive.”
SEVEN LONG hours later, most of the day’s to-do list was finished, the Chinese bigwig was here and wasting everyone’s time, and Laddin was taking a much-needed break, sitting in his work area and going through the special effects for tomorrow’s scenes.
Suddenly a deep voice said, “Aladdin Holt?”
“Don’t touch anything,” he grumbled. It was what he always said when someone walked into his work area. He didn’t look up until he was done with the C-4, but when he finally did, he wished he hadn’t.
Two guys stood in his work area. One wore stripper pants; the other had on some sort of Doctor Strange outfit. “You want the set next door. They’re doing that Game of Thrones wannabe thing.”
Doctor Strange grinned. “We know. Where do you think we got these outfits?”
The stripper—whose torso was movie-worthy—shook his head. “He’s joking. They had way better stuff than this crap. Still, these getups allowed us to fit in while we found you.”
Well, that changed their category in Laddin’s mind from “thieves” to “groupies.” They were both beautiful enough to be actors, but neither of them had the charm. Which meant they were hangers-on who looked for odd jobs so they could participate in the movie magic.
Laddin pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it over. “Here’s my email address. Send me your résumés and I’ll look them over.” It wouldn’t help them, though. He’d never work with a guy who wore stripper pants, and Doctor Strange was already poking into things on the electrical bench. “I asked you not to touch anything.”
The guy raised his hands and wiggled them in the air. “Not touching. Just sniffing.” Then he gestured at the Quit Slackin’ and Make It Happen poster taped to the back of Laddin’s door. “It’s like a Successories warehouse exploded in here. Tell us, Mr. Holt, do you find moviemaking a little lacking in magic these days? If so, we’ve got a deal for you!”
There was a dryness to his tone that set Laddin’s hackles on edge. What did this asshole care if he found expecting to die hard to take? “You need to leave here now,” he said, his patience exhausted. He advanced. He was small compared to the guy in stripper pants, but he was fast, and he had some frustration to work out.
Fortunately Stripper Pants held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Ignore Wiz. He’s an ass. My name’s Nero, and we’re here to offer you a job. It’s rewarding work, saving the world. That’s not an exaggeration, by the way. You’d be doing good for a lot of innocent people.”
God, could they get any more annoying? Every asshole in Hollywood thought their movie idea would change the world. “I’ve already got a job, and even if I didn’t, this”—he flicked his fingers at the guy’s clothes—“doesn’t impress me.”
Wiz grinned. “Didn’t think it would. But how about we try this?” The guy whipped out a three-ring binder and started chanting cheesy fantasy crap.
Laddin had absolutely no time for this nonsense. He grabbed stripper boy’s arm and yanked him around into a choke hold.
Or he tried to. Normally people underestimated his strength, given that he was a small guy among the tall, dark, and handsome actors in Hollywood. But when he got a hold of a guy’s arm, he held on with a death grip that usually took everyone by surprise.
Not this time. Sure, he managed a quick grab, but Nero was more than a match for him. The guy probably spent all his time in the gym, because Laddin’s best wrestling moves did nothing. Hell, the guy didn’t even bend. Which left Laddin standing there, holding on to the big guy’s wrist and thinking, WTF?
Then Wiz finished whatever the hell he was saying with a grand flourish, and both men froze as if waiting for something to happen.
Laddin waited too. It was force of habit. Grandmama often said things with a flourish, and it was only polite to wait for the dramatic results. But he didn’t have any patience left today.
“I’m calling security,” he said as he pulled the walkie-talkie off his hip.
Nero grabbed his hand and held him firm, but turned to look at Wiz. “What the hell happened?”
Wiz was frowning as he looked down at his binder
