Chapter Fifteen

“Places! Three-five. Last act, last scene!” Karen’s cry reverberated through the corridor, but still Spraggue didn’t move.

“Spraggue? You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything I can do?”

“You could call me Michael.”

He was rewarded with a fleeting, quickly controlled smile.

“Seriously,” he said, turning away from the photo on Georgina’s dressing room wall, “where’s Georgie?”

“She’s only on in Act One. Probably gone for a walk. Sure you’re all right?”

“Fine.”

“Places, then. Darien’s turning blue.”

Spraggue followed the stage manager up the steps.

Arthur Darien was fuming. “Where’s Langford?” he demanded. “Isn’t John down there? You said he was in the building—”

“In his dressing room, Arthur,” Karen said soothingly. “On his way.”

Caroline Ambrose, seated in the front row of the auditorium, tossed her dark hair and snorted. She crossed her legs and angrily tugged the hem of her skirt over her knees. “Does he have his little playmate with him, Karen? I do hope you knocked first. So embarrassing for you.”

Greg Hudson, waiting in the wings for his entrance, turned and walked away. Spraggue could barely see the left side of his face, the tic jumping in his clenched jaw.

Karen ignored Caroline, taking no notice of the actress’s rising voice, flushed cheeks. Darien reacted.

“Caroline,” he said severely. “I don’t want to see any of this onstage. You and Lucy are best friends. I don’t give a damn about your sex lives and I will not have this show affected by them. Understood?”

“I’m a professional, Arthur,” she answered coldly. “I do my job.”

Darien squeezed her arm, gave her his best kind-uncle smile. A pudgy, heavily jowled man, lounging against the stage, giggled. Spraggue stared: Gustave Grayling, easily identifiable from his résumé photo. Was Grayling chortling at the idea of Langford in trouble with both director and leading lady? Or did his jealousy of Langford exist only in that amazingly vain actor’s mind?

Footsteps pounded up the stairs, raced down the hall. The missing actor appeared, out of breath, disgruntled and alone. If Emma had been with him, she’d remained below.

“Places!” Karen called, relieved.

“Arthur!” Langford approached the director. “Look, can’t you do the damned ending without me? I have absolutely no desire to suffocate in that damp cramped box any longer than necessary.”

“John—”

“I’m quite serious, Arthur. I abhor lying in my coffin for twenty eternal minutes only to be stabbed without uttering a single word.”

“You can’t speak in the scene, John. It’s still daylight.”

“And”—Langford pretended not to hear the interruption—“I despise the knife. A vampire should be staked, a wooden stake through the heart. Even a child knows that the only way to kill a vampire—”

“In the book, John,” Arthur said slowly, “Dracula is killed with a Bowie knife.”

“Oh, the book, the book! It’s not the Bible, is it? In the book, as I recall, Dracula is killed by a character the playwright has not even chosen to include in this adaptation! So much for the book!”

Darien closed his eyes, spoke with effort. “In the theater, John, it is bad form to repeat the same effect twice. Understand? The first time the audience is entranced; the second time they look for the strings. We’ve already killed Lucy by the stake. You have to die by the knife.”

Spraggue waited impatiently in the stage-right wings. Karen paced.

“I think our great British actor suffers from secret claustrophobia,” she said. “The way he rants about that coffin!”

“He’s not going to get much sympathy from this crowd,” said Spraggue. “How does he die?”

“Your standard collapsing-knife trick. Gallons of chicken blood. A fatal scream. Dematerialization. Wouldn’t be a bad effect if John would deign to rehearse it.”

“Let’s go!” shouted Darien, turning away from the still-speaking Langford.

“Places!” Karen called wearily, eyebrows imploring heaven. “Three-five. Places!”

The first half of the scene went rapidly, playing much stronger than usual. Spraggue attributed the change to a new alliance, a warmth between Lady Caroline and Greg Hudson; the bond of rejected lovers.

Things bogged down at the fight.

“Stop,” Darien called sadly.” Walk through it! Slow motion! Anything! I have to see what’s screwing it up!”

Greg Hudson gritted his teeth. He knew, Spraggue knew, Grayling knew: Caroline Ambrose was the disaster. She insisted on attacking the vampire killers in the “Victorian Womanly” manner, beating her fists ineffectually against Hudson’s chest. Time after time, Hudson, the fight expert, ran them through the scene, trying to make Caroline less laughable. Spraggue marveled at his patience.

Caroline was better at throwing fits, thank God. She shrieked convincingly as Van Helsing and Harker carried her writhing body downstage, away from the vampire’s lair. But she always blew the slap.

Spraggue got to hit Caroline. Director of an asylum, his character knew how to deal with hysteria. He drew back his hand, swung it around quick and hard. Caroline jerked her head away. The blow missed her chin.

“Caroline,” Hudson wailed. “No! No! You have to take it! Turn with the slap. It won’t hurt! He’ll get you right below the cheekbone. Good sound. No danger. If you flinch like that, he could dislocate your jaw!”

“I’m sorry, Greg.” Caroline fluttered her violet eyelashes. “I just got so scared!”

“It can’t hurt if you’re ready for it. Watch.” Hudson turned to Spraggue. “Hit me. Just like you tried to hit Caroline.” The report was terrific. “See? Believe me, no pain. Now try it with Caroline, Spraggue. Slow motion first.”

At half-speed she was fine. When the blow hit her cheek, she turned with it.

“Perfect!” said Hudson warmly. “You have to feel it coming. The responsibility for a great slap is on the receiver, not the sender. Stand up to it, Caroline! Take it! Trust him. Spraggue won’t hurt you, unless you do something unexpected.”

Caroline smiled up at Spraggue tremulously.

“Take it again,” ordered Hudson.

Spraggue hit out. Caroline didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t even try to turn with the slap. The force of the blow knocked her head to one side. An angry red spot flared on her cheek. She stared defiantly at Hudson.

“Good sound!” yelled Darien from below. “Keep going!”

Hudson shook his head grimly. Caroline went back to her position. She never lifted a hand to rub her stinging cheek.

Spraggue felt used, half angry at himself for hurting her, half longing to sock her again. So maybe she’d done something that deserved punishment. Maybe she was some kind of masochist. She damn well couldn’t count on him to hold the whip.

He played out the rest of the scene in a trance, barely surfacing to wonder why the collapsible knife seemed so familiar. But it only tickled at his subconscious.