Morthisal stepped out of the coffee shop, right behind Marty, and squinted as sunlight tried to burn away his vision. His sunglasses hung from the front pocket of his shirt. He quickly yanked them off and snapped them over his eyes.

  "Alright, we need to get moving. Traffic to the studio is murder, and I want to show you around before we start shooting."

  Morthisal picked up his coffee and followed after Marty, dropping the dark shades over his eyes. Might as well look the part, he reasoned.

  Navigating the throng, they threaded through clusters of people—some wide-eyed and curious, others briskly striding, phones glued to their ears as they chattered away. Marty led him across a street, then crossed another, being careful to avoid the sidewalk, the director choosing instead to hold his hand up while dashing between cars.

  Panting, Morthisal came to a stop as Marty put his hands on both hips and glanced around. "Swear I left it here—lemme reconnoiter." Marty set off in one direction, turned back, and walked in another.

  While Morthisal waited, Serena Winters appeared on the sidewalk, her cold coffee clutched in one hand. She glanced at Morthisal. Her lip curled into a mocking smile. "Oh. It's you."

  Morthisal used a sliver of power on the woman in case she decided to toss her drink in his face. The actress came to a stop, smiled, and then joined him. Morthisal studied her face and realized he had indeed seen her in ads or perhaps in a movie trailer. She was quite striking with large and animated blue eyes, arched eyebrows, and silken auburn curls.

  "Hello, Serena Winters. I am sorry we did not meet under better circumstances." Morthisal offered his hand. She extended hers. He took her palm in his hand, lifted it to his lips, and placed a kiss on her soft skin.

  "My, my. Now, aren't you the gentleman?"

  "Indeed," Morthisal replied and dropped her hand.

  "I'm sorry too. I should have read the names," she lowered her voice, "I can be such a bad girl." Serena winked at him. Her head cocked to the side. "You look familiar."

  "Thank you. I am in a movie trailer. Perhaps you have heard of Dark Realms?"

  "That was you? You're a good actor. Don't tell me Klien is in on that."

  "He is the director."

  "Oh. I'm sorry," Serana said around a tight smile. "Maybe we'll get to work on something together. You never know what's going to happen in this crazy town. Do you want to get a drink sometime?"

  "It is not possible. I have a girlfriend." Morthisal wondered if those words were actually the moment he uttered them.

  Serena snapped her fingers, "Right. You're the one who was seeing Yvette Sterling. I thought that wasn't real. TMZ reported the whole relationship was made up by some rando who doctored a picture."

  "Yes. That was a farce. My girlfriend is someone else," Morthisal replied, and hoped she didn't ask any more questions.

  "Good for you. I bet she is beautiful."

  "Stunning."

  "Like I said. Good for you. I should go. Is that okay?"

  "It is, Serena. You may go now."

  Serena turned to leave, waving as she strolled away. "Bye. I hope we'll run into each other on a movie set. Or maybe at a dinner table."

  Morthisal inclined his head.

  "Found it, Vince!" Marty shouted as he waved from half a block away. Morthisal joined Marty. The director bore a strange grin. "Vince. Did Serena come to demand an apology? She can be difficult. So I've heard."

  "She was rather contrite about the coffee incident."

  "No shit." Marty scratched his head. "But hey. Let's get you to the set before you start dating another new girlfriend. By the way, freindo. You gotta fix your phone. Your inbox is full, and I haven't been able to leave a message."

  "Ah. I shall look into that," Morthisal said, frowning. He was aware of the voicemail on his phone, but he rarely listened to it. Not due to an aversion to the technology, but because he chose to ignore it.

  Marty's car sat parked at a meter. It was a vehicle much older than Morthisal would have expected the director to drive. The black paint had faded to charcoal in spots, and a few slips of paper were tucked under the windshield wipers. The interior was a disaster of scripts, empty coffee cups, and crumpled fast-food wrappers.

  "Like it?" Marty asked, holding his hands wide open as if presenting an award. "Classic Caddy Deville. It was my ex-wife's car. Second ex to be clear. She had a soft spot for '70s cars. She's a beaut. Sorry about the mess," Marty added, shoving piles of paper and trash into the backseat so Morthisal could squeeze into the passenger side. "The life of an independent filmmaker. No budget for cleaning services. I asked my niece to take care of my car. She's too busy on social media. It's a cancer, Vince. A real cancer. But it's a necessary one. Get enough followers and you'll soar high in this town." Marty put the car in drive, barely looked around for traffic, and yanked a U-turn on screeching tires. Morthisal's hand lashed up to grab the roof handle, but it had already been ripped out, leaving a couple of holes where the scews had been located.

  Morthisal opened his phone app, searched for his voicemail, and found that he had over a dozen recordings.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "It has done well by the trailer, has it not?" Morthisal asked.

  Marty slammed on his brakes. Mothisal's hand slapped across the dashboard to steady himself. He shook his head.

  Morthisal barely held onto his phone.

  "Yeah, yeah. Sure. It has its uses, not gonna lie. When something goes viral, that's when you see the real power, am I right?"

  The car surged ahead with a loud squeal from under the hood. Cars were stacked side by side, but the director somehow found openings and shot into them, even though they advanced very little. He raced at a light, but it had already turned red. Marty had to lay on the brakes again.

  Morthisal sent the thinnest sliver into Marty's mind and said, "Are we in so great a hurry? Perhaps we should proceed at a slower pace."

  Marty nodded. "You know what? You're right, Vince. We should go a little slower."

  "Excellent decision."

  The rest of the drive was less stressful. Marty sat back, one hand on the wheel, the other lopped over the long front seat. Morthisal drank his coffee while they drove the rest of the way to the studio.

  Sprawling warehouse-like structures loomed behind a towering fence as they approached the gate to Pinnacle Studios. The logo, modest in size, flanked either side of the entrance, much smaller than Morthisal had anticipated.

  As they pulled forward, a bored-looking guard with long bushy sideburns, perched on a rolling office chair that seemed to be held together by duct tape, leaned out of a shack and asked what they wanted.

  "Marty Klein and Vincent Logan. Our shoot time got pushed back, but I wanted to show him around. Kid's new in town. You know how it is."

  The guard looked over Marty and scoffed before slowly leaning back into the shack. He punched something into a humming computer. A pudgy finger touched the screen as he read names. "Not in the system. Let me check the daily sheet."

  The guard picked up a clipboard. His finger ran down the list as he squinted. "Noooope." He let the word hang. "Don't see you on the list."

  "I assure you we are."

  "Maybe you should pull around to the back. Check with guest services. If you're here for a tour, that's not for another hour. You'll need to enter parking lot C back that way." The guard waved with the back of his hand to the right.

  "Try again. Wait. Let me call." Marty pulled out his phone, dropped it on the floor, and fought the steering wheel as he tried to pick it up.

  Behind them, a gleaming Silver Mercedes-Benz loudly honked.

  "Just a sec! Just a sec!" Marty yelled.

  Morthisal rolled his eyes. He leaned over to see the guard, pulled down his sunglasses, and spoke to the man as he prepared a thread.

  The guard's reaction was not what Morthisal expected. His eyes grew large, and he pointed excitedly into the car. "Hey. You're that guy, right? Yeah. I see you, man. I see you. Fucking legend!"

  Morthisal grinned. "Ah. You have watched the trailer."

  "The what? Oh, the movie thing. Yeah. Looks cool and all. But you're the guy who banged Yvette Sterling. Fucking legend, bro!"

  Morthisal offered a weak smile.

  "Yes. That's him. You saw the trailer, right? That's my movie." Marty held his hands up as if once again presenting a prize.

  "Sure. Yeah." The guard didn't bother looking at Marty. He pulled his guard ball cap off and held it out along with a pen. "Dude. Will you sign this? I always knew that uptight bitch…" the guard trailed off as Morthisal ripped out a thread and cast it at the man. He yanked, and like a puppet, the guard closed his mouth.

  "I will sign it on the way out. Be a good lad and open the gate for us. May I offer a suggestion?"

  "Anything."

  Marty looked between Morthisal and the guard in confusion.

  "Do not ever speak of Yvette Sterling in that manner. Is that understood? If I hear otherwise, I shall return and compel you to pull your intestines from your belly and eat them while the crows also partake."

  The guard's face paled.

  The gate lifted, and Marty quietly pulled through. They made their way onto the lot for a moment before Marty said, "Damn, Vince. You're one of the best method actors I've ever met. That guy nearly shit himself. As I was saying, the Pinnacle…"

  Morthisal sat back and let Marty ramble. Method acting? He once again chuckled at the term.

  The studio lot was alive with chaotic activity. Marty pointed out the various jobs as they walked through. People who appeared to be personal assistants darted between buildings, clutching coffee trays and call sheets. Grips hauled equipment in on rattling carts. Wheels squealed as they pulled them around corners. A group of extras done up in Victorian costumes smoked cigarettes near a trailer. They wore top hats and bustles, which created an interesting contrast against the modern RVs.

  Marty led Morthisal through massive sliding doors onto stage 7. The cavernous space buzzed with activities as riggers adjusted overhead lighting grids while sound technicians ran cables along the walls. The smell of fresh paint and sawdust hung strongly in the air.

  "Here's the magic, Vince. Big change from the old space in Seattle, eh?"

  Morthisal, hands clasped behind his back as he walked with Marty, nodded. "It is certainly impressive, Marty.

  They passed through a partition into an enormous green screen room. The walls, floor, and even parts of the ceiling were covered in a peculiar shade of green. Camera tracks ran along the floor and created a forest of C-stands, held boards, and flags at various angles.

  Morthisal was rather proud of himself for recognizing the tools that created a studio. His time shooting in Seattle had paid off.

  "We'll do the demon realm stuff here," Marty explained. "Post-production will paint in your dark castle, the armies of the undead, all that good stuff. It will be budget-friendly, but it will look a hell of a lot better than what we did in Seattle."

  They passed through another partition, the 1800s London set sprawled before them—cobblestone streets, which were probably textured foam, wound between false-fronted buildings. A real gas lamp stood at a corner, though Morthisal noticed a power cord running to the base.

  The attention to detail was impressive. Grimy windows, period-appropriate signage, and even fake horse droppings were strategically scattered.

  "Here's the deal. This is an old set that has provided background for a whole bunch of shoots over the years. It's currently being used for a Jack the Ripper series for streaming. They shoot nights, and we get days. It will work out perfectly since we have your character emerging through a portal and making his escape."

  "For the sequel."

  "Maybe. However, there's a matter we need to discuss. We gotta shoot an alternative end scene. A couple, to be honest. In one of them, the dark lord does not escape and dies in an explosion as his own powers are defeated by a hero or three."

  "How does that leave room for a sequel?"

  "It doesn't. Look, Vince. If the story ends here, it doesn't mean it's the end of you. That trailer has garnered a lot of views, baby. A lot. Those are the kind of numbers that make careers."

  "But I have an idea for a sequel."

  "Great. Great. Talk as we walk."

  "Very well," Morthisal set off beside Marty, who walked with quick, determined strides. "The sequel is contemporary."

  "What? But your character bites it at the end."

  "Yes, he does. However, Marty. What if this character is snatched from his body and deposited into the shell of a human on Earth? Perhaps an office worker. Now he must grapple with technology, new minions also known as co-workers, and office politics."

  "Let me cut you off right there. The first movie ain't a comedy. Right? We can't go along and make the sequel funny. It'll flop before it hits theaters. We can brainstorm something else. Maybe something different."

  Morthisal gritted his teeth and fought the urge to blast Marty with a sliver of power, for now. The making of this sequel might be something he would have to make happen on his own.

  REBORN AS A DARK LORD (the other side of the Dark Lord's Guide series) is tearing it up on Amazon. I'm honestly shocked at how well it's selling and being reviewed. The sequel is now up for pre-order as well. Aethon works fast.