8
The showrunners caved.
Neither Ron nor R.J. had the good grace to concede their position face-to-face, or even in a phone call. Instead, they sent
a very terse email to inform Peter, Maria, and Ramón of the change in plans and had a courier deliver a new script for their
upcoming scene.
Cyprian and Cassia, nearing despair at the onset of winter and the accompanying scarcity of their remaining food supply, would
share a magical apple. A gift from Neptune, left at the very precipice of their gate to Tartarus. Pretty much exactly what
Maria had suggested, although the showrunners didn’t openly acknowledge that.
Peter couldn’t believe it. A fucking magical apple and a bit of CGI work, and suddenly he wouldn’t have to starve or fuck up his body after all, and neither would she.
Maria had won her high-stakes gamble and made it look—easy.
But, of course, that ease was only possible because the stakes actually hadn’t been that high for her. Not in the same way they were for him. As she’d told him, she could walk away from this role or even
her career and be fine. He couldn’t.
She didn’t understand that, though.
It was obvious, at least to someone who watched her as closely as he did.
She still laughed and chatted with him, still made an effort to include him in group conversations and activities, but when she looked at him, some of the warmth in those lively brown eyes had cooled.
Some of the growing ties of trust between them had been severed.
He’d never thought he’d miss Maria calling him a shit-boot, but he did. The Swedish obscenity hadn’t passed her lips once
since the night of Ron’s meeting.
Which was ironic, since he’d never felt more like a shit-boot than that night. When he’d sat beside her during that awful
meeting and seen her hands pale and shaking with chill, her lips blue around the edges, all because he’d jumped to obey Ron’s
command and urged her to do the same. When he’d heard her save not only herself, but him too. When he’d left her swinging
in the cold, cold breeze to preserve his own professional future, exactly as he’d told her he would.
He’d had his reasons. But still: skitstovel .
They remained friends, and he valued that. More than she probably understood. Any hints that she might feel more than friendly
toward him had vanished, though.
The loss hollowed out something within him, a void he hadn’t even realized was full—for maybe the first time in his life—until
it emptied once more.
Another bizarre, hilarious phrase Maria had taught him to recognize that summer: Nu har du verkligen skitit i det bl? sk?pet . Now you’ve really shit in the blue cupboard.
Essentially, the phrase meant: You fucked up .
He’d protected his own interests, and that wasn’t the same as fucking up.
But somehow, it still felt like he’d fucked up. Badly.
In mid-January, a stupefyingly powerful winter storm churned toward the island.
The day before it hit, the Atlantic itself seemed alive and angry, lurching and dipping in nauseating churns, whipped along
by roaring winds. The towering waves smashed against the cliffs so viciously that the spray soaked anyone standing on top
of those cliffs, the staggering power of each impact elemental and frightening.
Peter knew. He was there, and he was frightened.
Not for himself. For Maria.
“Action!” Ramón shouted, a severe frown creasing his weathered face.
On cue, there she went again, wandering near the edge of the cliffs with her face in her hands, blond hair tangled in wet
ropes, her sobs drowned out by rain and howling gusts of wind.
Darrell, positioned next to Peter with his hood cinched tight over most of his face, was—for once—not smiling. His whispered
shit was barely audible, and Peter had never appreciated the man more. Even Jeanine stood grimly watching, with one wet, gloved
hand covering her mouth and the other clutching Darrell’s arm.
No one was happy, although Maria was probably the most sanguine of them all about the situation. Apparently she considered
today’s awful filming conditions an adventure . Which would normally be charming as fuck, if only she couldn’t end up dead .
He didn’t understand her reasoning. Not even a little.
Dieting? No fucking way. Taunting the Grim Reaper? No problem!
Hell, even their hotel proprietor had registered his disapproval. That morning, when the group had left for the day, Conor had asked where they were filming, in tones that implied a silent addendum: And why are you filming, you absolute plonkers? Have you lost your bloody minds?
When he’d heard about Maria’s scene, for some unknown reason he’d immediately turned to Peter. Stared at him, as if waiting
for... something, with lines of worry and disapproval carved deep across his freckled forehead. Then, when Peter hadn’t
responded, Conor had swiveled in place and trained his glare on Ramón and Nava instead.
To be fair, the director and line producer hadn’t wanted to keep filming either. Their requests for a delay in production
had been promptly and firmly refused, however, because the foul weather would actually save the over-budget show some of its
postproduction costs.
In a bit of awful serendipity, the script that week had already called for a fierce Atlantic storm to come ashore, Neptune’s
punishment for Cyprian and Cassia’s unwillingness to make the exhausting trek to the cliffs during the harshest winter months.
The shipwrecked Vikings had left the gate to Tartarus unattended for far too long, and the god of the sea intended to make
the cost of their negligence personal and unmistakable.
The wind would destroy part of their home, and Cassia would despair. As Cyprian restlessly dozed after a sleepless, miserable
night, she’d travel to the gate on her own, unwilling to risk him as well as herself, and beg for mercy. And when the storm
continued unabated, she’d contemplate ending her misery for good in one leap from those unforgiving heights.
Cyprian would wake and find her gone. Panicked, he’d race after her and persuade her to return from the edge of ruin, and
they’d embrace. Kiss for the first time, to the horror of both.
It was a great scene, all high drama and intensity. Peter had been looking forward to it for weeks, and not only because he’d get to kiss Maria again without having to justify it to himself.
But the storm was supposed to be the creation of postproduction and the skilled efforts of the VFX supervisor, not an extremely
pissed-off Mother Nature. It wasn’t supposed to be real, and it wasn’t supposed to be dangerous to the cast or crew.
Above all else, Maria wasn’t supposed to be standing that close to a fucking cliff’s edge when a stray gust of fifty-mile-per-hour
wind could send her hurtling three hundred feet down and plunge her into the merciless, agitated ocean. The ocean where, if
she somehow managed not to die on impact or drown—and to be clear, she’d definitely die on impact or drown—the pounding waves would simply crush her body against the cliffs and grind her to pieces.
A single moment of carelessness, a single misstep, and—no more Maria.
The storm hadn’t even officially arrived yet, which was maybe the most terrifying thing of all. Current forecasts called for
torrential rain and wind gusts of up to ninety miles per hour the next day, and Fionn had told them what to expect afterward:
flooding, washed-out roads, scattered stone walls, and possibly no phone service or electricity.
And yet, filming was scheduled for tomorrow too. Unlike today, Peter and Maria would be acting together. Cassia would remain
near the cliff’s edge for a long, long time while Cyprian pleaded for her to stay with him, to stay among the living.
With a larger crew, with a more generous shooting budget for their location, with different showrunners, they’d have various people watching to ensure the safety of all concerned.
But their crew and their budget were tiny, and their showrunners were cutting corners wherever possible to save time and money.
What Ron and R.J. were telling various authorities, Peter couldn’t even imagine.
Toward the end of the take, a particularly brutal gust of wind sent Maria swaying, and she stumbled sideways, closer to the
edge, as the crew gasped.
Peter tasted metal. Fear and blood.
The lightning jolt of terror stopped his breath, and he didn’t think his heart beat again until she regained her balance and
subtly moved farther from the precipice.
“Cut!” It was a snarl, and Ramón immediately strode in her direction, his jaw as stony as the island itself. “Get away from
there, Maria. That’s our last goddamn take for the day.”
Oh, thank fuck. Another go-round might very well break Peter.
Given how much the crew loved Maria, it might break all of them.
“Tomorrow, should I have a leash or something?” she asked Nava, who’d turned paler than he’d ever seen her. “I don’t know
what’s standard under these conditions.”
The women walked past him, yet he still couldn’t seem to move, not even to hear the producer’s response. His legs shook, and
not from the wind. He kept swallowing, kept dragging his trembling hands through his hair.
In the end, Darrell had to set him in motion and steer him away from the set. The PA’s hand on his shoulder was firm but supportive,
his eyes full of more understanding than Peter was comfortable with.
On their miserable trek back to the van, Ramón continued muttering under his breath. Peter couldn’t make out most of it, except
for the word OSHA .
And that was when he knew what to do.
After they’d arrived back at the hotel, while everyone else trudged silently down the hall toward their suites and hot showers, Peter lingered near the front desk.
When the hallway had cleared, he leaned close to Conor.
The proprietor looked up from his computer monitor and jumped a little at the sight of his waterlogged guest looming over him.