Protected from Evil (Blade and Arrow Shadow Team #3)

Chapter 1

NOELLE

No job is perfect.

Coughing at the cloud of dust I just inhaled, I hop off the step stool and wipe my watering eyes with the back of my hand. I set the offending suitcase on the floor and glare at the source of the decades-old layer of dust.

No job is perfect, I repeat to myself.

And really, I should have known better than to just yank the top suitcase from the pile without checking it first. Having spent the last fifteen years working in theaters, I should have anticipated the heavy collection of dust, especially on the pieces we haven’t used in years.

Like this stupid suitcase, which, judging from the fingerprints I left behind, was once a bright yellow but now is a dingy mustard shade.

Without thinking, I wipe my eyes again, but this time with my dusty fingers. Fresh tears well up and my nose prickles, sending me into a frenzy of sneezes. And of course, there aren’t any tissues in the prop closet for me to use, just a stack of tablecloths that have definitely seen better days.

So I settle for wiping my nose on my arm—so lovely—and dabbing at my eyes with the hem of my shirt. Which I’m dismayed to realize now has a large grey dust spot directly over my left breast.

Great.

I was planning on hitting the grocery store on my way home, but do I really want to be seen in public with a grey boob? And I shudder to think of the state of my face and hair considering the amount of dust I disturbed.

Another frozen dinner it is, I decide. And really, it’s better that way, given how late it’ll be by the time I finally get out of here.

Normally, when we don’t have a performance, I’m out of here by six at the latest. But just as I was finishing up the last of my emails, Ken, our artistic director, asked if I’d do a quick inventory of the prop closet since the prop master is out on maternity leave.

“Not everything,” he clarified as he stood in the doorway of my little office. “Really, I’m just interested in all the furniture, plus the luggage and bikes. Oh, and the body parts. I need to know how many arms and legs we have. And heads.”

Someone who doesn’t work in theater might be alarmed by the last part.

But body parts are actually something we collect.

Not real ones, of course, but decapitated heads and torso-less limbs—things we can use if we’re doing a more gruesome production, like the adaptation of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow we put on last year.

I didn’t want to say yes when Ken asked me.

I wanted to remind him that I’m the stage manager, and it’s my job to oversee the organization of the closet, not actually do it.

But then I remembered the piece of advice my dad gave me when I called him to complain about my first official job in a professional theater.

“The director keeps asking me to make him coffee,” I whined. “I’m the assistant stage manager. Not a personal assistant. I didn’t spend four years in college just to make coffee.”

“No job is perfect,” my dad replied calmly. “And when you’re starting out, especially, there’ll be more reasons why. But just remind yourself of the good things. The things that make the bad parts worth it.”

While my twenty-two-year-old self huffed indignantly, he continued, “You’re working in a theater, Noelle.

Just like you’ve wanted to do since you were little.

You get to help make the magic happen. If you have to make some coffee to get where you want to be…

you’re the only one who can decide if it’s worth it. ”

As much as I didn’t want to admit it back then, he was right.

While I hated the dismissive way the director would order me around, how he’d refer to me as she or her instead of my name, it was worth it if it meant achieving my dream.

First assistant stage manager, then the actual person in charge, rushing around behind the scenes making sure the production had everything it needed to come to life.

So every time the director sent me off to get coffee, sneering at me in that condescending way as he recited his order—and it was the same every time, so it’s not like I’d forget—I’d just remind myself, No job is perfect.

That’s what I reminded myself as Ken hovered in the doorway, waiting for my response. No, I didn’t want to inventory a good portion of the closet before I went home for the night. But was it worth it?

Yes. First, because Ken’s new to the job and given that he’s my boss, it’s in my best interest to make a good impression. And on the heels of that, I really do like my job and I’d prefer to keep it.

No, I don’t think Ken would fire me if I dug in my heels and insisted someone else went through the closet instead.

Not immediately, at least. But it could label me as difficult, or worse yet, not a team player.

It could plant a seed of doubt about me.

And three months down the line, or six, he might decide it would be better to find a new stage manager, one who wouldn’t complain about the unpleasant task of counting dozens of dusty suitcases and hundreds of rickety chairs.

So here I am. Covered in dust. Stomach growling in irritation since it’s an hour past my usual dinner time. And wistfully thinking about the sushi I would have bought at the grocery store rather than the sad frozen dinner I have waiting at home.

With a heavy sigh, I dust off my hands, then grab my notebook and put another checkmark in the luggage column.

I’m up to fifty suitcases, the styles ranging from contemporary all the way to the early 1900s.

Before I put the yellow suitcase back on top of the pile, I hold my breath, not releasing it until I’m safely out of range.

Once I’m back on the ground, I eyeball the remaining shelves with a critical eye.

Just past the luggage section is one stacked with board and lawn games, like Monopoly, chess, croquet, and horseshoes.

The latter not to actually use—the horseshoes would ruin the stage and the owner of the theater would throw a fit—but as props to set the mood.

The body parts are all stored in cardboard boxes in the back of the closet, which coincidentally happens to be the area with the worst lighting. As I move on past the luggage and towards the assortment of limbs and heads, I chuckle to myself.

Would I have ever thought, back when I was getting my degree in drama, that this is what I’d end up doing? Counting arms and legs in the back of a poorly lit closet?

As I start working through the first box of body parts, another piece of advice from my dad comes back to me. I was at his house for dinner, still grumping about my director and his demands. “Now he wants me to get him lunch, too,” I grumbled. “What’s next? Asking me to pick up his dry cleaning?”

Maybe another parent would have gotten annoyed. But my wonderful dad, who had endless patience for his only daughter, just patted me on the shoulder and asked, “Do you like the other parts of the job, Nelly?”

“I do,” I replied. “I like the actors and the production staff, and I’m really excited about the schedule of performances coming up. It’s just this director.”

“Don’t let him ruin it for you, then,” he told me. “When he asks you to get coffee, have fun with it. Make it into a game. Turn it into a race to see how fast you can go. Or come up with little stories, like you did when you were young. Yes, he’s your boss. But he can’t control how you feel.”

My dad’s advice worked back then, and it’s held true ever since.

So, with his words in my head, I start lining up the arms and legs in rows on the floor, arranging them in order of height. It doesn’t take long to create several lines of arms reaching into the sky, followed by a dozen body-less legs and feet behind them.

Strange? Maybe. But it makes the task go faster. And it has the added bonus of making me smile.

Once I have everything out of the boxes, I pull my phone from my pocket and snap a photo of the eerie display. Then I send it off to my friend, Jaz, who’s performing out in New York City in an off-Broadway show.

Less than thirty seconds later, her response lights up my screen.

Please tell me why you have a graveyard of body parts?

With a laugh, I send my reply.

The new boss asked me to inventory the prop closet. Just trying to make it more interesting.

Jaz immediately texts back.

I hope you’re going to leave them that way. I can only imagine the reaction of whoever goes in there next.

I think about it for a few seconds before rejecting the idea.

No, I can’t. My luck, one of the board members would come in tomorrow for a tour. If it’s one of the older ones, I could scare them into a heart attack.

Three dots blink while Jaz composes her reply.

I suppose that wouldn’t be a great look for you.

The dots blink again.

Anyway, how’s your new boss? I’m assuming he asked you to do something that’s clearly not in your job description? And you felt like you couldn’t say no?

I quickly count the hands and feet, then record the totals in my notebook before answering Jaz’s question.

Yes, he asked me. Right when I was about to leave. The woman who usually does this is out on maternity leave, so… With Ken still being new here, I want to make a good impression.

Technically, Ken’s been here for six months.

But compared to the last artistic director, who’d worked at Portland Rep for twenty years, Ken’s new to our company.

And while he’s definitely not my favorite boss—his demands are at times unreasonable, and he has a tendency to stare at people too long—he’s got a ton of experience and his ideas for the company sound promising.

My phone chimes with Jaz’s reply.

I get it. But don’t be afraid to put your foot down. You’re a talented stage manager. If he doesn’t appreciate you, there are plenty of people who will. I could introduce you to some, you know.