1-Zach #2
“The label’s assured their identities are of utmost importance,” suit number two, sitting to Dick’s right, says.
His rat-like nose crinkles like he’s caught a whiff of rotted cheese as he waves his bony hand toward me.
“Which is why Ms. Blake was specifically referred by the Daemonium and chosen. She specializes in anonymous artists.”
The Daemonium, renowned backup vocalists contracted with Somnium, are the only reason this is happening in the first place. Yet another sense that this is fate.
Masonary, an up-and-coming English band I filmed last year, hired a trio of independent backup singers that introduced me to another band that they sang with.
A band known as Somnium, who in less than a decade became the most listened-to rock band on the planet.
The pay for the two-week project was shit, but the experience with the women of Daemonium and the path that led me here? Priceless.
Now I’m standing in front of the band that saved me, trying not to fall apart.
All the attention is on me, the heat of it searing my skin. My brain is blank, short-circuiting as it attempts to process reality. Duae puts up a tiny hand; two fingers raised in a salute.
“You’re wantin’ to film us out of this, yeah?” she asks, gesturing to the costume, her alto tone softening her sharp London accent to velvet.
I grip my phone, needing to show them the visuals and notes that I carelessly erased. “Yes, but your face, any identifying marks or logos, jewelry, et cetera would be taken out in post.”
Judas smacks his thin lips, teeth gritting as if he’s biting back a retort. It’s soft, but it cuts through the room. I force myself to lift my chin, meeting the mask’s sockets.
“I swear to you,” I say, feeling his gaze narrow at my audacity to address him, “earning trust with your identities is my priority. I understand if it’ll take time.
We have nearly six months to come up with some solid boundaries, and I am more than capable of improvising.
I’ll work with what you give me. The rest’s up to you. ”
Silence drops like a curtain. Judas stares at me long enough for my blood to complete its circulation, then shakes his head. Richard clicks his tongue against his two big veneers, sliding a chunky packet across the table toward Greg.
“You signed a contract for us to use your image in any way we see fit.” Richie Dick turns his beady stare on Judas, sneering. “We’ll recoup investment fees and future royalties, plus an abandonment fee for expenses already paid to Livewire Productions and other contracts.”
“That’s bollocks,” Greg snaps. The chair skids as he pushes out of it and stands. “You signed contracts before we officially greenlit our permission. We’ll countersue this rubbish before you can certify it.”
“Greg,” Toupee Tom, his lawyer, whispers, a sheen of sweat blanketing his ruddy cheeks, “it’s well within their contract. And yours.”
“You can fax the updates to my office,” Richard’s number one lawyer says, straightening his navy jacket as he stands. He’s shorter than the other by half a foot, but somehow smugger. “Preferably by Tuesday. If not, we’ll consider their contract with DHR terminated.”
Terminated.
I’ve spent months clawing my way to them. This project. Now the whole thing’s gonna burn before it begins. Again.
I think Judas might murder someone. His fists are clenched so tight the red paint cracks along his knuckles.
He’s a cornered animal, baring his fangs at me.
Pushing for this project dragged them into this room, and now he’s getting skinned alive.
My body locks, frozen in place like prey trying not to draw attention.
Neil shakes suit two’s hand on the way out. My fingers stay glued to my phone, nails digging into the case.
“I can’t believe it’s come to this,” Greg mutters, glaring at Judas before turning on Neil, nudging his shoulder as he leaves.
The room is so tense you’d need a machete to cut through it. My stomach rumbles. I should’ve eaten instead of downing that fifth martini last night. Needles prick my tongue, rendering it fat and useless.
Judas storms out, his shadowy cloak snapping behind him like a banner in a storm. The others follow; Tria silent and stiff, Quatour unreadable behind his blank mask. Duae turns to me and pauses, her skeletal jaw mask gleaming under the fluorescents.
“I loved what you did with Masonary’s film. I pray we get a chance to do this, Zachary. The Daemonium girls had nowt but good things to say about you. They’re dead keen to work with you again.”
“Thank you,” I say, swallowing a lump. “And it’s Zach, by the way. Zachary was my father.”
The lines around her eyes crinkle, tiny dimples forming above the mask. “See you around, Zach.”
She gives a half-wave and walks off. Neil slams the door, and I turn on him with a glare that could peel paint.
“You actually told the label to sue them for compliance?”
“I might have suggested it.” He shrugs; hands shoved into his pockets. “It was a good idea, kid. It worked.”
A bitter scoff scratches my throat. It was a joke made a few weeks ago when Neil said the project was dead in the water.
In no universe did I think he’d take it seriously.
Judas clearly doesn’t want this, but the opportunity to be close enough to Somnium won’t happen again.
I need to discover the truth about the man who haunts my dreams.
Our futures are tangled now, whether Judas wants them to be or not.