Behold! I am Arasmus, bastard son of Jon’ash, brother of King Ulser of the Braxtons.

I have been exiled to the Sorrow Lands, forced to fight for my food, my shelter, my existence. Until . . .

Well, production hasn’t let me in on the rest. I’m sure it will be epic and angst-filled, and if my character manages to live through this season it will be a fucking miracle. If you’ve read any of the Dark Castle books, you’ll notice heads have a way of separating from key characters’ necks. We’re not following the books to the letter, so I’m not certain of Arsamus’s fate.

Makes my neck hurt just thinking about it, though.

But for now? I party.

Or I will tonight.

At the moment, I’m in my car, writing in this damn notebook I still have in the glove compartment.

Writing to tell you that I hate you once more.

I hate you, Delilah Ann Baker, cold and cruel Tater Tot.

I hate that I just got the call from my agent, telling me that, yes, I . . . Macon Saint, a virtual nobody in Hollywood, landed the coveted role of Arasmus in Dark Castle . . . the most anticipated series to come to cable in decades, and who do I immediately want to tell?

You.

Fucking you.

Why? Why is it always—

YOU?

The impact of his words hits me like a blow, and I sit back in my chair and stare out of the window. It’s almost too bright in here, the sunlight bouncing off the walls, making my eyes burn. For a moment, I was in that car with him, huddled down in the seat, feeling his frustration, his rage. The way he thought of me was so similar to my reactions to him—it’s eerie.

I’m afraid to read the last, knowing that he hates me in it, and I am the ghost he wants to be rid of. Oh, how I regret my words to him earlier. Ghosts, I realize, are just that: long dead. They can’t hurt us unless we let them. But I owe it to both of us to finish.

Hey Tot,

I won an Emmy.

It’s heavy and cold. And the best thing I’ve ever received. And the worst. Because it feels like a lie. Why didn’t they see I was full of shit? Why did they think I deserved it above the others? Those fine and true actors who know what they’re doing. Who are real.

I never feel real.

Do you? What do you dream of now? Is it of being a famous chef?

A friend handed me your catering card. Said your food was incredible. As if I needed telling. It always was.

I carry the card in my wallet, but I don’t look at it much. I’ll be tempted to call if I do.