Michael zipped off, ruffling their hair with the speed of his passage, leaving Claire standing with Heather. After a hesitation, she stuck out her hand. “Hi,” she said. “Claire Danvers.”

“Oh, that’s you? Funny. I thought you’d be—”

“Taller?”

“Older.”

“So who’s missing?”

Heather held up a finger to silence her, tapped the device strapped to her belt, and spoke into her headset mike. “What’s the problem? Well, tell him that the director wants it that way, so just do it, okay? I don’t care if it looks good. And quit complaining.” She clicked it to OFF and wiped sweat from her forehead. “I don’t know what’s worse, having a crew who’s a bunch of newbies, or having a crew who’s been doing this kind of thing since they still used gas in footlights.”

Claire blinked. “You’ve got vampires on the crew.”

“Of course. Also in the cast, and of course, Mein Herr, there.” Heather jerked her chin at the director, who was lecturing some poor sap trying to position a potted plant. “He’s kind of a perfectionist. He imported the costumes from vintage shops. You tell me, who worries about authentic fabrics when you’ve just cast two Goth girls as the leads?”

Heather wasn’t so much talking to her as at her, Claire decided, so she just shrugged. “So, who’s missing?”

“Oh. Our second female lead. Kimberlie Magness.”

Kim. Claire felt a slow roll of irritation. “Does she usually show up on time?” Because that would be a surprise.

Heather raised her eyebrows. “In this production, everybody shows up on time. According to Mein Herr, to be early is to be on time, and to be on time is to be late. She’s never been late.”

Still. Kim. Probably nothing at all.

“Where is my Stella?” the director bellowed suddenly, and the sound bounced around the stage and also out of Heather’s earpiece. She winced and turned down the volume. “Stella!” He drew it out, Brando-style.

And in the wings of the stage, Eve stepped out from behind the curtains, tightly holding Michael’s hand. She was dressed in tight black jeans, a black baby-doll shirt with a pentagram on it, and lots of chains and spikes as accessories.

From the director’s sudden silence, and Heather’s intake of breath, Claire figured that wasn’t what Eve was supposed to be wearing. “Oh no,” Heather whispered. “This isn’t happening.”

“What?”

“He insists on rehearsal in costume. Something about getting inside the characters. She’s supposed to be in her slip.”

The director stomped to Eve, stopping inches away from her. He looked her up and down, and said coldly, “What do you think you are doing?”

“I have to go,” she said. Her knuckles were white where she gripped Michael’s hand, but she stared the director right in the eyes. “I’m sorry, but I have to.”