Morthisal cursed his stupid phone as Yvette's name flashed across the screen and the device's power ran out.

  He sat back and wondered what he would have even said to her had he been able to answer. Morthisal was no lovelorn teen necromancer pining for a girl. He and Yvette had had a wonderful time until it had been snatched away by the gun-wielding idiot whom Morthisal fully intended to hunt down and destroy. He sighed because the truth of the matter was that there were unspoken words between them.

  Morthisal uttered a string of curses under his breath.

  "What?"

  "Nothing, Ahmed. Nothing at all."

  "Oh. Okay. There is a USB port in the back. Use it."

  "I do not have a USB cable handy."

  "It's no problem," Ahmed said. A white cable flew into the back seat.

  "My thanks," Morthisal said and picked it up, but it didn't fit his phone.

  "Ah. Do you perhaps have an iPhone charger?"

  "Not USB? Oh. The old one. I do not. Apologies."

  Morthisal sat back in the Uber's worn leather seat and tucked the useless device into his pocket and exhaled through clenched teeth.

  Ahmed nodded. "Someone stole my iPhone charger a few days ago. A passenger. I turn my back for one minute to help with luggage and poof—gone."

  "A thief should have their hands removed," Morthisal muttered.

  Ahmed laughed. "That is harsh, my friend. Very old-world justice."

  The Toyota merged onto a wide freeway packed with other vehicles. Cars jammed every lane, crawling forward in fits and starts. Heat waves rippled from the asphalt. Morthisal tugged at his collar, grateful he was not stranded out there.

  "How long until we reach our destination?" he asked.

  "Traffic like this?" Ahmed shrugged. "Forty-five minutes, maybe more. Welcome to Los Angeles."

  Through the window, the city unfolded before Morthisal. Landscapes shifted from airport warehouses to neighborhoods with squat buildings adorned with strange markings. Humans clustered on corners or hurried along sidewalks. Everything appeared worn and faded by the relentless sun. And where were the trees? Seattle had been blanketed in them.

  "How long do you plan to stay in town?" Ahmed asked, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

  "Until I complete a movie. I intend to secure larger roles afterward."

  "Ah, an actor."

  "I am in a film called 'Dark Realms: The Rise of Malakar.' I play the villain."

  Ahmed nodded, his expression blank. "Interesting. I have never heard of it."

  "The trailer created quite a stir."

  "That sounds interesting," Ahmed replied. "You know, some have said it is difficult to play anything but villains once they are established."

  "That suits me well."

  "You don't want to be a big movie star?"

  "I will be a big movie star. However, I will do it on my own terms." Morthisal said, quoting one of the phrases he had picked up on over the past few months.

  "If you say so."

  Morthisal frowned. "The director claims I brought authenticity to the role. My performance has generated significant online attention."

  "That is great. Many actors come to Hollywood," Ahmed said with a practiced smile. "I drive them every day. I hope you become a big star."

  The traffic inched forward. Ahmed switched lanes, gaining perhaps three car lengths. A red convertible cut in front of them, and Ahmed tapped the brakes.

  "How rude," Morthisal muttered.

  Ahmed seemed unfazed.

  As they approached the city center, the buildings grew taller. Billboards loomed overhead, displaying massive images of attractive humans hawking products or entertainment. Morthisal spotted several for films and television shows. None featured him. That would need to change.

  The car passed under a massive highway interchange with concrete ramps twisting in all directions. Homeless encampments lined the underpasses with blue tarps and shopping carts, which created makeshift shelters.

  "This does not match my expectations," Morthisal muttered.

  Ahmed laughed. "What did you expect? Movie stars on every corner?"

  "I anticipated more... glamour."

  "Hollywood sells dreams, my friend. The reality is quite a bit different."

  After a long and frustratingly slow ride, the car turned onto Fountain Avenue. Small apartment buildings lined both sides of the street. Palm trees rose at irregular intervals, fronds dusty and brown. People walked small dogs on leashes or carried grocery bags. A few nodded at others as they passed. At least it was an upgrade from the unfriendly streets of Seattle, where another pedestrian would likely hit you with a scowl before a smile.

  "This is East Hollywood," Ahmed explained. "I know a decent place nearby. Not fancy, but clean. The Hollywood Hacienda. Weekly rates available if you need."

  "The Hollywood Hacienda has a nice ring to it."

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "Say hello to Jazz for me while you are there. I loved his show."

  Morthisal had no idea what Ahmed was talking about, so he nodded instead of engaging further.

  Moments later, the car pulled into a small parking lot fronting a two-story Spanish-style motel. The stucco walls might have once been white. Now, they were yellowish-gray. Wrought iron railings bordered the second-floor walkway. A faded sign depicted a sombrero-wearing figure reclining against the establishment's name.

  "This is acceptable?" Ahmed asked.

  Morthisal studied the building. "It appears...eh. I do not know."

  "It's great. Good choice for actors. Many stay here when they first arrive. It is one quarter the price of a posh hotel."

  "I suppose it will have to do, for now. Thank you, Ahmed."

  The heat hit Morthisal again as he stepped out. He pulled out his sunglasses and slid them back over his eyes.

  "Thank me by paying me a nice tip as soon as your phone is charged, and five stars. That would be very much appreciated, my friend," Ahmed said as he hopped out of the car and walked to the back. The hood opened, and the driver withdrew his single bag, and placed it on the ground.

  "Take this. Call if you need a ride." Ahmed handed over a business card.

  Morthisal considered wrapping a thread around the man but decided to hold onto his powers in case they were needed at the motel before he could get checked in.

  He wheeled his bag toward the office, where a small neon "Vacancy" sign buzzed in the window.

  Inside, a black man with a paunch, thinning gray hair and a trim, patchy white beard sat behind the front desk, his fingers tracing the edge of a dog-eared manuscript. A pen danced between his knuckles while another jutted from behind his ear. His worn Hawaiian shirt hung open over a faded band tee that featured a green-faced child with flat ears and large eyes. The collar was frayed from years of washing. As the door's bell jingled, his eyes flicked up and boredom faded into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. It was the practiced enthusiasm of someone who'd performed this greeting a thousand times before.

  "Welcome to the Hacienda," he said. "Need a room?"

  "Yes. Your finest accommodation."

  The man snorted. "They're all the same, pal. Except 204 has a better view of the pool and it's currently empty." The attendant made a strange crossing gesture across his chest.

  "Then I shall take room 204. What is the cost?"

  "Ninty-two a night. The weekly rate is a lot cheaper, man. And if you pay a month upfront, I can get you in at sixty-eight a night. I'm Jasper, by the way. Jasper Finley. You can call me Jazz, 'cause yep, that's me." Jasper pointed to a faded poster behind him just to the right of a rack of key holders. The yellowed paper showed a grinning green-faced alien child with oversized eyes and flat ears standing beside a bewildered human family with the words "My Neighbor From Neptune" splashed across the top in a comic font. Beneath it, a speech bubble proclaimed, "Earth rules are weird, man!" in neon letters that had long since dulled with age. "I manage this place. You have any problems? Ask one of the others. If you can't find an answer, come to me," Jasper said, but his words held mirth. He jerked his thumb in the direction of the poster.

  Morthisal studied the poster and was at a complete loss.

  "Come on, man. I was the kid. Zorbo on 'My Neighbor From Neptune.'" Jasper waited for recognition, then sighed when none came. "'Earth rules are weird, man?’ No? Nothing...never mind."

  "I am Vince Logan. I recently arrived from Seattle to pursue my acting career."

  Jasper's mouth twisted into a smirk. "You're another one with stars in your eyes, huh? This town eats dreams for breakfast."

  "I assure you, my dreams are quite substantial."

  "That's what they all say. Sorry to burst your bubble, but mine got popped many years ago." Jasper pushed a registration card across the counter. "Fill this out. Need a credit card on file. We charge the first night up front. How long you planning on staying?"

  Morthisal completed the form and handed over his debit card. "Just the night. I will be out of here tomorrow. I will be staying with one of the movie producers for the film I am working on."

  Jasper's eyebrows rose. "Really? Which producer?"

  "Marty Klein."

  Jasper scoffed. "You sure about that?"

  "Quite certain." Morthisal took back his card. "I will stay for one night."

  "Your funeral." Jasper handed him a key attached to a plastic tag. "Room 204, second floor. Checkout's at eleven. Ice machine works most days. Pool closes at ten. Don't leave your beer cans and shit around outside. I find you littering, it's a fifty dollar surcharge to clean up after you. Cool? Cause we're all adults here, right?"

  "I do not see a problem with these demands."

  Jasper snorted again. "Demands, huh? You got that actor gleam in your eye. Are you in character?"

  Morthisal leaned forward and locked eyes with Jasper, who was about a half of a foot shorter. "Mr. Finley. I am always in character."

  "Cool. See ya, Vincent."

  Morthisal took the key and exited the door. The bell overhead rang forlornly as it snapped shut behind him, and the little gray suitcase squeaked behind him.

  The courtyard contained a kidney-shaped swimming pool surrounded by plastic loungers. The water appeared blue, however, a little cloudy, with a few leaves scattered across its surface.

  Near the pool, a man and woman lounged with matching reflective boards tucked beneath their chins, faces angled skyward to catch the sun's rays. Their identical oversized sunglasses masked their expressions. His blonde hair stood unnaturally perfect, swept back as if cast from a single form. Hers, the same golden shade, cascaded freely around her shoulders and spilled across the lounger. The red bikini clung to her slender frame, revealing more than concealing. Morthisal's gaze lingered on her figure, appreciating the delicate curves. He narrowed his eyes at the man and he studied the similar features, wondering if perhaps the two shared the same bloodline.

  Morthisal climbed the metal stairs to the second floor. The railing was hot to the touch. Several rooms had small tables and chairs placed outside their doors. An older woman sat in a rocking chair, smoking a cigarette and drinking from a wine glass. Her outfit, a sequined blouse and high-waisted pants, reminded Morthisal of clothing he had seen in programs about the 1970s.

  She nodded as he passed. Morthisal found room 204 and inserted the key. As he turned it, the door to the room next to his opened and out stepped a man balancing a battered black laptop under one arm. He wore a bright, flowery Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. His long, light curly hair fell around his neck and touched his shoulders, complemented by a beard. Thick-rimmed black sunglasses concealed his eyes.

  "Hey there," the man said. "Welcome to the Hacienda."

  "Thank you. I am Vince Logan, recently arrived from Seattle. I am an actor."

  "Marcus," the man replied, extending his free hand. "Screenwriter. Well, aspiring screenwriter."

  Morthisal shook his hand, surprised again that no one had recognized him from the movie trailer. "A pleasure to meet you, Marcus."

  "Actor, huh? Commercial work or theatrical?"

  "I recently completed a feature film. A fantasy adventure where I portrayed the primary antagonist."

  Marcus smiled, but it contained a hint of pity. "Cool. Cool, cool, cool. We should grab a beer sometime. I know all the casting directors in town. Well, most of them. Some of them. A few of them."

  "I would appreciate any assistance."

  "What brings you to the Hacienda? Most actors start in North Hollywood these days."

  "My arrangements fell through. This is temporary."

  Marcus nodded. "Same here. Been 'temporary' for four years now. It keeps the peace between me and the wife." He tapped his laptop. "Just heading to the coffee shop to work on my screenplay."

  "What is your screenplay about?" Morthisal asked.

  "Not quite ready to talk details yet," Marcus said. "But basically, it's Star Wars meets Notting Hill."

  Morthisal had no idea what that reference could mean. He nodded as if he understood. "That sounds most intriguing."

  "Thanks, man. Gotta run. The muse calls." Marcus headed toward the stairs, his flip-flops slapping against his heels.

  Below, the possible twins lowered their reflective boards in unison. "Have a good day of writing, Marcus!" they called in perfect synchronization.

  Marcus waved without looking back. "Thanks, Kristol! Thanks, Kenadee!"

  Morthisal turned back to his door. The key stuck slightly, but the lock eventually gave way. He pushed into room 204, dragging his suitcase behind him.