Morthisal lay in bed and wondered if he was dying.

  His stomach would not settle down. His heart raced like it was trying to rip its way out of his chest. He popped up, leaned over, and dry heaved. After he caught his breath, Morthisal lay back down and uttered a string of curses.

  Kenadee had been apologetic when he realized his workout plan probably wasn't suitable for a first timer. He told Morthisal they could try again tomorrow, but at a much slower pace, and without the drink.

  Morthisal had told him he might need a day to recover.

  His skin, particularly his forearms and neck, itched where he had taken too much sun.

  While he lay in bed, thinking he might be dying, his phone buzzed on the stained and cigarette-burned nightstand. Morthisal lowered his forearm from his eyes and glanced at the display.

  "Hmm." Morthisa rolled over, picked up his iPhone, and answered. "Yes."

  "Vince, baby. It's Marty. Sorry about the mix-up-a-reno yesterday. Got my wires crossed. There's a guy stopping by later today to set up my guest house. I've gotta lot of old posters, memorabilia, boxes, the usual crap. The place is good-sized, Vince. There's a couch, even a wet bar, and a microwave so you can cook and drink. Fun, right? When and where should I pick you up? You can hang at my pad until it's ready."

  Morthisal quickly considered the offer. He glanced around the dingy room. The wallpaper was an eyesore from the decades past. It was a loud mix of mustard yellows, olive greens, and burnt oranges. The ceiling was stained a yellowish hue, likely from smoking—one of those peculiar things Morthisal could not understand.

  The motel room was, as Big Eddie would put it, 'a dive'. There was something about this place, though. Not the motel itself, per se. More, the ambiance, and the strange denizens who inhabited the space. Something told him he needed to remain here and learn as much about Hollywood as possible before he was in too deep.

  "Marty. I have accommodations in town. I am at the Hollywood Hacienda, and I believe I shall stay here for the time being. The people here are rather interesting. I intend to learn from observing them."

  "The place on Fountain? Woah. That place is a fucking hole, Vince, but I respect the grind. Is Jazz still there?"

  "He is."

  "Good guy that Jazz. Kinda got screwed over by this industry. That won't happen to you, Vince. Promise." Marty's voice sounded sincere. Having been at this motel for only a few days, Morthisal could not help but wonder if it was double-speak. "You wanna stay there and pick up some new roles? Do it, pal. You can learn a lot from the dwellers out in a place like the Hacienda. Guess I'll save this place for Betty when she has a few too many." Marty laughed.

  "What if I change my mind in a week or two?" Morthisal asked.

  "Sure. Sure, Vince. Anytime. So, Vince baby. We need to get you into the studio tomorrow. I'll send you the deets."

  "More shoots?"

  "Yeah, listen, Vince baby, we got some good news and some technical stuff to work through."

  Morthisal's stomach churned. He pressed his free hand against his abdomen and tried to focus on Marty's words.

  "The trailer went viral. Like really viral, as I know you're aware. We're talking millions of views. The studio backers want to capitalize on that momentum. They're pushing for some pickup shots and a few key reshoots."

  "Reshoots?"

  "Yeah, nothing major. We need to match some of the coverage from the Seattle shoot. The new money means we got access to Stage 12 at Paramount. Real deal green screens. Forty-foot ceilings. We can make Malakar's throne room look like it goes on forever. Cost a fortune, but I let some of Yvette Sterling's money do the talking. They might want a backend piece, but they ain't getting more than a point or two. Unless they pick us up for distribution."

  Morthisal's stomach bubbled ominously. He swallowed hard. "I see."

  "The DOP wants to grab some additional close-ups of your transformation sequence. We shot it practical in Seattle but the VFX house thinks they can sell it better with some clean plates. Plus we need some reaction shots for the final battle. Standard coverage stuff."

  "When do we start?"

  "Tomorrow morning. Call time is six AM. We'll wrap by lunch if everything goes smooth. The new backing from your friend Yvette really opened doors. We got the stage for two days, but I think we can knock it out in one."

  A wave of nausea threatened to surge up his throat. He gripped the phone tighter and managed to make his voice sound somewhat normal. "I'll be there."

  "How is Yvette doing anyway? Haven't heard from her since she cut that check."

  "She is well. Busy with her business ventures."

  Morthisal kept his answer vague. He would not mention their complicated situation or that Yvette planned to visit tonight. The less Marty knew about their personal affairs, the better.

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

  "Good, good. Smart lady. Sharp as a tack. You're lucky to have someone like that in your corner."

  Another surge of nausea hit Morthisal. His mouth filled with saliva.

  "Listen, Vince, I gotta run. Working on a new script. Something I think you'd be perfect for. Military thriller. Think John Wick meets The Parent Trap with a little Mummy tossed in. I'll fill you in tomorrow on set."

  "Actually, Marty, I had an idea for a Dark Realms sequel. Perhaps we could discuss it tomorrow as well."

  Marty laughed.

  "Whoa there, tiger. Don't get too excited about pitching ideas yet. You still got a lot to learn about this business. One movie ain't gonna make you a producer. Let's see how the reshoots go first."

  Morthisal's jaw clenched. The condescending tone rankled him. He could have reached into Marty's mind and twisted his thoughts until the man saw things Morthisal's way. But his stomach felt like it contained molten lead. His powers felt as weak as his body.

  "Of course. Tomorrow then."

  "That's the spirit. Get some rest. Drink plenty of water. And Vince? Don't party too hard at the Hacienda. That place has a reputation."

  "I shall keep that in mind. Goodbye, Marty."

  "Later, pal."

  Morthisal ended the call and dropped the phone on the bed. His stomach lurched violently. He pressed both hands against his mouth, but it was too late.

  He bolted from the bed and raced across the small room.

  After a long shower and a change of clothes, Morthisal felt considerably better. He wandered out and got a cup of coffee from a corner shop. He added a little oat milk and half a dozen sugar packets over his regular French creamer. Anything to keep his stomach in check.

  The store appeared to be older than the Hacienda, with shelves that barely clung to life, and to the walls. A child raced past him, screeching to his mother about the frozen ice cream treat he just had to have.

  Morthisal ignored the other shoppers, picked up a stomach remedy and some aloe which promised to soothe his burned skin. He'd worn his sunglasses, Seahawks ballcap, and kept his head down.

  Morthisal walked up half a block to use the crosswalk. Cars poured through the streets in both directions. Everything from classics, expensive sports cars, and vehicles that appeared to have survived an apocalyptic event.

  As he crossed at the crosswalk, being cautious since the drivers here seemed to be oblivious to everything around them, his cell phone buzzed.

  Once he was back on the sidewalk, he withdrew the phone and found a message from Yvette.

  In town earlier than expected. Can I meet you in thirty?

  Morthisal stopped and smiled.

  I look forward to it, Yvette.

  She left him on read.

  Morthisal paced the floor of his small room and sipped his coffee. The stomach medication, something called Pepto Bismol, had helped his belly stop doing flip-flops. He no longer felt nauseous, but he worried he might have to rush to the bathroom while Yvette was here.

  He checked his watch, then checked his phone, before pacing some more.

  Though the medication had helped his guts, his stomach tightened for a different reason, and they were all related to Yvette's visit. Morthisal had one chance at this.

  He went over various scenarios in his head and finally decided that he would assure Yvette that what she had seen was just a trick of the moment. It was high stress, and she may have imagined it. Yes. He could sell this. He hoped.

  Moments later, there was a tentative knock at the door. Morthisal peered out the door's peephole. Yvette stood before his door, dark hat in place, a brunette wig flowed around her shoulders, and a pair of oversized reflective glasses covered her eyes.

  Morthisal took a breath and opened the door.

  Yvette glanced over her shoulder, then slid past Morthisal into the little room.

  "Thank you for coming," Morthisal said.

  Yvette took a step backward. She removed her hat, wig, and sunglasses.

  Yvette stood near the door in simple street clothes. Dark jeans and a white blouse that somehow made her look effortlessly elegant. Her platinum blonde hair caught the dim light. Morthisal opened his mouth to speak, but he suddenly could not find the words.

  The ache in his chest intensified. Days without her had carved out something hollow. They had been drawn to each other, but now it was like they were strangers, at least from her perspective.

  He reached for her hand, hoping she would allow him to hold it.

  Yvette's hand slid to her side, and she took a cautious step back. A move that hurt Morthisal more than any harsh words she might have directed at him.

  Her gaze swept across the room, taking in the mustard yellow wallpaper, the cigarette burns on the nightstand, and the general look of the aging room.

  "This place looks like a 1970s fever dream," she said flatly.

  Morthisal nodded. "It serves my purposes. I am learning about the city and its people. The residents here are quite fascinating."

  "Residents?"

  "Former and current actors. Big Eddie has worked in films for decades. Kristol and Kenadee are aspiring reality television stars. They all have stories about this industry. I am a stranger to this land and must learn as much as I can."

  Yvette nodded, but her expression remained serious. "Vince. You remember what I came here for, right? I want the truth. Just what in the hell happened that day in Seattle? I know what I saw. I also know what I saw at the board meeting. I even went back and watched it."

  "Watched it?"

  "Yeah. The room had a camera. Do you think I was about to go into that meeting without having it recorded?"

  Morthisal swallowed loudly.

  "Things happened that are hard to understand. You and that woman seemed to have a hold on the other board members. That wasn't just theater with the files. Sure, you had dirt on them, but they were forced to sit there. How?"

  She paused, then added more gently, "Please tell me the truth. I miss you, but I'm going to cut all ties if you're doing something shady like drugging people."

  Morthisal's mind raced through his prepared responses. He could tell her she imagined it all. Stress from the board meeting. Trick of the light. He could gaslight her into believing her own senses had betrayed her. Or he could reveal everything—his true identity, the body swap, his otherworldly origins.

  He blew out a breath as he decided to try something different.

  "Yvette. I possess a unique ability that is difficult to put into words. I have struggled with how to tell you, and I fear you will not believe me. Or if I tell you the truth, you will believe it a fallacy."

  "Try me, Vince. I'm ready to listen."

  "I hope that is so." Morthisal blew out a breath, turned, clasped his hands behind his back, and strode toward the window.