if completely aware she was being watched, the woman turned to stare at Marnie. She winked, waved and smiled deeply—as if it were a terrific joke, as if she were hiding, as if it were normal that no one else seemed to see her.
It was Cara.
Cara Barton.
It couldn’t be. Of course, it couldn’t be. Marnie had seen her die.
She had seen the sudden surge of blood that had erupted from her friend’s throat.
She could remember staring, frowning, in absolute disbelief and confusion. Because what had happened—Cara being sliced apart by the lighted sword as if it were a real blade—was impossible. It was just a comic con, for God’s sake...
But it had been real. The blade had been real.
And she had screamed and screamed, and hunkered down by her fallen friend, trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood. Everyone had been screaming, people had been running. Some—even more confused than she had been—had applauded!
Not at death, no, not the horror of death.
They had thought themselves privy to a very special show. But then the EMTs had arrived and the police and the crime scene investigators. And she had been inspected and questioned, and then inspected and questioned some more. And she had tried to remember everything there had been to remember about that day: the beautiful German shepherd by them, whining every time his nose got hit with a drip of water from the leaky ceiling. She had spoken to Zane—the old Western star—and been impressed with his charm and humility. They hadn’t met before. She’d had her picture taken with at least two dozen guys dressed up as Marvel superheroes, another dozen or so zombies and, of course, because of Dark Harbor, tons of vampires, werewolves and shape-shifters.
And, before that particular Blood-bone had appeared, she’d had her picture taken with a few other people dressed up as the character, as well.
It was highly possible, the police had told her, that one of them had been the killer.
Cara Barton was dead. She had died in Marnie’s arms.
And yet there she was, watching the proceedings, nodding with approval as the priest went on emotionally, as Roberta cried softly, as others followed suit.
The priest’s words came to an end. Marnie remembered that she’d been holding a rose; a number of people, those who had been closest to Cara in life, were stepping forward, dropping their roses onto the coffin. It was almost time to leave. Cara’s coffin would be lowered into the ground.
Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes.
Cara had always known that she would be buried here, in Hollywood’s oldest cemetery, close to so many actors, directors, writers, producers and musicians she had known and loved. She’d adored the place. Marnie had come with her once to see a showing of a black-and-white silent classic on one of the large mausoleum walls; Cara had giggled and said it was like a living cemetery. They could catch a flick—and leave roses on the graves of Rudolph Valentino, Cecille B. DeMille and so many, many more. Sometimes there were concerts in the cemetery. Johnny Ramone would surely love it.
Cara Barton was dead. Cara Barton would soon be lowered into the ground in the cemetery she had always loved so much—where she had always known she wanted to be.
Someday.
It shouldn’t have been so soon...
Marnie blinked. She could still see her.
The woman looked just like Cara. She was grave; she was sad, and then she clapped her hands and wiped her tears, delighted as the hot star of the day stepped forward, casting down a rose and saying, “She was truly an enormous talent! Such a devastating loss!”
Marnie followed Roberta Alan, Jeremy Highsmith and Grayson Adair, all casting their roses over the coffin.
She stopped dead, staring across the coffin.
Cara was there. Cara. Not someone who looked like Cara.
She looked at Marnie and smiled sadly. “Did you see? Oh, Marnie. Everyone is here. Oh, my Lord. I mean everyone who is anyone. This is so wonderful. If only...”
Marnie froze. Obviously, it had all just been too much.
Cara dying in her arms.
The blood.
The EMTs taking Cara’s body from her. She had just sat there. She could still see the blood, feel the blood, smell the blood.
And see the character—Blood-bone.
For what had seemed like an eternity, he had just stood there, staring at them all while those in the crowd went crazy clapping.
Then he had turned and disappeared into the crowd. It had taken forever, so it had seemed, for people to realize that her screams were real, that something terrible had really happened. It had been no performance.
Crazy. So damned crazy.
And every night now, Marnie had nightmares that featured Blood-bone dancing before her, wielding that sword with its array of colors...
Not just a light-up sword. A real sword.
She had made it through the day. Through the comic con being closed down. Through the questioning by the police. Through the hours of smelling her friend’s blood...until she could finally change into the police-issued scrubs.
And she was still moving. She didn’t know if she was or wasn’t in shock. She just kept going through all the right motions.
She had to be in shock. Or the events being so crazy had turned into her being crazy.
“Marnie?” Grayson Adair had turned back to her. He looked at her with sorrowful affection, like a real big brother.
She blinked. She cast down her rose, looking across the coffin to the other side of the grave.
Cara was still standing there. She gave Marnie a thumbs-up.
It was impossible. Apparently, Grayson Adair did not see Cara.
Surely that meant that Cara was not really there. But Grayson not seeing Cara was not the only reason she could not be there. Cara could not be there because Cara was dead. Her poor murdered body lay in the coffin.
Cara wasn’t there—not really. She was just there in Marnie’s worn and tormented mind. Marnie took a deep breath and pretended she wasn’t hallucinating.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
“Marnie?”
Grayson was speaking again, looking back at her and offering her an arm.
Marnie took it. But as they started out, she felt something. Something extremely strange, as if a cool fog had formed into some kind of substance on her other side.
She looked to her left. To her free arm.
It wasn’t free; Cara had come up beside her. She had slipped her arm through Marnie’s and was walking at her side.
“At least it was a sensational funeral,” Cara said. “I’m so grateful. Oh, not for being murdered, though, of course, that does mean that I’ll be famous forever. I’ve seen the headlines—Famous TV Matriarch Brutally Taken by Blood-Bone Character. And they said that I was beautiful and aging gracefully. I’ve seen everything you’ve said, too. You are just such a little doll. Frankly, you’re a little too good and innocent, and you really don’t belong in Hollywood. Where was it you came from originally? Atlanta, right? How rude of me not to really remember, but then again, I was meant to live in the dog-eat-dog and plastic part of Hollywood—I do believe that it is all about me!”
It sounded like Cara Barton; the voice was just a little bit raspy, as if it had been created from the wind or the air. The cadence was all Cara, as was the admission that yes, the world was all about her.
Even