Morthisal stared at his phone on Friday night. The screen's glow illuminated his face in the dim apartment. He pulled Yvette's business card from his pocket and studied the elegant typeface of her name and phone number. The card felt expensive and was printed on cardstock with raised lettering.

  He looked back at his phone. Her words echoed in his mind: "Please don't make me regret giving it to you." He couldn't decide if this was a threat or an invitation.

  Morthisal placed the phone on the coffee table and reached for the remote instead. The television flickered to life and he navigated to Netflix, put on the next season of Love Is Blind, and settled back into the couch cushions.

  The show's participants engaged in ridiculous romantic drama, which Morthisal was beginning to suspect was not rooted in reality but instead was an elaborate play-acting drama. His attention drifted. Ten minutes passed before he grabbed his phone again and punched in the first few digits of Yvette's number. His thumb hovered over the next number.

  "This is foolish," he muttered to himself and set the phone down once more after pressing the power button. The screen went blank.

  Morthisal went to the kitchen and mixed up an extra strong Sex on the Beach. He drank it quickly. He was not interested in a "buzz" as he had heard it called; he simply desired to get a good night's rest.

  The contestants on the show continued their drama, punctuated by short interviews, but Morthisal barely registered their words. His gaze returned to the phone and the business card beside it.

  After half of the next episode, Morthisal blew out a long sigh and stood up. He turned off the television.

  "Time to end this day," he decided.

  Morthisal moved through his nightly security routine. First, he wedged a wooden chair under the doorknob at an angle that would prevent anyone from forcing entry. Next, he checked each window lock, testing them twice. He opened the cabinet under his sink and removed several empty aluminum soda cans. He carefully positioned them along each windowsill, angled so they would fall on the floor if anyone attempted to force a window open.

  Morthisal's body was exhausted as he crawled into bed. Sleep claimed him quickly.

  He found himself in a dream. Yvette appeared, but was transformed. Her skin was pale white with an otherworldly glow. Her ears had grown long and pointed. Her blonde hair became silver-white, and her features sharpened to elvish proportions. She wielded a slender wand that pulsed with arcane energy.

  "You think you have power?" dream-Yvette asked, and with a flick of her wand, sent Morthisal tumbling across the room.

  Morthisal drank a large cup of coffee with extra creamer. He picked up his phone and again considered calling Yvette, but looked at the time. Six a.m. A woman of her means probably enjoyed sleeping late. When he had been on Mythralon, not much work had begun until late afternoon at the earliest.

  He dressed in comfortable slacks and wore his Dark Lord Energy t-shirt under a sweater. After slicking back his hair with something called pomade that he had discovered buried in the back of Vince's bathroom cabinet, he cleaned his teeth and rinsed with two separate mouthwashes because each promised different results.

  Morthisal took the nearly empty bus to the movie shoot. The vehicle rumbled through the quiet morning streets. Few passengers occupied the seats. Most stared at their phones or dozed against windows. Morthisal nearly joined in, but he worried that he would miss the bus stop if he closed his eyes.

  After arriving at the studio, Morthisal entered and was met by a few smiles and head nods. This was certainly different from last week when he had been met with rudeness. The set buzzed with early morning activity. Crew members hauled equipment. Assistants rushed past with clipboards. But there was no sign of the director.

  "Where's Klein?" Morthisal asked a passing grip.

  "Won't be in for a few hours," the man replied without stopping.

  Morthisal clenched his fists. The inconvenience grated on him.

  "Are Betty Mead or Honor April here?" He forced himself to sound polite to a woman with a headset.

  "Not yet," she answered, barely glancing up from her clipboard.

  Morthisal paced the set.

  A stocky man with a scraggly beard approached. Morthisal recognized him—one of the crew members who had sneered at him during his first visit. Morthisal gathered a thread of power in case he was given the runaround again.

  "Hey, man! I'm Derek," the man said, extending his hand. "Just wanted to introduce myself properly."

  Morthisal hesitated and then accepted the handshake. The custom still puzzled him. Why did humans insist on so much unnecessary physical contact?

  "Dude. Can I just say that your performance last week blew me away?" Derek continued. "Nice work. Way better than that blowhard Tommy Clayton Jr."

  "Your praise is...appreciated," Morthisal replied with a slight nod.

  "Someone mentioned that you'd never been to acting school. So, how did you put on that master class last weekend?"

  "I have had real world experience to draw upon," Morthisal sagely replied.

  A few crew members and extras gathered around him.

  "Where'd you study acting?" asked a young woman with bright red hair.

  "He didn't," Derek told her. "We were just talking about that. He's a natural."

  Morthisal nodded along. "A natural. Yes. It does come to me quite naturally."

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

  "What's your process for getting into character?" a tall man in a black t-shirt chimed in.

  Morthisal straightened his posture. "My ability to command attention is innate. When I speak, I assume all those around me should listen. Is that not the way of leading?"

  The small crowd nodded appreciatively.

  Remembering his t-shirt, Morthisal slipped out of his jacket and handed it to Derek, who took it without hesitation. He slid the sweater over his head so his shirt would be on display.

  "This." Morthisal pointed at the Dark Lord Energy logo. "This is what powers my performance."

  "A t-shirt powers you?" one of the other cast members asked.

  "No, imbecile. I am fueled by dark lord energy."

  The others laughed, including the guy who had asked the question.

  "Brilliant, and so method," the young woman said, nodding at his shirt. "Where did you buy the shirt? I need one."

  "I had it made."

  "Wait. That's original?" Derek exclaimed. "You should sell those. You could make a fortune."

  "Perhaps you are right," Morthisal acknowledged. This was the second time someone had suggested such a thing.

  The red-haired woman added, "I always wondered what real method acting was like, and here it is. It's impressive, er, should we all call you Dark Lord?"

  "Why, thank you, my dear," Morthisal said with a slight smile. "And I find that quite appealing. Yes, feel free to call me Dark Lord."

  Was she blushing?

  "No problem. Maybe we can talk sometime off-set. I'd love to pick your brain. Vince…er, Dark Lord."

  "I have use for my brain. No meddling," Morthisal leaned forward and warned, sending the woman into peals of laughter.

  "I'm Lori. Lori Strout."

  He took her hand in his, held it wrist side up, and leaned over it slightly. "I am Dark Lord Morthisal. A pleasure."

  This led to more laughter. Morthisal looked around at the faces and wondered if he had inadvertently charmed these people last week.

  A short guy with a huge bushy moustache that ran to his chin carried a clipboard and pushed through the small crowd. "Mr. Logan? We need you in hair and makeup."

  Morthisal nodded to his new admirers.

  "Break a leg out there!" called one of the grips.

  "Pah! I very much intend not to break anything," Morthisal replied with a dismissive wave.

  The group erupted in laughter again.

  "That guy is one of the best actors I've ever seen," a crew member whispered loudly to his colleague.

  Morthisal smiled as he walked away. Their admiration was well-deserved. He scanned the area for any sign of the directors or their assistants as he stepped onto the new stage. The production space remained quiet except for the occasional crew member shuffling equipment.

  This stage differed from the one he had stood upon last week. The familiar green screen still stretched across the back wall, but now the floor featured a collection of painted styrofoam rocks. Artificial trees with plastic leaves stood at odd angles. Their trunks were made of some lightweight material that wobbled when he brushed past them. Large box fans lined the perimeter of the stage. Extension cords snaked across the floor, taped down with strips of black tape that peeled at the edges.

  His robes felt more comfortable this week. The costume department had tightened the outfit, which had hung too loosely during his previous performance. Gold stitching now adorned the hem and sleeves, catching the light when he moved. A strange symbol was embroidered on the front over the left side of his chest.

  "What does this symbol mean?" Morthisal asked a passing crew member.

  The young man paused and shrugged. "It's just some made up shit. Looks cool, though, right?"

  "I suppose it does. I could have made a design much more realistic."

  "Oh, could you, now?" she said as she walked away.

  "Very much so," he told her departing form.

  Morthisal spotted a script on a small table at the edge of the stage. He picked it up, flipped through the pages, and absorbed the gist of his lines. The dialogue seemed improved from the previous version, but he decided to improvise again.

  The door at the back of the room banged open and Marty Klein strode in. Morthisal leaned his artificial magic staff against the wall.

  Betty Mead and Honor April flanked Marty as they entered. The three huddled together, heads bent over a clipboard. Morthisal hesitated. He needed to conserve his power reserves. Enchanting all three of them simultaneously would drain him. If Thalindra appeared and attempted to kill him, he would need every thread of power at his disposal.

  He stepped down from the stage and approached the trio. Marty looked up from the clipboard, and his face brightened.

  "Good morning, Vince! Ready to give another killer performance? We've been talking about you. Everyone on set has been," Marty said.

  Morthisal refused to engage in pleasantries. "When will I get paid, Marty?" he asked, his voice firm.

  Marty's smile faltered. "We'll have a check for you next week. The week after at the latest."

  "That is unacceptable," Morthisal replied.

  "Everything's on the up and up, I promise." Marty waved his hands. "These things take time."

  Morthisal stepped back and pulled the robe over his head. He placed it carefully on the stage.

  "I am going home," he announced. "I can make more money delivering food than to waste an entire day here without pay."

  Honor moved to intercept him. "Let's not be hasty—"

  Betty touched Marty's arm and leaned close. "This is what happens when you don't pay the talent. I've warned you about this."

  Morthisal turned toward the entrance and searched for his jacket and sweater.

  "Are you serious?" Marty yelled after him.

  Morthisal paused. "Do I not appear to be serious?"

  Derek rushed forward with Morthisal's jacket. "Here you go, man."

  "Wait!" Marty shouted.

  Morthisal turned.

  Marty beckoned him over with frantic hand gestures. "Fine. Fine. Betty is going to get you a check cut today. How does five hundred sound? That will cover this weekend and last."

  Morthisal approached and clapped Marty on the shoulder. "Very good, Marty. I knew you to be a reasonable man."

  Marty's face twitched. His mouth opened slightly, then closed, and he blinked rapidly. The director's shoulders tensed as he stared at Morthisal's hand, still resting on his shoulder, then shrugged away from it.

  Morthisal returned to the stage with a self-satisfied smile. He got on the wooden structure and picked up the script again. His parts were highlighted. He studied them, and his mind was already working on how to make them sound more realistic.

  "Hey, Vince. You got a visitor." Derek interrupted.

  Marty stood off to the side, arms crossed, as Honor spoke to him. He looked up and frowned at Morthisal, then turned and yelled, "We don't allow visitors."

  Derek rushed toward them, eyes wide, and said, slightly breathlessly, "It's Yvette Sterling."

  Morthisal couldn't help it. A smile creased his lips.

  "The Yvette Sterling?" Marty did a double take.

  "Yeah. It's her," Derek replied. "What the hell, man?"

  Morthisal cleared his throat and addressed Marty. "She is a friend."

  Marty blinked several times, then turned to Betty and Honor and hissed, "Get the crew to clean this place up. Quickly. " He turned to Morthisal and said, "Stall her for a few minutes."

  Morthisal nodded, but he had no intention of delaying her.

  He started to step down from the stage, but had a thought. Morthisal reached over, picked up the dark lord's robe, and shrugged back into the garment.

  This is a reminder that very few chapters will be posted between March 28th and April 10th. I'll be in Europe doing a river boat tour of The Rhiene in Germany. Plus, a stop in Amsterdam and England.