Soul cringes as he listens to Star make yet another incredibly inappropriate joke.
"He's gunna get us kicked out," Soul grumbles to Harvar, the cameraman. "Again."
Harvar shrugs, his expression hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. "You didn't want to be the host," he points out. "We needed someone with charisma."
Soul glances over to Star and Maka, their hostess for the next few days and nights, to make sure they're keeping their job.
Thankfully, Maka is quick to shake off Black Star with a quick jab to the gut, to which he replies with more laughter, seeming to only incense her further.
Soul grins as he watches her stomp up the steps to the bubbling fountain, muttering dangerously the whole way up.
If she can hold her own against Star, he thinks, She just might survive. And we might actually get paid.
Soul helps Harvar unload the rest of their crap, setting it down on the sidewalk. He stares up at the castle and its many, many floors.
"Hey," he calls over to Maka.
She barely turns her head to reply, "What."
Soul's hands come up defensively, automatic, like he's approaching a crabby tiger. With a toothache.
"Where exactly are we staying?"
Maka turns back around, the question apparently unimportant.
"In the castle," she says flatly. "Second floor. Assistants are taking fresh sheets and electric lights to your rooms. You'll share one room," she adds, just with a dash of venom.
"Crap," Soul mutters, as Black Star preens.
"Aw, yesss, dude-bro sleepover party," Star says, flexing his biceps.
Maka eyes Star suspiciously.
"Last time we had a sleepover," Soul explains. "Star burned down a barn."
"Allegedly," Star adds.
Maka fumbles for her walkie-talkie. "I'll see what I can do about the rooms."
Black Star, who is probably part wolfhound, Soul decides, suddenly turns towards the long-ass drive way.
"We got trouble," Star says, shading his eyes with his hand.
A slick black car winds its way up the hills, creeping through the dirt like a shiny roach.
Maka puts her hand above her eyes to shade them, watching the car. "Who's that?"
Soul doesn't spare the car a glance, just drags his hand through his white hair, his eyes darting from the van to the castle to Maka and back again. "Wes."
Soul busies himself with lugging the equipment to the doors of the castle, not not attempting to hide himself behind the growing pile.
Wes, the eldest Evans brother, insists on personally inspecting every single site they film at. By inspecting, Wes usually shows up in an expensive suit and preens, adjusts the lights to suit his tastes, and leaves with at least 3 phone numbers from attractive strangers. But not before offering Soul a contract to host the web-series, because having the Evanses produce and host a popular web series would only further the family's reputation in media, and expand their multi-million dollar empire.
The thought makes Soul's breakfast inch up his throat.
Wes's car makes it up the hill and the door pops open as soon as it parks. Wes jumps out and looks around excitedly, drinking in the sights of Shibusen Castle, and a chunk of Soul's insides shrivel up and die.
"Gorgeous," Wes exclaims, stretching his arms out dramatically.
"Yeah, you are," Star calls back.
Wes grins and pulls Star into a hug. Star laughs and wraps his arms around Wes, then lifts him off his feet.
"Good to see you, man," Black Star says, and sets Wes back down on his feet. Star's hands slowly slip down Wes's back to grip his butt. "And good to see you."
Soul's eyes flutter shut, the image permanently searing into his mind. "Please," Soul chokes. "Stop groping my brother."
"What?" Star says, his fingers digging deeper into Wes's flash. "We're just bros being bros."
Harvar, arms full of equipment, pauses and nods to Wes. "Boss," he says in greeting.
Wes returns the nod. "Morning, Harvey! Way to unpack, you beautiful bastard."
Harvar turns slowly and dumps the contents of his arms on to the steps of the castle.
"I paid for those," remarks Wes mildly. He turns in Black Star's arms and holds his arms, like they're posing for a prom pictures.
"Smile, baby brother. This should be the best episode yet," Wes says gleefully. "A real haunted castle. I can't wait to see how this episode ends up."
"Oh, but you're not staying with us, right?" laments Soul. "Bummer. See you at Christmas."
Wes laughs. He shakes Star off and ruffles Soul's hair. "Not to worry. I'll be staying nearby. Someone has to take care of the young Evans heir."
"Shut up," Soul replies.
Out of the corner of his eye, Soul spots a hint of black blazer turned curiously in their direction. Before Soul can do anything, Wes spots Maka, who is still holding her position in front of castle, as if protecting its gray stone walls from them.
"And who is that lovely young woman?" Wes says. He shoves Soul to the side and strides over to Maka. Wes swiftly takes her hand in both of his and raises it to his lips.
"Hello," Wes says, his lips grazing the back of Maka's hand. "Wes Evans, of the media Evanses."
Maka raises an eyebrow. "I don't know what that means."
Wes gasps. "So charming." He gestures over vaguely his shoulder. "Have you met my brother, Soul?"
Soul's heart shrinks in his chest, curls up, and then sinks to the pit of his stomach.
"He's an amazing filmmaker, did you know?" Wes brags. "His cinematography on Spirit Slayers has won many web-based awards. He's a team player, and he does the voice overs for the show too- I'm sure you've noticed the raspy quality of his voice, very attractive, right? He also holds the boom! Very difficult, very heavy-"
Maka blinks rapidly. "Are you hitting on me, for him?"
"Wes," Soul interrupts, trying to keep the pitch of his voice within a human range. "Go to your hotel room. We gotta record."
"Right, right," Wes says, dropping Maka's hand. "I will leave you to your art."
Wes strolls back to his car, leaving Maka staring at her hand, and disappears into the backseat. Soul follows and makes sure to shut the car down firmly, but to his chagrin, the window rolls down.
"By the way, baby brother," Wes says with a wan smile. "Father looks forward to watching this episode."
The window rolls up and the car drives away. The wheels kick up dirt and gravel rocks, leaving Soul to slap the dust off of his pants.
Hands on his knees, Soul closes his eyes and counts to ten.
"What the hell was that?"
Soul straightens, and his hand flies to his hair.
Maka laughs. "You're jumpy for a Ghost Catcher."
Soul grinds his teeth, wincing as the sharp points rub together.
Another reason he couldn't be host.
"Spirit Slayer," he corrects, tugs his jacket off and tosses it on top if the nearest case. He wasn't about to get the anxiety sweats in front of a very cute, very odd girl. "I just hold the boom."
Maka cocks her head. "Like the fuzzy pole thing?"
"Yeah," Soul says. "Uh, here. I'll show you." He leads her up the steps to the pile of equipment and opens one case.
"It's a Shotgun microphone, and it gets attached to the boom pole," he explains, and attaches the microphone to the pole. "Then you just-" he lifts it over his head, two hands on the pole. A gentle breeze tickles the skin of his stomach where his shirt lifts up, a little embarrassed but pleased when Maka's eyes dart to the cold spot right below his shirt and above his jeans.
He lowers the boom sheepishly. "Uh, that's it." Soul holds the boom out to Maka. "You wanna try?"
"Yeah, sure," she says, startled. Maka tugs off her pristine black blazer and trades Soul for the boom. She grips tightly between her two hands and raises it above her head. Biceps Soul didn't notice before catch his attention.
Under the drab business wear lay some bands of muscle on the charming little docent.
Eyeing Maka, Soul isn't mad about it.
"It's heavy," she grunts.
"You got the guns," Soul blurts, feeling heat creep up his neck. "You'll be fine."
Maka snorts, equally pink, and lowers the boom. Black Star, moment-ruiner supreme, takes the opportunity to makes a square with his fingers and thumb, then looks through the makeshift frame with one eye, centered solely on Soul and Maka.
"Yeah," Black Star says, nodding. "We'll do the intro here, featuring Soul, the incredible dork seducer."
Maka glares at Star and slips her jacket back on. She takes her personal walkie-talkie from her pocket and launches it, expression blank, at Black Star. It hits him square in the face and Star goes down, sprawled flat on the pavement.
"I pitch for the castle's softball team," Maka explains sheepishly. "Anyway, thanks for showing me the pole thing," she says, avoiding Soul's eye.
"No problem," he mumbles back.
Maka shuffles off to open the wide wooden doors, and Soul takes advantage of her turned back to punch a prone Star square in the gut.
Star barely flinches while Soul's knuckles ache from the impact against obsessively cultivated abs.
"Try not to hit that while we're filming," advises Star, as he gets to his feet. "We don't want to get kicked out cuz you're a shitty lay."
Soul swears profusely. "I'm not trying to get laid. I'm trying to film a series."
Star raises his hands in front of himself defensively. "Dude it's your ass on the line; I'm just trying to be helpful."
"Be less helpful," Soul growls. "And be more sane."
"Not on your life," Black Star says, and then struts towards the double doors.
Soul's breakfast slowly creeps up his throat, but he swallows it down. A dreadful, familiar cold sweat erupts on the back of his neck, trickling down to his chest, and suddenly he's 12 again and sitting on the bench of a piano. He can still hear the silence echoing in his ears, his brother's helpless shrug burned into the whites of his eyes.
"Evans," grunts Harvar, interrupting Soul's panic.
Harvar is loaded down with the last of the equipment, a stubborn attempt to move it all at once. Soul takes a folded tripod from the top of the pile with trembling hands.
This is his job now. No piano, no eyes on him.
It's better for everyone.
Kid watches as Maka ineptly flirt with a crew member from his office window, and winces when she throws her walkie (that he paid for) at the blue one.
It better have stayed intact. He's not sure how soon, if ever, he could replace it.
"Stop being weird, Kiddy-Cat," says Patti, throwing herself onto Kid's second favorite chair. "Stalking is a felony."
Kid ignores her, and instead asks, "How are the tours going?"
Patti takes a sudden interest in her cuticles, replying, "Fine," rather curtly.
He waits, tapping his toes on the hardwood floors.
Patti rolls her eyes and off the armchair to the floor, hiding her face in the crack between chair and wood.
Kidd grimaces. "That bad?"
"We've had dozens of cancellations," Patti admits. "There have only been five drop-in tours between me and Liz." She pounds her fist on the floor once, the sound hollow. "It tore the heads off of the pool statues."
Kid squeezes the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "It?" he deigns to ask.
Patti turns her head to glare at him. "You know what it is. That's why you called the ghost busters."
"Spirit Slayers," he corrects. "As we have discussed, it's for publicity."
"That's bullshit, Sissy says so," says Patti, and lifts herself off the ground to reseat herself on the armchair. "She says you're more scared than she is."
"Impossible," Kid snorts, ignoring the tinge of truth.
By now, in a small closet off the main hall, lay a small collection of damaged art. Paintings sliced down the middle, or ripped from their frames, and broken vases.
But severed marble heads, more than one, was a first, and an exponential leap.
Patti shrugs. "You're still scared. We're losing money."
"That's the scariest part," Kid confesses. "The Yelp reviews have been unkind."
He turns his attention back to the foolishness outside of his window.
"This may be our last chance to save the castle. And ourselves," he adds gravely.
