Chapter 2: The Watcher in the Hills

Chapter 2: The Watcher in the Hills

The Hollywood Hills are a different country at 3 AM. The opulence and noise of the day recede, leaving behind a silent, watchful kingdom of dark canyons and glittering mansions. From the driver's seat of his Ford, parked on a dusty turnout overlooking Seraphina Vance's estate, Jack Thorne felt like a peasant spying on the gods.

For three nights he’d been here, fueled by bitter coffee from a stained thermos and the stale taste of frustration. He watched the house, a monolith of light against the black velvet of the hills. He watched the gates. He watched the winding road. Nothing. No shadowy figure, no suspicious vehicle. Fredrick Marr was a ghost.

Jack ran a hand over his face, the stubble scratching his palm. His initial approach had been pure, old-fashioned PI work. He’d run the name "Fredrick Marr" through every database he had access to, both legal and less so. The search came up empty. No driver's license, no credit history, no social security number. It was like the man didn’t exist.

The letters Seraphina had given him were laid out on the passenger seat. In the dim glow of his phone screen, the elegant cursive was a spider's web of careful manipulation. Full of poetic praise and unnervingly specific details, they preyed on every insecurity a person living in the public eye would have. They promised a love that saw past the fame, a connection that was pure and absolute. It was a predator’s perfect lure.

By the fourth night, Jack knew he was hunting the wrong way. A creature that could weave its influence into a person’s soul from a distance wasn’t going to trip a motion sensor. This wasn’t a man; it was an infection.

He got out of the car and walked to the edge of the overlook, the cool night air a welcome slap. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, tarnished silver locket. It didn’t contain a picture. Instead, suspended inside a circle of polished glass was a single iron filing, hanging from a spider-silk thread. An old gift from an even older informant. It was a crude tool, but effective. It pointed not north, but towards focused arcane energy.

He held it up. The needle trembled, then swung lazily, pointing vaguely towards the city, then the ocean, then back. There was magic everywhere in L.A., a low hum of background radiation from a hundred different secret practices. He wasn’t looking for a hum; he was looking for a spike.

He walked the perimeter of the road overlooking her property. Every so often, he’d stop and take a pinch of fine, black powder from a pouch—a mixture of salt and crushed obsidian—and toss it into the air. Most of it fell inertly to the asphalt. But near a dense thicket of bougainvillea that offered a perfect, hidden view of Seraphina’s front door, the powder shimmered as it fell, catching an invisible light for a split second before vanishing.

He knelt. The Glimmer in his eyes flared, and he could see it: a faint, ethereal stain on the ground, like a gasoline rainbow on a puddle. It was a residue of presence, a magical footprint. And it reeked of that same, soul-rotting sweetness he’d smelled clinging to Seraphina’s aura.

Fredrick Marr had been here. But not as a man waiting to be caught. He had stood here, pouring his will, his influence, towards the house like a signal from a radio tower. He wasn’t breaking in; he was being invited.

Jack’s phone buzzed. It was Seraphina.

“Anything?” she asked. Her voice was flat, lacking the anxious energy of their first meeting.

“He’s been here,” Jack said, his eyes still fixed on the magical stain. “But not in the way you’d think. He’s not physically trying to get to you. This is something else. We need to talk. I need to see you.”

There was a long pause. “I’m… very busy, Mr. Thorne. Pre-production on the new film.”

“This is more important,” he pressed. “Your security is compromised in a way your guards can’t handle.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said, but her tone was dismissive. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” She hung up before he could argue.

The call left a knot of ice in his stomach. The fire he had seen in her Glimmer was dimming. The creature was isolating her, making him seem like the paranoid one, the inconvenience.

The next day, she didn’t call. His own calls went to her voicemail. The day after that, he got a call from her manager, Arthur Gable.

“Mr. Thorne, Miss Vance has instructed me to terminate your services.”

“Like hell,” Jack snarled. “Put her on the phone.”

“That won’t be possible. Your final check is in the mail. She thanks you for your time and asks that you cease all contact.” Gable’s voice was strained, the forced cheerfulness of a man delivering a message at gunpoint.

But then another voice came on the line. It was Seraphina.

“It’s alright, Arthur. I can handle it.” Her voice was… calm. Eerily so. It was a smooth, placid pool where a bonfire had once raged. The anxious, fiery woman he’d met three days ago was gone, replaced by this serene, hollow doll.

“Mr. Thorne,” she said, her tone as sweet and cloying as the magical rot that now owned her. “Thank you for your concern, but I’ve come to realize I was mistaken. There is no threat. I was being silly. Fredrick… he’s not a danger to me. He’s a comfort. I won’t be needing your services any longer.”

The line went dead.

Jack stood in his dusty office, the receiver still pressed to his ear. He’d been outmaneuvered. While he was hunting for a man in the bushes, the monster had simply walked through the front door of her mind and made itself at home. He had failed.

He slammed the phone down, the plastic cracking under the force. He scrubbed at the scar over his eye, a useless gesture against the dread coiling in his gut. What now? He couldn't force his way into her life. To the rest of the world, she was a star who’d had a brief scare and changed her mind. He was just the fired help.

Defeated, he slumped into his chair and idly clicked open a web browser on his ancient laptop. He navigated to one of the glossy, hate-read celebrity gossip sites. And there it was. The headline, posted less than an hour ago, hit him like a physical blow.

SERAPHINA VANCE ELOPES! Hollywood’s Sweetheart in Shock Wedding to Mystery Man!

Below the headline was a picture. A candid shot, likely from a paparazzo’s long lens. Seraphina Vance stood on a beach in a simple white dress, a radiant, happy smile on her face. But her eyes, the vibrant, expressive eyes he remembered, were vacant. They were windows into an empty room.

And standing next to her, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist, was a handsome man with an unnervingly perfect, clean-cut smile and placid blue eyes.

The caption read: The lucky groom has been identified as Fredrick Marr, a charming newcomer who has utterly captured the star’s heart.