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soundstage, he could hear men on the catwalks, positioning cool blue gels over the lights to simulate the full moon.
    “ Now are you ready, Lance?” the director said, fitting another cigarette into his ivory holder. “Or do you think maybe we should just take a coffee break for an hour or so?”
    “That’s not necessary, Mr. Derwell. I’m ready. Just give the word, see?” He growled for good measure.
    “Places everyone!”
    Lance ran his fingers over the piano keyboard, ‘tickling the old ivories,’ as real piano players called it. No sound came out. Lance couldn’t play a note, of course, so the prop men had cut all the piano wires, holding the instrument in merciful silence no matter how enthusiastically Lance might bang on it. They would add the beautiful piano melody to the soundtrack during post-production.
    “ Wolfman in Casablanca , Scene 23, Take One.” The clapboard cracked.
    “Action!” Derwell called.
    The klieg lights came on, pouring hot white illumination on the set. Lance stiffened at the piano, then began to hum and pretend to plink on the keys.
    In this scene, the werewolf has taken a job as a piano player in a nightclub, where he has met Brigitte, the vacationing French resistance fighter. While playing “As Time Goes By,” Lance’s character looks up to see the full moon shining down through the nightclub’s skylight. To keep from having to interrupt filming, Derwell had planned to shoot Lance from the back only as he played the piano, not showing his face until after he had supposedly started to transform. But now Lance didn’t appear to wear any makeup at all—he wondered what would happen when Derwell noticed, but he plunged into the performance nevertheless. That would be Zoltan’s problem, not his.
    At the appropriate point, Lance froze at the keyboard, forcing his fingers to tremble as he stared at them. On the soundtrack, the music would stop in mid-note. The false moonlight shone down on him. Lance formed his face into his best expression of abject horror.
    “Oh, God! Please no! Not again! Don’t let it happen HERE !!!” Lance clutched his chest, slid sideways, and did a graceful but dramatic topple off the piano bench.
    On cue, one of the extras screamed. The bartender dropped a glass, which shattered on the tiles.
    On the floor, Lance couldn’t stop writhing. His own body felt as if it were being turned inside out. He had really learned how to bury himself in the role! His face and hands itched, burned. His fingers curled and clenched. It felt terrific. It felt real to him. He let out a moaning scream—and it took him a moment to realize it wasn’t part of the act.
    Off behind the cameras, Lance could see Rino Derwell jumping up and down with delight, jerking both his thumbs up in silent admiration for Lance’s performance. “Cut!”
    Lance tried to lie still. They would need to add the next layer of hair and makeup. Zoltan would come in and paste one of the latex appliances onto his eyebrows, darken his nails with shoe polish.
    But Lance felt his own nails sharpening, curling into claws. Hair sprouted from the backs of his hands. His cheeks tingled and burned. His ears felt sharp and stretched, protruding from the back of his head. His face tightened and elongated; his mouth filled with fangs.
    “No, wait!” Derwell shouted at the cameraman. “Keep rolling! Keep rolling!”
    “Look at that!” the director’s assistant said.
    Lance tried to say something, but he could only growl. His body tightened and felt ready to explode with anger. He found it difficult to concentrate, but some part of his mind knew what he had to do. After all, he had read the script.
    Leaping up from the nightclub dance floor, Lance strained until his clothes ripped under his bulging lupine muscles. With a roar and a spray of saliva from his fang-filled jaws, he smashed the piano bench prop into kindling, knocking it aside.
    Four of the extras screamed, even without their cues.
    Lance