Slay

by Matthew Laurence

  I’ll find a way to impress them, to leave a mark on the collective consciousness of mankind they won’t be able to shrug off so easily. Just wait, people. Just wait.

  I watch through the window a bit longer, then recline in my chair and pull a fashion magazine out of my bag. It’s a long flight to LA—might as well read up on the latest styles. Part of me itches with glee at all the shopping I’ll need to do. There’s a brand-new scene out there, and I’ll have to look my best if I want to fit in.

  This is so exciting! Celebrity status and Hollywood stardom are waiting for me. The call of fame has been a part of my soul since before the concept even existed, and now I’ll be chasing the dream that’s already ensnared thousands of would-be starlets. I might just have the edge on all of them, though, because while I’m probably not the finest singer or actress, I am the most beautiful goddess in the world. And if that’s not enough, I can always force people to love me, so hey, I’ve probably got this in the bag.

  I allow a self-satisfied smirk to make an appearance on my lips, feeling like the answers to my many problems are just a few hours away. With all this smug certainty, it’s a wonder alarm bells aren’t going off in my head. I’ve certainly been around long enough to know better. Gods may have the market cornered on cockiness, after all, but that doesn’t mean we’re immune to good old hubris-induced disasters.

  And there really is something I’m missing here, incidentally. It’s the reason I got so upset with Sekhmet earlier, and the reason I was so uneasy about using my gift to get us through security: the fear that someone was watching.

  As it turns out, someone was.

  5

  STAR POWER

  FREYA

  Maybe I’m still out of touch. Like all gods, my origins are in the fields and freeholds, in the unknown wildernesses of a time when the largest city in the entire world might—might—hold a million souls. Los Angeles has a population almost four times that size in its center alone, and the number skyrockets to nearly thirteen million when you include the surrounding metropolitan areas. Florida as a state isn’t much bigger, relatively speaking.

  I thought I was “with it” and hip to the modern era, but this is mind-boggling in the extreme. The seething mass of hopes and dreams around me isn’t the real surprise, either. I mean, I’ve been to big cities before, but this place has a certain extra “spice” to it that feels about as far removed from the stoic superstition of the past as you can get. Where do I even begin? The reckless cab ride through a congested sea of automotive anger? Or perhaps the walk all tourists must take down Hollywood Boulevard? There, I was distracted from a pink cowboy and a collection of superheroes by Sekhmet decking an overly pushy man thrusting stacks of CDs at her while a homeless gentleman screamed expletives and informed us he was going to “see what Thomas Edison” had to say about the affair. This place mixes the best and worst of humanity in a blender of glitz and urban sprawl, and I have to admit it’s fairly addictive.

  There’s an honesty here I never realized I was missing, a sense that whoever you are or whatever you do, it’s okay: There’s a place for you. Every culture, every fetish, every lifestyle … every last one is accepted somewhere in this sprawling land of sun and sin. Those vapid socialites you’ve all read about in the tabloids? They aren’t fake here; they’re authentically shallow, seemingly unburdened by the need to hide their greed and vanity behind a thin veneer of social convention. I can appreciate that, I really can. As a creature who can already sense the hidden hopes and desires of mankind, I see it as a refreshing change of pace.

  I grin as we finish our first tour of the city, the sunset in my eyes as we descend from the heights of Mulholland Drive, down Laurel Canyon Boulevard, and into the heart of West Hollywood. The brands, the movie posters, the people—oh, oh, this is too much. I think I’m tearing up a bit as I open myself to it and realize just how closely the heart of this city beats in time with my own.

  Vanity. Fertility. Love. Magic. Even war has its place here. Has there ever been a better fit?

  “Sara, are you okay?” Nathan asks. The leather beneath him squeaks as he leans forward—we traded in our taxi for a limousine once we were in the city proper. It seemed appropriate.

  I bring up a hand and wipe at my eyes, drawing away fingertips coated in shimmering yellow. Tears of gold. Laughter bubbles out of me, colored with shock and delight. How long has it been since they did that?

  “It’s this place,” I say, giggling like an idiot. “It’s just so … me.”

  Sekhmet, standing up in the center of the passenger compartment so she can look out the sunroof, raps the metal to get our attention. “They have a zoo!” she yells so we can hear. She folds her knees, pulling herself back down and pointing out the window at a billboard. She has a silly smile, too—I think this is her first ride in a limo. “I wish to go, when there is time. It has been ages since I spoke to my kin.”

  Nathan opens his mouth in confusion, muttering, “I took her to Animal Kingdom last week!” Then he points at my glittering fingers and says, “What does it mean, Sara?”

  “I guess those months at Disney really helped. The little touches of my myths are returning,” I say, admiring the golden gleam. “It’s just the beginning, too. Look around us. Did you know they call this place the City of Dreams? How utterly perfect can you get?”

  He smiles, seeming relieved they’re not tears of sorrow. “It does seem like a good fit. Why haven’t you tried to come out here before?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, there are a lot of cities in the world. How was I supposed to know they made one for me?”

  “Nobody told you? How inconsiderate.”

  “I know!” I say, laughing.

  Our ride pulls up at the Sunset Tower Hotel. An art deco fixture of West Hollywood since the 1930s, it felt like a rather appropriate place to stay while we got our bearings. That, and the spa is supposed to be amazing. A valet helps us with our luggage while we check in at reception, and before long, we’re unlocking our adjoining suites and settling in. Booking even one room here isn’t cheap, let alone three, but my much-improved magic and talents of persuasion have made money little more than an annoyance. Nathan tells me this is a rather perfect outlook for my new profession-to-be.

  I bounce on the edge of my bed after the valet leaves, giddy. The view of the city is gorgeous, and I can almost see my name plastered on its endless billboards and silver screens already, a world bent in worship to my glory. I’ll be able to help again, to answer prayers, delight in the offerings of my devoted followers, and watch as their sparks of faith kindle an inferno.

  Can you imagine it? Can you fathom how much I’ve lost? My entire reason for being, stripped from me for generations, and now it seems within reach again. My eyes burn, and I don’t even need to look to know those golden tears have returned. It’s so bittersweet—the pain of loss and the hope of triumph, all bound together by one city and the promise it holds.

  By the time Nathan and Sekhmet join me after touring their own rooms, I’ve cleaned up and added some gold-smudged tissues to the trash. Both seem nearly as excited as I am.

  “A fantastic battlefield you’ve chosen, little fighter,” Sekhmet says, holding her hands out at the view beyond my suite’s windows, then clenching her fists. “Can you not feel the conflict in the air? The raw hatred, the passion and ferocity? My blood sings in this strange place.”

  “That could just be the reality shows alone,” Nathan says, moving to stand beside me. “Not that I’m complaining; this is pretty amazing. Once you get past the theme parks, Orlando’s hot spots start spreading out. Here, well, feels like there’s something cool around every corner. So what’s next? After the jet lag’s gone, I mean.”

  I look at him, notice the dark circles under his eyes. I don’t think he slept well on the flight, and considering how drained I felt after our going-away party, he’s probably running on fumes. My poor priest. Mortals always suffer when they try to keep up with gods. W
ell, now that we’re actually here and taking the first steps on the road to stardom, the pressure for vengeance feels … distant. What’s the harm in giving us all a chance to relax? It could do everyone some good, even Sekhmet.

  I glance at the woman, who’s currently staring at the city as if it were a delicious wildebeest, just waiting to get pounced and eaten. Especially Sekhmet, come to think.

  “A prebattle treat, I’d say.” I riffle through my bag and pull out the hotel’s pamphlet for the CURE Salon & Spa, waving it at my two companions.

  Nathan’s features soften. “That sounds—”

  “Frivolous,” Sekhmet snaps. “Our enemies can only gain strength while we delay.”

  “You promised,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

  “But—”

  “I’m going to start adding spa services every time you protest.”

  Her eyes widen. “Wait, you actually expect me to—”

  “Relaxation-flow massage, thirty minutes,” I say, reading out of the pamphlet.

  “For me? Is this—”

  “Deep tissue, sixty minutes.”

  She snarls.

  “Aromatherapy add-on.”

  “I refuse to be—”

  “Soak. Lavender ocean bliss.”

  She opens her mouth as if she wants to say more, seeming impossibly pissed. I hold up the pamphlet like a talisman and give her a meaningful look. She wavers, fingers flexing as her eyes dart between me and the brochure. Then, incredibly, she backs down, eyes bulging as if she can’t believe she’s actually agreeing to enjoy herself.

  She gives me a sharp, violent nod. “So it shall be,” she rasps, conceding the victory.

  It’s a spa treatment, I want to scream. Instead, I give her what she wants, inclining my head in acceptance as the honorable victor. I hold out the pamphlet to Nathan, who looks like he’s been trying to hold back laughter the entire time. “Pick what you’d like from there. We’ll book it for tonight and have dinner afterward. I’ll make sure we get to hop any reservation lists.”

  “And our plans?” Sekhmet asks.

  “Once we’re settled, with clear heads and full bellies,” I say.

  She grumbles something that sounds like “Asgardians,” then nods and stalks back to the window. Nathan gives her a wary smile and buries himself in the spa brochure. After a few minutes’ discussion, we pick some truly decadent-sounding treatments and head out to book our appointments in person.

  I can’t wait, to be honest—it’s been too long since I was properly spoiled. I’m a god, after all. Bring on the massages, aromatic oils, and half-naked manservants! If you’re going to be queen of the world, you ought to be treated like it.

  My swagger ends two steps into the spa. The receptionist looks up as we enter and fixes me with a patient smile. “Welcome to CURE,” she says. “How can I help you?”

  I just stare, openmouthed. The girl looks utterly normal—pretty, with a stylish haircut, tight-fitting clothes from top designers, and a runner’s build—except for one thing: The searing violet letters standing out on her forehead that read, SAYETH “HŌRAIOS” FOR PROPER SERVICE.

  Nathan looks completely unfazed, but I feel Sekhmet stiffen beside me. Somehow, this girl has been branded with a message intended only for immortals, or at least those with eyes for magic.

  “Is … everything all right?” the girl asks, picking up on our confusion.

  “I think so,” I say, unable to tear my eyes away from the message. It moves with her, little motes of bubbling purple light drifting behind the letters. “Have you—Uh, that is—” I circle my forehead with one finger. “Can you tell me about your, um…”

  “My skin treatment?” she asks, looking pleased. “Looks really clear, doesn’t it? If you’re having trouble with breakouts, I can recommend a few really nice—”

  “Hōraios,” Sekhmet interrupts, looking very curious.

  “Hey!” I say, annoyed. “We don’t know what—”

  The girl’s eyes blaze with that same violet light, her back straightens, and her tone changes immediately. “Welcome, honored guests,” she says, radiating respect and happiness. “Please accompany me to the hall of my masters, and allow me to extend you every courtesy on their behalf. We deeply appreciate your patronage.”

  “What the hell?” Nathan says, blindsided by the change in mood.

  She holds out a hand to indicate a doorway leading deeper into the spa. “Fascinating,” Sekhmet says, striding forward without hesitation. She glances at me over her shoulder, grinning. “You were right to choose this path, little fighter.”

  We’re brought past lavish suites, down a short side hall, and then to a set of thick wooden doors that part at the receptionist’s touch with a crackle of warding magic. They swing open on oiled hinges, bands of iridescent light flashing along their edges as strange spells flex and rumble. Nathan gasps at the beauty they reveal, and I’ll admit to a bit of jaw dropping, myself.

  Beyond lies what I can only describe as a perfect Grecian bathhouse. High ceilings rise above pools of steaming water, intricate mosaics pass underfoot and crawl along the walls, and marble columns gleam with polish and gold inlays. Private discussion nooks and resting places are littered around the baths, hiding animated conversations and less-savory activities behind delicate purple draperies. Dozens of doors like the one we’ve entered line the walls, all of them providing guests with a perfect view to the center of the room. There, set on a raised platform and surrounded by attendants, are three beautiful young women.

  They seem cast from the same mold, sisters separated only by a handful of years. Each has refined features, a pert, aquiline nose, and curly dark hair done up in a modern style. One dances to the strains of live musicians, bare feet sliding across worn marble that must have seen decades of those lively, elegant steps. Another, the youngest and most strikingly gorgeous of the trio, reclines on a classic Roman couch, head propped on one hand, a Renaissance painting come to life. She chats happily with her sibling, all manner of priceless bracelets, necklaces, and rings flashing in the light as she moves. The third and eldest sister sits on the edge of her own couch, leaning in to listen with a brilliant smile. She lacks the bejeweled finery of her sibling but manages to radiate a sense of warmth, order, and goodness richer than any gems.

  They do nothing to indicate they’re aware of us, but something tells me our arrival has not gone unnoticed. “Wow,” Nathan says, staring at the lavish furnishings. “Didn’t mention this on TripAdvisor.”

  I look behind us at the doorway we used. The receptionist waits on the other side of the threshold, but she appears fuzzy and unfocused, like I’m looking at her through smudged glass. I reach out to the entrance with my divine insight, trying to tease apart the threads of magic there. The wards were easy enough to sense, but now that I know what to look for, I can understand the true nature of the portal we’ve entered.

  “The door’s a link between distant places,” I say, returning my attention to the room. “Forget the hotel—I’m not even sure we’re in California.” I point at the center of the ceiling, a half dome opened to the elements. The sky outside is darkened with the fullness of night, while the sun beyond my suite’s windows had just finished setting.

  Sekhmet, clearly unfazed by the luxury on display, grunts and stalks toward the dais. I hurry to catch up with her, worried. She smiles as I reach her side, whispering, “Do not worry, little fighter. We have been welcomed as guests. I would die before abusing that right.”

  A bit of my anxiety uncoils. Sekhmet has only a passing acquaintance with the concept of restraint, but she’s also a slave to ritual, law, and honor. By invoking the specter of guest right, the receptionist has—knowingly or not—created a contract between her masters and this ancient creature. As long as everyone keeps cool, these mosaics will probably stay blood-free.

  “Greetings,” the eldest sister says as we approach. “We are humbled to accept the patronage of our peers.”

  The dancer stops
to curtsy, crossing one leg behind the other and smiling as she spreads the folds of her dress. “Too few immortals choose to grace these halls in this untrusting age,” she says.

  The youngest laughs. “So you’ll set them at ease with high-necked platitudes? Bah.” She swings her legs off the couch and springs upright, jewelry tinkling. Then she bounces down the steps and sticks out a hand. “Aglaea,” she says, grinning. “Soul of splendor and magnificence among the Charites.”

  I return her smile and shake her hand. “Freya,” I say. “Radiant giver of love, life, and beauty. Nice to meet you.”

  The girl turns to my companions. “Sekhmet,” the lioness says, inclining her head. “Guardian of kingdoms.”

  Aglaea returns the gesture, then looks to my high priest. “Um, Nathan,” he says, grimacing. “Really out-of-place Web designer.”

  The girl laughs, and it sounds like music. “All are welcome, mortal. Please, join us!” She holds out a hand to the dais behind her, where her two sisters wait with bemused expressions.

  “Introductions, yes!” the dancer says. “I am Euphrosyne. Elegance, mirth, and merriment.”

  “Must be a hit at parties,” Nathan says, smiling.

  “Oh, you have no idea,” she replies with a sly grin.

  “Don’t go scaring him off now,” the eldest sister says. “Thalia, may it please. Abundance and cheerful order are my lifeblood. Not to be confused with the Muse of the same name, mind you.”

  “Olympians, yes?” Sekhmet asks.

  She nods. “We are the Charites, though you may know us better as the Graces. Call us that if you prefer. This is our home, and the finest house of health across six continents.”

  We all pause, doing the math and coming up one landmass short. “We never did get a door in Antarctica,” Aglaea explains.

  I look at the entrances lining the walls. “So every one of these—”