I cram the thought back down, hoping the Valkyrie in my heart will eat it. No, no, we’re not going to play the jilted lover, not now. There’s a war to fight, foes old and new to destroy, and stardom to achieve. I do not have time to become a sitcom character along the way.
“It all starts tonight,” I say, standing to clasp her shoulder. “I think I’m ready to make some plans. What do you say?”
“Finally,” she says, then barks a laugh. “I live for this!”
“Nathan, you still have enough juice left for a little prep work?” I ask.
“You got it, boss,” he says, saluting with his drink. He sounds normal, but his smile looks a little nervous. We’re going to have to chat about this later. He needs to know I don’t have any problems with his crush, and, well, I need to know I don’t, too.
Things are already getting complicated and it’s only our first day. I sigh, then scooch my chair in so I can huddle around the table with my friends and plot.
* * *
One sleepless, plan-filled night, a hearty continental breakfast, and a limo ride later, we’re on our way to the first goal in our celebrity strategy. With a twenty-four-hour source of hair and makeup secured (it’s important!), we figured the next logical step would be clothes. I’m trying to pass myself off as an up-and-coming star with ties to European royalty, so Nathan will be my personal assistant, while Sekhmet plays bodyguard. All three of us need to look the part.
Now, shopping sprees are fun regardless of where you are in the world, but certain parts of Los Angeles … well, they’re built for this sort of thing. There are places made to cater to literally every level of fashion mania possible, with styles, prices, and snobbery to make your eyes pop. Let’s just say that no matter how much money you have, you can still find something to make you blink and go, “It costs how much?”—and in case you haven’t guessed, I love everything about it. Walking through these shops and specialty boutiques, some of which are appointment-only, wraps me in a warm, exhilarating blanket of vanity. If I weren’t dead set on stardom, I think I could empower myself by running a store here and feeding off the wonderfully remorseless pride and self-obsession that fills the air. This is part of my portfolio after all, a defining piece of what I am.
It takes eight days of intensive travel, comparison, and collection before we’re finished, and that’s just getting the clothing. It’ll be weeks before all the personal tailoring is done and every last outfit is cut to fit us like a second skin. Sekhmet will rock the alpha business attire with lots of pencil skirts, suit jackets, and low-cut button-downs and blouses, all strong lines and sharp edges. Her palette will be charcoal, pinstripes, and dark patterns, accented by flashes of red and accessorized with severe, compact sunglasses and a “go die” attitude.
Nathan, meanwhile, will focus on the upscale side of business casual with blazers, open-necked dress shirts, and designer jeans in a variety of light browns, blues, and grays intermingled with darker items for a professional-yet-unobtrusive appeal.
As for me … well …
Okay, look. I’m sorry for this. Really. I have to gush and there’s nobody around to appreciate all the wonderful, glorious things I’ve acquired. Nathan would try, but I know he wouldn’t get it, and I’m positive Sekhmet still longs for the days of simple pleated dresses, saris, and mountains of heavy jewelry. Since I’m not yet desperate enough to tell the Graces about it, I’m afraid it’s falling on you.
My hotel closets are overflowing with outfits for every imaginable location, dress code, and social standing. Overall, I’ve tried to stick with clean lines, elegant colors and patterns, and cuts that flatter my curvy figure without being (too) indecent. Everything has a modern streak that’s often tempered by a handful of vintage touches to make me seem stylish yet approachable.
I’ve split my fashion strategy into a three-pronged front, starting with low-key streetwear in the form of sleek minis, breezy tops, the occasional tight-fitting pair of light jeans, and casual blazers. My more upscale outfits will focus on snug skirts, knockout dresses, and classy pullovers, and finally, for when things start getting serious and I need to scream “money,” I have a diabolically enchanting assortment of dresses and gowns, cutting-edge minis, and perfect tops.
That’s not even touching on the tidal wave of sunglasses, purses, handbags, jewelry, and hairclips I’ve picked up along the way, accessories to enhance my already-immense outfit options, all of which is, of course, accentuated by a jaw-dropping array of flats, pumps, boots, wedges, and sandals.
I’m in my element—this stuff is practically glowing with vanity and splendor, putting a spring in my step and a permanent smile on my face. Glorious outfits aside, my beauty is also a function of my divine strength: The better I feel, the better I look, so having a wardrobe fit for gods transforms my natural loveliness into an echo chamber, rebounding and improving it with every head I turn and eye I catch.
New wars require new armor, and mine comes with designer labels.
In all this, I haven’t forgotten about Nathan and the romantic mess I’ve stumbled upon, but I get the sense he’s desperate not to get into it right now, and like I said, my to-do list is already well-stocked. Untangling that web will have to go onto the backburner for the moment, because stardom-wise, we’re just getting started.
Now that I’m finally at the point where I know I won’t be caught out in something inadequate, it’s time for the next phase of our plan: representation. I need a talent agent—a manager to help me get roles and put my name in front of influential producers, directors, and scouts. Doing this on my own isn’t an option; not only is time a factor, but everything I know about the movie industry has come from Wikipedia pages and “How to Be a Star” guides. I’m hopelessly ignorant about the realities of this business and out of touch as a general rule. Help me, talent agencies, you’re my only hope.
As I understand it (at least, as much as Google helps me understand it), when it comes to these organizations, one of the biggest fish is Creative Artists Agency, or CAA. They trade in extremely popular stars and big names, from film and television to sports, music, and even video games, setting up massive deals for major motion pictures, advertising campaigns, television series, and more. In short, they are not the sort of people you go to when you’re getting started—they are the power brokers who come to you when you’re already famous. Their clientele collect awards like it’s a hobby and make headlines simply by walking out of cafés.
Sounds about right for a god, doesn’t it?
Once again, I’m going to cheat. My powers of persuasion are without peer in the mortal realm, and I don’t care how high and mighty this agency is; all of it is built on the efforts of fallible, too-human staff. CAA’s executives would never give me the time of day, but their employees? Another matter entirely.
The sun is high in the sky when we pull into the roundabout in front of their headquarters on the Avenue of the Stars. The building looms above us, two symmetrical towers joined by an expansive glass-walled lobby on the ground floor and distant, imposing offices on upper levels that stretch across its hollowed-out midsection. I can see daylight on the other side of the lobby, making me feel as if the entire compound is sort of floating above the ground. The commission to build this place must have been an architect’s dream.
A well-dressed valet in a gray vest dashes up to open my door, and I gingerly make my way out, maneuvering my heels so they don’t catch the rented sports car’s frame. I feel oddly clumsy; this outfit is beautiful, but I’d hate to try fighting in it. I’m wrapped in a bright turquoise off-the-shoulder bandage dress that ends about two inches above my knees. Gold-and-diamond starburst earrings twinkle as the sun hits me, and my pale gold leather pumps click on the stone of the entryway.
Thick, oblong white columns flank the entrance and march away on both sides. Combined with the imposing, clinically grandiose feel of the place, they give me odd flashbacks to the Greek and Roman pantheons. This feels like a futurist
ic take on their style, a perfect marriage of wealth and engineering with a touch of religious strength, all set to impress the modern world. As another valet pulls open a door for me and I stride into the lobby, I’m struck again by just how right all this feels, how perfectly the pomp of Hollywood fits the needs of the divine.
My heels click on alternating strips of white and slate-gray Carrara marble, the tiles reflecting the stark beauty of this place with a razor shine. Nathan whistles softly as he enters along with Sekhmet. “Hate to be the cleaning crew,” he says, bringing a bit of reality to a space that is clearly designed to impress.
“I like it,” Sekhmet purrs, keeping her face impassive. “A touch of grandeur is never unwarranted.”
I feel eyes on me and notice an assistant taking a not-so-subtle path in our general direction. A handful of undisguised security personnel are paying attention as well. Since I’d rather be the one to start any dialogues here, I strike out for the reception desk, motioning for my friends to keep pace.
A sharp-dressed young man looks up as we approach, smiling warily. “Hello. Do you have an appointment?”
I settle my hands on the cool surface between us and blast his mind with a lance of affection. “No, but I don’t need one, do I?” I say, smiling.
His eyes glaze, and he returns my smile, body language relaxing as he leans forward. “Uh, well, it’s usually a good idea, but I mean, for you I’m sure they, um…” He screws his face up in thought. “Who did you want to see?”
At this point, a few of the other receptionists are looking over, seeming concerned. I wink at them before cutting loose with a wave of power, washing away their hesitations and suspicions before turning back to my new friend. “One of your best rising agents,” I say to him. “Not too close to upper management, but—”
I stop at an uncomfortable look on his face. “I’m so sorry, it’s just … we handle reception for all the businesses here,” he explains. “Creative Artists Agency owns the building, but it—they—rent space to—I mean, you’ll need to speak to them directly. I don’t know enough about their agents to help,” he finishes, sounding miserable.
I sigh, getting the feeling there’s going to be a lot of bureaucracy to cut through here. “Okay, can you get me in to talk to them?”
“Of course!” he says, brightening. He nods at one of his coworkers, who takes his place as he makes a quick call. After a short discussion, he returns. “If you’ll just wait in the reception area by the main CAA entrance, someone should be right out for you,” he says, gesturing to one end of the lobby, delighted to help. Then he realizes I’ll be leaving. “Please, um, come back anytime!” he blurts, looking hopeful. His friends have similar expressions, and all of them wave and say good-byes as I thank him and head off.
It’s not long before someone comes to collect me, a woman in a vastly sharper and more stylish outfit than the receptionist. She pushes through a thick glass door into the lobby proper and looks at us with a very confused expression. She’s clearly an assistant of some sort, and desperately trying to place me in her mental catalog of power brokers.
“Hello,” she says, holding out a hand. “Irene, Creative Artists Agency. The front said there was an important guest waiting, and, please forgive me, but you are…?”
“Sara Vanadi,” I say, completing the handshake and filling her heart with love and adoration. “Your newest client.”
Her demeanor changes in an instant. “So glad to meet you, Ms. Vanadi!” she says, giving me the ultimate benefit of the doubt. “Please, follow me. Do you know who you’re here to see?”
I walk in behind her, entering the Creative Artists Agency proper. It’s a slick, white-walled space with an enormous staircase that stretches up and up, soaring into the central atrium like a sculpture from another time. An enormous light wall parallels it, illuminating the affair with soothing tones. Tasteful, abstract art touches the simple surfaces, adding coordinated splashes of color to draw the eye without overpowering the architecture.
“I need an agent,” I say, flashing a bright smile before running through my short list of qualifications. “Know anyone who might fit?”
She seems a bit bewildered by that, but no less eager to please. “Oh, um, clients are usually set up with agents in advance, but I can try to schedule you with one now! Just let me check the planners! If you’ll wait here?”
“Of course!” I say. She beams at that and dashes off without another word.
“They always seem so happy to help,” Nathan says, watching her go. “I’m surprised you don’t do it more often.”
“What, the whole ‘love me’ thing?” I say, leaning against a wall. “It is nice, but it’s not genuine. I’m doing it to reach a goal. Forcing people to worship me just for the heck of it? No, that would feel … wrong.”
He cocks his head at that, then smiles. “I think I’m glad to hear that.”
“Don’t want to work for a supervillain?”
“Just seems like something that could get out of hand really fast.”
I think about Dionysus and shudder. I can only imagine what he’s up to right now. “Promise me you’ll speak up if I start getting crazy?” I ask after a moment.
He nods. “You got it, boss.”
Sekhmet grins and says, “It would be my honor to stay your hand should corruption find you, little fighter.”
It’s not hard to figure out what she means by that. “Thanks, Sekhmet,” I say with just a hint of sarcasm, knowing it’ll pass her by.
A few minutes later, Irene returns at a brisk pace, practically running across the marble. She seems pleased as she comes to a stop in front of me, a little breathless. “I’ve just set you up with one of our rising stars. His name is Mahesh, and he’s agreed to meet you. If you’ll…?” She gestures deeper into the building.
“Wonderful, thank you,” I say, following her lead.
We’re brought to a crisp, circular conference room. A large flat-screen TV dominates one wall, and half a dozen expensive-looking chairs ring a glossy white table. The setup makes me feel like I’m standing inside a space-age doughnut. Irene asks if we need any refreshments, then invites us to sit down. Only a handful of minutes have passed when a young man with light olive skin enters the door, shuts it behind him, and fixes us all with a calculating stare.
I return it, giving him a quick once-over. He’s dressed in an upscale business outfit similar to Nathan’s, but colored to set off his complexion and elevated with a red-patterned silk tie. Clean-shaven, with sharply defined features, a slicked-back haircut, and intelligent hazel eyes, he seems very professional and, at the moment, very apprehensive.
“Hello,” he says with a faint British accent, extending a hand. “Mahesh Rao.”
I stand and clasp his hand. “Sara Vanadi. Nice to meet you.”
I know the name means nothing to him, but he does a good job of pretending I’m still worth his time. He inclines his head at my friends. “And these are…?”
“Nathan Kence,” my high priest says as they exchange handshakes.
Sekhmet, features cool and impassive, merely nods and says, “Lady Rashida.”
Mahesh arches an eyebrow at that, then sits, gesturing for me to do the same. “Well, Ms. Vanadi, you have me at a loss. You’re here, talking to me without an appointment, without Irene knowing who you are—quite the feat—and I’m very curious as to how.”
“Fun, isn’t it?” I say, settling back in my chair. “I’m here for an agent. I got through to you because I’m incredibly convincing, and that’s entirely due to what I really am.”
“All ears, Ms. Vanadi.”
I pause to let the anticipation build, then hold out a hand, palm up. “I’m a god, my friend,” I say, unleashing an illusion I prepared in advance. There’s a warm, glittering flare of light, and a pristine white water lily unfolds, rising from my outstretched palm to float in the air before me. Another flare, and it whirls apart, filling the meeting room around us with dancing white petals
and motes of floating gold.
I lean forward, into the heart of the illusion, letting my face push aside those petals until I emerge staring into Mahesh’s saucer-sized eyes. “I am Freya, mortal.”
His jaw drops, works silently for a few seconds, and then he manages to squeak out, “Is—is this … You’re pranking me. Right?”
I laugh, flopping back and sweeping a hand through the knot of petals above the table. They scatter as if touched by a gust of wind, taking up an orbit around the walls of the room and clearing the air between us. “I got in here because I’m a god of love, Mahesh. I can make anyone my closest ally. But I’m not going to force that on you, because I need a real friend—someone who knows me for what I truly am and wants to help. Now, are you that person?”
His eyes dart around the room, taking in the illusion, the unimpressed expressions on my friends’ faces, and my sweet, imperious good looks. He blows out a breath and shakes his head. “I hope you don’t take offense to this, but … you have to understand, this is a business of special effects and deception. If I took everything—even this astonishing display—at face value, I’d be a laughingstock. For all I know, this could be a very strange joke.”
“Such a cynical world,” I say, sighing. “All right, you won’t trust your eyes? Fair enough. Trust your heart.”
Just like I did to convince Nathan to believe in me all those months ago, I reach out to him with my gifts, twisting his feelings toward me. I’m much stronger than I was back then, so I’m able to run him through a wide spectrum of emotions, giving him a taste of happiness, gratitude, hope, pride, and, of course, love. I announce them as they hit, highlighting the impossibility of what I’m doing.
“How—?” he breathes when I finish, seeming appropriately staggered.
I cut the effects, bringing him back to normal. “I’m a god, Mahesh.”
He takes a moment to recover, breathing deeply, and I can tell he’s thinking it over. Then he purses his lips, drums his fingers on the table, and begins nodding his head. “I’m starting to believe you. I’m not aware of any drug that can do that. At least, not without obvious side effects. But still—a god? Are you—I mean, are there more? It would follow that if there’s one…”
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