I turn in my chair and wink at Sekhmet. She nods, and then her human features fall away, ripping apart to reveal the snarling, perfect lioness beneath. “You stand before the Lady of Terror and Life,” she rumbles in her lustrous accent. “I am Sekhmet, little son of Karnataka, and the gods watch you still.”
He plunges back in his chair, gripping its arms in shock, eyes even bigger than before. “You … I’m, ah, pleased—so pleased!—to meet you. Both! Both of you!”
Sekhmet snorts and the illusion returns, snapping across those leonine features and replacing them with the chiseled nobility of the Nile.
Mahesh, panting, puts a hand to his head. Then his eyes dart to Nathan, full of questions. Nathan laughs. “Just a guy, pal. Normal human guy with amazing friends.”
That brings a tiny smile to Mahesh, and he sits back in his chair and begins righting himself, trying to reclaim his earlier confidence, when he freezes. I can tell a rather unpleasant thought has struck him. He pauses, narrowing his eyes, then meets mine and says, “All the gods—all of them—are real.”
I shrug. “For the most part. Some didn’t make it this far. The really old ones are probably gone for good. If they still have believers, though, it’s a safe bet they’re around.”
He groans and rolls his eyes. “Do you have any idea how many gods we have? My mother will never stop crowing about this if I tell her. ‘Mahesh, now you know they really are watching, so you’d better—’ Aghhh, I can hear her now.”
“I’m sorry, do you need a moment?”
“You give a man proof his gods exist and he’s supposed to take it in stride?”
“Helps if you’re a disaffected millennial,” Nathan says with a grin.
“Charming.” Mahesh rubs his face, straightens his tie, and blows out a breath. He takes another minute to compose himself, steadying his breathing and letting the truth of our reality soak in before he continues. “Fine. Please excuse my surprise at having my world upended.”
“Done,” I say brightly.
He rolls his eyes and the little smile returns. “And you. Freya. Scandinavia, isn’t it? What are you doing here? What would any god want with LA?”
I spread my arms. “What any god wants anywhere: believers.”
“So you’ll just set up a church and expect—Oh.” He stops, getting it. “Ohh. Now that is clever. You want to be a star. You—Ha, forgive my slowness, Miss Freya. You understand the new gods of this world, and how we worship them.”
“Through a screen, not a temple, yes. I want it, Mahesh. To the world, I can be the perfect star. To you, the perfect client.”
He drums the tabletop. “Do tell.”
“I’ve had a thousand years to learn how to act. I can speak most of the world’s languages, nail any audition, charm every casting director and interviewer, and do it all with a body that, by definition, will never quit.”
“All good things. Incredible things, really.” He drums his fingers a little more, and I see the gears turning. “All right. I’ll admit it: As clients go, you’re about as perfect as they come. You want more than a career, though. Much more. You’ll have to forgive my avarice, but, well, you understand the town you’ve entered, yes? Beyond helping to usher in the Age of Freya, what do I get out of it?”
Sekhmet growls. Mahesh tries to hide his reaction, but I see him flinch, just a little.
I smile again. “Besides money?”
He turns rueful. “Five minutes ago, that would have been plenty. But that was before gods walked the world. Money is mortal, and I’ve just learned there’s much more to life than that. Let’s say I make you a star, set you in the heavens, give you”—his face becomes curious—“power? That’s what believers provide?”
I nod.
He bobs his head, seeming pleased. “Makes sense. So you become all-powerful. What can such a being accomplish? What is the worth of a favor from them?”
“Ha,” I mutter, grinning. This man, like the city he calls home, is just right for me. “Name it, Mahesh Rao.”
His eyes dance, and I can see the same wild, imaginative glee descend on his heart as in those who suddenly realize they’re holding a genie’s lamp. “Immortality…?” he ventures after a moment’s thought.
“With certain caveats? Yes. At the very least, a longer life than any of your peers—longer by many times, Mahesh.”
He laughs at that, then rises from his chair, reaching a hand across the table. “More than fair. Now is not, I think, the time to be greedy,” he finishes as we shake, casting a quick, wary glance at Sekhmet.
“Excellent. How do we get started?”
He sits back down and sighs. “Well, we should probably keep our partnership quiet for the moment—I’d prefer not to have to justify a completely unproven new client to my superiors. Instead, we’ll have to go with a more underhanded approach.”
“I always enjoy a little trickery,” I say, smile widening.
“Couldn’t have guessed,” he replies, glancing at the petals making a leisurely circuit around the room. “I’m going to take you on as a ‘hip pocket’ client. Hip pockets are people without official representation from an agency—instead, they get a very shaky agreement with a single agent who thinks they might have potential. In practice, it means the agent may find them an occasional audition on the side. If things work out and they get a part, then the agent can pitch that client on better footing. It’s certainly not as good as full representation, because the entire agency won’t be working to help you get roles.”
“And I would want this … why?”
“Because I’m going to try to sneak you into the first major audition I can find. You’ll pop in, wave your magic wand, and make them love you. Then I go up the ladder and say, ‘Look who I found—she’s well on her way.’ Anyone objects, we have you charm them, too. You’ll have the full backing of CAA in no time and the projects will start rolling in.”
“Perfect,” I say, looking back at Sekhmet. She nods; Mahesh isn’t lying. “Make sure it’s nothing villainous or overly dramatic. The sooner the better, too. I need roles on the fast track. I don’t care about films coming out in five years, and I don’t want to be tied to a single sitcom or something like that. I have an endgame in mind, and I want to get there as quickly as possible.”
“What is this ‘endgame,’ if you don’t mind my asking?” Mahesh says, seeming eager.
“Stardom is one thing. The love of the people will give me strength, but belief in Freya? In my divinity, my existence? That is the ultimate goal, and there’s only way to achieve it.”
Doesn’t hurt that I’ll get to kill Ares along the way, either.
“I’m sorry, but aside from a very awkward ‘coming-out’ on Late Night, how will you convince the world you’re actually a god?”
“That’s the beauty of it—I don’t need them to believe in me. Just Freya.”
“But how—”
“How else? Celebrity status is a means to an end; someday soon, I’ll star in the next blockbuster franchise that’ll sear itself into the cultural consciousness of the world. Can you see it now, Mahesh? How a new religion can spread in the Information Age?”
He pauses, looking confused. “You can’t mean…”
“I can,” I say, leaning in. “Coming soon to a theater near you: The Saga of Freya.”
7
FUN AND GAMES
FREYA
Meet Sara Valen, rising star.
My new stage name is one of the first things we decide on, in part because Vanadi isn’t exactly Hollywood, but more importantly, so I can stay off Finemdi’s radar. Garen could have shared my former title before I framed him for the destruction of Impulse Station, so attaching it to major film and television releases would be suicide. And stupid.
“Now, for your credentials, well … we must have something,” Mahesh is saying. “Even just a stint in a theater group.”
“Please no,” I say. “I’ve seen every variation of Hamlet and the others across four
hundred years. Don’t get me wrong, Will wrote some good stuff, but I’m done.”
He laughs at that and shakes his head. “No, no, of course not. This is something we’ll want to spin from whole cloth.”
“We’re going to fake it?” I say. “How?”
“I have very creative friends,” he replies, smiling. “Let’s work on putting together a résumé for you, and I’ll have them fill in the blanks. They’ll toss fake trailers on YouTube for indie films, write blog articles and reviews for theater performances, and so on. Those things will take you only so far, of course, but with your gifts … that should be all you need.”
“You know, I think I rather like you, Mr. Rao,” I say, grinning as my future takes another step closer. “Now let’s make ourselves a career.”
A lengthy discussion follows, and everyone, even Sekhmet, tosses in ideas for the various under-the-radar roles I could have played. Over the following hour, we compose a list and start making plans for the many consultants, photographers, and star makers I’ll need to visit to complete the illusion. That done, we begin saying our good-byes and collecting our things.
There are no contracts or agreements between us beyond words, but I believe my new friend will be true to them, and not just because Sekhmet will eat his skin if he isn’t. He seems to have an ideal mix of pragmatism and ambition, and I can always trust that to keep him honest. He stands to gain a great deal here, as well.
Irene walks us to CAA’s door, all smiles and chitchat. As I follow, a wave of exhaustion hits, making me sway a little and miss a step; the tricks I’ve pulled today have taken a lot out of me. I inhale, steadying my stride and promising myself I can relax when we get to the car.
Unfortunately, this hopeful future gets derailed the moment we enter the main lobby, where a very irate young woman suddenly gets in my face. “Is this why I’ve been waiting?” she snaps, staring down her nose at me.
“Uh, what?” I blurt, confused. The girl looks vaguely familiar. In her mid-twenties, she has all the telltale signs of money, inflated self-worth, and just a little too much power. Her perfectly straight blond hair frames sharp, angry, and coldly beautiful features. Her cheekbones look sculpted, her chin is distractingly pointy, and her nose is so symmetrical and precise it can’t be the original. A light dusting of freckles accentuates her shadowed green eyes, making her seem like the ultimate cross between “girl next door” and “hateful barista.” Bright pink lipstick matches her coral tube dress, and slinky rose-hued heels push her several inches taller than me.
“Mahesh will be happy to see you now, Ms. Riley,” Irene says in a hopeful, placating voice.
“Oh, now he’s happy?” the girl squeaks, transferring her glare. “No-name, dumbass, and bitchface show up and suddenly I’m waiting?” She looks back to me. “Go on, tell me you weren’t here to see him. I know who’s on staff, I know who’s on-site, and I know whose time you wasted! HARV!”
A middle-aged man in a business suit steps up to join her, adding his glare to hers. He moves with the casual grace of someone who knows how to handle himself in a fight, and his features are almost as sharp and angular as hers. I’d be tempted to call him “pretty” if he were just a little less well-built or his jaw were ever-so-slightly more rounded. “Yes, Kirsten?” he asks in a surprisingly patient tone.
“How late are we?”
“Over twenty minutes. You’re going to miss your lunch with the director,” he says, seeming genuinely annoyed with us and sympathetic to the girl.
“We’re very sorry for the confusion, Ms. Riley,” Irene says. “There was a scheduling mix-up and—”
“And who the hell are you?” she says, stepping closer to me. “Actually, no, y’know what? You’ve wasted enough of my time. I see you again”—she fishes in her purse as she talks, pulling out a pure-white smartphone—“god help you.” The device clicks as it snaps a photo of us. “There. We’re done here. Open the damn door already!”
Irene jumps back, giving us a very apologetic look and holding the door for the woman and her assistant, who march in without another word. She slips in behind them, mouthing “Sorry!” to us before she goes.
There’s a moment of silence as we try to process the storm of narcissism we’ve just experienced. “What the hell was that?” I say at last.
“I’m confused—am I ‘dumbass’ or ‘no-name’?” Nathan asks, equally bewildered.
“And you’re absolutely certain I can’t…?” Sekhmet purrs, looking hungrily at the door to CAA.
“Yes. No murdering civilians.” I pull my Mim out of my bag, undoing the lock screen and heading for its Web browser. “No matter how uncivil they are,” I mutter as I enter my search terms.
After a moment, the Wikipedia page for Kirsten Riley appears on the little touchscreen. “Some sort of entertainment icon,” I say, reading. “Had a starring role on a kids’ show, turned into a pop star, now she’s in movies.”
Nathan makes a little sound of recognition. “I think I remember her. Catchy songs.” He glances at Sekhmet. “Stupid, though. Horrible person, too.”
“Certainly famous,” I say, going back to the search and opening a few links. “Lots of licensing deals, fashion shoots, Twitter follow—” I narrow my eyes at the screen. “Seriously?”
“What?” Nathan says, leaning in to see. “What’s she—Oh.”
There’s a new tweet on her feed that’s only a minute old:
This is followed by a rather unflattering picture of the three of us, looking confused (or, in the case of Sekhmet, homicidal). I lower my phone to stare at the door to CAA, aghast. “Can—can she do that?”
“Welcome to show biz,” Nathan murmurs.
“I understand your desire to avoid bloodshed…” Sekhmet begins with a dangerous grin. “But think of the problems it would solve.”
My inner Valkyrie gives a nudge at that, and I grit my teeth. “She’s just one jumped-up mortal,” I say, jamming the phone back in my bag. “Who cares what she thinks? She gets in our way, we can talk. Until then, we have better things to do.”
I stalk out of the building with my friends and signal the valet service to retrieve our car. Mahesh has given us a few to-do items, and I’m glad to have something to take my mind off Kirsten and her wretched manners. I flop in the back of our ride as Nathan takes the wheel, grinning as only a boy with a six-figure sports car can. As he pulls out, following the GPS to our next destination, the fatigue returns in force and I bring a hand to my head.
I hate this. Despite all my schemes, styles, and skills, it doesn’t take much to drain my pitiful reserves and remind me how weak I really am.
My recent adventures may have brought me power, but it’s not a patch on what I once held. All that manipulation with Mahesh and his teammates at CAA is coming back to bite me. I sigh deeply, massaging my temple. This is infuriating—the limits of my strength are painfully clear, and for a god forged in glory, battle, and adoration, I can think of few things worse.
Sekhmet notices and reaches over to squeeze my shoulder, giving me a sympathetic look. She understands, even if she’s managed to hold on to more of her might over the years. At some point, I’m going to need to ask her how she did that. Maybe it’s because she never suffered a crisis of confidence like I did.
I lean my head back and breathe, trying to relax and refresh myself. Another spa trip is definitely in the cards for tonight, but that’s only going to help get me back to my usual weakling self. Without my regular feed of belief from the theme parks, I’m no longer gaining strength on a daily basis. I have to get in the limelight soon.
LA’s usual daytime traffic works in our favor for once, giving me plenty of time to recover before we arrive at our next destination. In short order, I’m smiling, posing, and having a ball with one of Mahesh’s photographer contacts, setting us up with plenty of high-quality headshots and stills he can use to get me into auditions. After that, it’s a strange meeting with a social media consultant who’s going to help buil
d my online profile—custom accounts, websites, and even résumés will be crafted from whole cloth in order to make me seem like a legitimate actress looking to break into the big leagues. Getting fans and followers isn’t the main goal just yet, so everything is tailored to impress producers and other Hollywood bigwigs who might not even stoop to see me without such pedigrees. Finally, a hair, style, and makeup review session with a fashion consultant—they seriously have consultants for everything here—leaves me feeling a bit better about myself, as the gentleman in charge has only general suggestions and no “critical issues” for me to address.
I end the day feeling like I’m on the right track. If all goes well, auditions will start rolling in and I’ll be cheating my way onto a career path only a handful of talented mortals have managed to tread. Pretty great, right? Well, before you start getting jealous, just remember I’m eventually going to need to figure out how to kill a god of war and trash a conspiracy that’s been around for centuries. You come up with some solutions to them, you can start judging me for taking the easy road to the stars.
The evening finds me bone-tired but thrilled. I collapse into bed, close my eyes, and dream of—
Darkness.
The world is the same, as are its people and all their hopes and fears—but the light is gone. Instead of the usual radiance that illuminates my sleep, a cloying blackness eats at the earth, wrapping it in tendrils of malevolence and loss. This isn’t personal, either: Every god I’ve ever known dreams of this, sees the world and understands his or her place in the hearts of its inhabitants. It’s all we see when we sleep, and it lets us know where we stand when it comes to the principles from which we were forged.
Something has invaded this place, however, has made itself a beacon of spite in the dreamscape we share. And then it speaks. A voice, echoing and twisting at the edge of my consciousness, reverberates along those midnight threads. It’s nothing—just the plea of another dreamer—until I focus my attention and amplify its words.
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