Slay

by Matthew Laurence

  “Well, they’re not wrong,” I say, thinking of Sekhmet and my high priest with pride.

  “No, but they’re assuming something on the scale of a full-blown counteragency. That’s where Ares comes in—they’ve hired him to manage their divine tactics and war plans.”

  She leans in, turning serious. “They want him to weaponize their gods, Sara.”

  “That, um, doesn’t sound great.”

  “It’s bad for everyone, myself included; he’s shifted our belief regimens into overtime and cut research projects, which means I can’t work on resurrecting my mom anymore. He’s also redoubled our efforts to ‘recruit’ unaffiliated gods and persuade existing prisoners to join us.”

  She sighs. “He’s preparing for war.”

  “Fantastic,” I groan, sitting on the bed. “We have to destroy him, Sam.”

  She nods. “He wants to use Finemdi to wage a personal crusade against his rivals, and they seem happy to let him. I know it’s early days for you, and I’m sorry to push, but … try to hurry.” A mischievous glint enters her eyes. “And let me know when you’re ready to discuss strategies of our own—I might have a trick or two to help even the score.”

  Her image fuzzes, blurring for a moment before snapping back. “Shoot,” she says, looking into the distance at something I can’t see. “Almost drained. I’m going to need to cut this short, but just remember: I want him gone, too. Let’s make it happen.”

  “Sam, I—This is music to—” I start to say, but then her image fades away with a dim flicker of violet light.

  “Oh,” I say to the now-empty room. “Uh, bye?”

  Alone and suddenly not quite so tired, I lie back down, mind whirling. So that’s why Samantha put me on my enemy’s trail … and apparently she wants to walk that path beside me. Well, damn. This is about as good an end to an evening as I could hope.

  Just need to figure out how to step up my schedule, I think. Then I glance at the clock by my bed and groan at the time. And how I’m ever going to fall asleep.

  * * *

  My first audition is today.

  I woke to my Mim buzzing and Mahesh on the other end, all excited and British. He informed me he’d found a great opportunity, an audition for a major supporting role in a big-budget HBO miniseries called Switch. Apparently another actress was a lock for it but dropped out due to an unexpected scheduling conflict, so now the producers are desperate for a replacement. He got me a slot for today, and after a panic-filled tear through my wardrobe for the perfect outfit, I joined my allies at breakfast to give them the good news and indulge in some waffles.

  Now I’m pressed to the window of our sports car, watching the scenery roll by as my legs bounce with restless energy. I’m in a bright sundress covered in stylized yellow flowers and accented with pale silver heels, and I’ve already felt the burning desire to race back to the hotel and replace everything about ten times since we left. I’m just so damn nervous. “This is it,” I murmur. “Oh, I hope it’s good.”

  “You’ll do great!” Nathan says from the front. “They’ll love you. Seriously, I have a hunch.”

  Sekhmet grins. “I share your excitement, little fighter. With Ms. Drass’s assistance, this will be but the first step on the path to vengeance.”

  I nod at that, still watching the scenery. My friends were very interested to hear about Sam’s midnight visit, and just as delighted to discover Samantha was already working the inside track on taking down Ares. Ah, revenge, I think, beaming. You might not be so distant after all.

  “I have always enjoyed these programs,” Sekhmet says, interrupting my thoughts. “I must also confess to a great deal of curiosity as to how they are made. Do you think any actors will be there?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say, turning away from the window. “All Mahesh had for me was a quick synopsis of the show, a time slot, and a location. If I get the part, though, then we’re definitely meeting some.”

  “Excellent,” she purrs, settling back in her seat with a smirk.

  “Why so hot to see them?”

  “I have … admired several of the warriors on these programs from afar and would like very much to see them in the flesh. The centurion, the khal, that vampire from your lands, the criminal consultant—”

  “Sekhmet, I never knew you were such a fangirl,” I say, laughing.

  She snorts. “Please. This invention of theirs is the finest entertainment since the Roman blood sports. All too passive, of course, yet far more intimate.”

  “We’ll have to get you to Comic-Con if we have time,” Nathan says, grinning. “Tons of actors show up there. You could even go full lioness and they’d love you for it. Might even win a costume contest that way.”

  “A contest? Delightful,” she says, tapping her chin. “I will look into this. Ah, but our destination approaches. Tell me more of it later.”

  Nathan pulls up outside a nondescript office building in the downtown area. There’s no sign to indicate this is the right spot, but the address matches. We head into the lobby and check in with the receptionist, who confirms who we are and sends us upstairs.

  We follow some bland taped-up AUDITION signs to a nondescript metal door. I look at Nathan and Sekhmet, then shrug and turn the handle. The room beyond looks like a bare-bones office entrance; a few folding chairs are set against its walls and a secondhand couch sits behind a beat-up wooden coffee table. A handful of magazines are scattered across its surface, along with a few Styrofoam cups of half-drunk coffee. There’s a chest-high desk at the back of the room, like you might find at a doctor’s office, and a young woman who screams “summer intern” pokes her head above it.

  “Ms. Valen?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Good,” the intern says, setting aside a textbook and marking something with a pen. “Right on time. They’re just finishing up with another actress—won’t be five minutes. Would you mind waiting?”

  “Not at all,” I say, pulling one of the chairs over to the coffee table and sitting down so I can peruse the magazines.

  “Can I get you any coff—” she begins before the door slaps open, cutting her off.

  “Thank you so much for this opportunity, Ms. Starling, really!” an oh-so-familiar, sickly sweet voice shouts from the opening, aimed back inside. I slowly turn to its source, a mix of dread and annoyance twirling through me.

  Kirsten Riley, spoiled Hollywood cliché that she is, bounces out of the room, saying good-byes over her shoulder. “Please let me know when you can! Day or night, just give me a call! Thanks again! Byeeee!”

  Her assistant, Harv, follows her out, shutting the door behind him and almost bumping into her as he turns. Frozen mid-step, Kirsten is staring at me, openmouthed.

  “Do you think this is a joke?” she spits at me. “I—I swear to god, I don’t know who you are, but if you—No, that’s it. You’re not worth the time.” She slaps her hands together, wiping them off, then throws them up and strides away with a disgusted noise.

  Harv trails after her, giving us all a very lengthy, unnerving examination as he does.

  The intern’s head rises over the desk when the door slams behind the pair. She shakes it with a snort, then goes back to her reading.

  “Wow,” Nathan says, looking at the exit. “She’s going to tweet your face off in about five seconds.”

  “Yippee. The child has a megaphone,” I say, rolling my eyes. “In my day, she’d be milking cows and gossiping with fishwives.”

  Sekhmet laughs. “In mine, she’d be stuffed in a sack and drowned in the Nile.” I arch an eyebrow at that. “Sacrilege used to matter,” she explains with a shrug.

  “It’s this obsession with fame that’s gone to her head,” I say. “She’s no different from all those lovely girls who used to pray to me; it’s the world that’s changed.”

  “The difference is that they praised you, and she blasphemes without retribution,” Sekhmet mutters, a hint of darkness entering her voice. “She doesn’t need direct
ion—she needs fear.”

  Part of me nods at that, producing a grim-yet-satisfying set of ideas on how to teach such a lesson to Ms. Riley. “She’s a distraction,” I say, more to myself. My inner Valkyrie needs to shut up and stop agreeing with Sekhmet—serious trouble lies that way. “Dealing with her gets us nowhere—and what was she doing here, anyway? Mahesh is her agent, too, right? He had to know we’d see each other.”

  “We’ll have to ask him,” Sekhmet says, smiling. “I like that boy; he certainly knows to fear us.”

  “He also knows who we really are,” I mutter.

  The inner door swings open, and a tall woman with long hair in black ringlets steps out. “Sara?” she asks, looking at us.

  “That’s me!” I say, trying to match Kirsten’s chipper tone.

  She smiles and holds the door open. “So glad you could join us on such short notice. Please, come in.”

  “No problem! Uh, can I have my friends in there?”

  “I’m sorry, auditions are usually closed,” she says with a sympathetic look. “But they can wait here!”

  I hook a thumb in the direction of the outside door Kirsten and Harv just used to leave. “What about—?”

  “Oh,” the woman says, a rueful expression appearing. “Her. It, ah, wasn’t worth the argument.”

  I give her a knowing look, then shrug. Well, I was going to ladle on the love anyway—might as well get started now. “Are you sure?” I press, filling her brain with affection and glee. “They won’t be a bother.”

  Her eyes widen as my magic takes hold in her mind, and she breaks into a big grin. “You know, I don’t see why not,” she says, stepping back. “The more the merrier!”

  “Great, thanks!”

  “I’m Diane Starling, one of the producers,” she says in a friendly voice as we follow her into the room. It’s a large, empty office space, devoid of the usual cubicles and furnished instead with a long desk in its center, three chairs behind it, and a table full of snacks and drinks. A little video recorder stands atop a tripod next to the desk, ready to capture my audition.

  One of the chairs is occupied by a young man with thick glasses and long brown hair that falls to mid-neck. He has exaggerated, friendly features and sharp blue eyes, all of which come across as vaguely Germanic. Another man is standing in front of the desk, leaning one hip on it and looking over a script. He puts it down the moment we walk in, striding over with a big grin. Unlike the usual pretty boys I’ve come to expect from LA, he’s much older—mid-sixties, at least. An African American gentleman with deep wrinkles and an expressive face, he’s the only person I’ve met in this industry (so far) with a sincere smile. I can tell he’s legitimately happy to have a chance to meet new people, and a little thrum of questioning hope in his heart tells me he wants us to return the favor.

  “Ah, this is Donovan Gladstone, one of the main supporting actors for the series,” Diane says as he approaches. “He’ll be reading a few scenes with you.”

  “Sara Valen,” I say, holding out a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “All mine, certainly,” he replies in a rich, raspy voice as we shake.

  “And this is Frederick Mandel,” Diane says, gesturing to the seated man. “Our casting director.”

  “Fred, please,” the man says, getting out of his chair and nodding. “So good of you to come.” He sets a thin set of pages to one side, and I notice it’s my résumé. A large glossy picture from my photo shoot covers the first page. Considering we took those only yesterday, I’d say Mahesh has the skills and motivation to make this work. The promise of immortality will do that, I suppose.

  “Can I offer you anything to eat? Coffee?” Fred asks after our handshake, nodding at the table of goodies.

  I shake my head. “Too nervous,” I say with what I hope is a charming giggle.

  The three of them smile at that, and Fred says, “Please don’t be—we’re all friends here, and we’ll take as much time as you need. The better your audition, the easier our jobs.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Mandel,” I say. “I think it would be best if we got started, then.”

  Fred gestures at some of the scripts on the table beside him. “If you’d…? Your parts are marked in yellow. Let me know if you need a little time to study, and we’ll take the scenes in order.”

  “Just a minute should be fine,” I say, selecting one and reading it over. The content matches what little I know of this miniseries. Set in San Francisco in the near future, Switch is a dramedy intended to chronicle the adventures of a young woman in a world where, thanks to some sci-fi medical advancements, full-body cosmetic alterations have become trivial outpatient affairs. There are a lot of big names attached to the script and production, and it seems like they’re aiming to provide some interesting social commentary as well as plenty of delicious relationship confusion, romance, and teary-eyed Emmy Awards bait. Sounds like fun.

  “So you’ve done a lot of theater work and independent films, but nothing major,” Diane says, reading over my résumé as I flip through the script.

  “No wide releases, no,” I say offhandedly. I don’t know if Mahesh’s media contacts have had enough time to translate my fake credentials into fake trailers and such, but there’s no need to worry now: I’m here, and that’s all that matters.

  “Your accent is excellent,” Fred says, smiling. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were born in the States.”

  “Möchten Sie lieber Deutsch?” I say in a flawless Bavarian accent. It’s only a guess, but I think that’s where he’s from.

  His eyes widen at that, and he glances back at the résumé. “It does say ‘impressive language skills,’” he murmurs.

  I grin, then return to the script. After another minute of study, I nod and lower it. “Okay, I think I’m ready.”

  “Great! Don will start you off on the first scene,” Diane says, walking behind the desk. “Just let me get the camera set up.”

  “Oh, one more thing before you do that,” I say. She stops to look at me, and I return her curious stare with a big smile before igniting a white-hot star of love in their minds.

  Don’s and Fred’s looks change in an eyeblink, going from detached and professional to blissfully pleased, while Diane’s already-cheery expression turns downright ecstatic. Of the three, I’ve spared Don the full force of the effect to save my strength, but even he has a silly smile as he takes his place just off camera.

  “Y’know, I’m not even sure why we’re taking the trouble to do this,” Diane says, fiddling absently with the camera.

  Fred nods as if he’s in a dream. “I agree. It’s obvious you’re the right choice, but … we have to get a demo reel from everyone. That’s … okay, right?”

  “Of course,” I reply, situating myself in front of the camera.

  Diane gives a thumbs-up, and Fred nods.

  “He’s still the person you fell in love with, Karen,” Don begins. “Can’t you see—”

  “How?!” I yell, trying to find the perfect place between heartache and fury. “I get it, all right? It’s not about the—the whole switch thing! People should be able to have whatever life they want. I am filled with understanding and empathy!”

  “So why is this different?”

  “You—you seriously don’t understand?”

  “No, look—all I know is your boy shows up with the face he’s always wanted, and suddenly Ms. Acceptance starts sounding like a hypocrite.”

  I stare at him in shock for a moment, then spit my next lines like they’re poison. “He didn’t even tell me, Gene. Making a switch isn’t supposed to be a surprise. Flowers? Surprise! Weekend trip? Sure! New body? ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?”

  Don pauses for a moment to let the delivery stick, then glances back at Fred and Diane, who nod.

  “Okay, that’s great, Sara,” Fred says. “Ready for the next scene?”

  We continue like that for a while, running through a wide range of takes, including monologues, comedi
c bits, and even a few tearful moments. I’m lucky this show is all about relationships: I can draw on a millennium of them for acting inspiration, to say nothing of my personal experiences. I cry for my brother, Freyr; I laugh as I think of Mozart’s jokes; and I feel the endless rage of my time with Ares, all of it pouring out into that room.

  After the scenes are finished, there’s a short Q&A with the trio, covering the role in very general terms and what they’d need from me if I get the green light. It’s pretty standard stuff (I think) and very positive, but I hit Fred and Diane with some extra adoration and pride along the way, trying to make them feel like they have a personal stake in me.

  Then we say our good-byes, check out with the intern, and head to the elevators. “That was actually really impressive,” Nathan says as he presses the call button.

  “What, the audition?”

  “Your acting.” His expression seems caught between sheepish and proud. “I’ve never seen you try to be anyone but yourself. It’s like you’ve been doing it for years.”

  “Centuries,” I correct, feeling a faraway tone enter my voice. “I played many, many roles across the ages. Honestly, acting is easier than trying to be myself, sometimes.”

  He gives me a curious look as the elevator opens and we step inside.

  I shake my head. “It’s complicated. Short answer, being a god means being someone. A set, predefined person who always acts in one way, even if they know it’s a bad idea. Acting is … freeing. It’s like I’m allowed to do something different. I love it.”

  Nathan smiles vaguely as he nods at that, quiet and thoughtful, and I realize this is one of the few times I’ve hinted to him just how massively conflicted the lives of gods can be. I wonder if it’s leading him to think about Sekhmet, too, but this is hardly the time to ask. There’s a brief lull, and then our conversation shifts gears, returning to the usual pleasant banter. We step out of the elevator, cut through the lobby, and make our way to the car …