Slay

by Matthew Laurence

  “Ever since I was little.”

  “When was that?”

  What? “Uh, late nineties?”

  “There have been some rumors about your age, Ms. Valen,” he says, flicking invisible lint off his trousers. “Advance reviews are noting your performance as ‘surprisingly mature’ and ‘deeply nuanced’—high praise for … was it twenty?”

  “Twenty-one,” I say, feeling tense. That’s the age we decided on, since it lets me drink at all the fancy parties without worrying about any camera snaps dinging my reputation.

  “Mm. Yes. You look rather young, is all.”

  “Totally twenty-one.”

  Another pause stretches. “Norwegian,” he says at last. “Born in Tønsberg, yes?”

  My eyebrows raise. It’s not that he has this information—we put it out there to make sure my new identity would stand up to scrutiny—but he’s actually pronounced the place correctly (“tuns-bahr”). “That’s right.”

  “Oldest town in Norway.”

  “Really rich history,” I say, sliding back to bubbly to hide my sudden nervousness. We picked it for just that reason, but now I’m worrying our little inside joke might have had some unforeseen consequences.

  “You don’t have a trace of an accent,” he says.

  “Thank you!” I say. “Lot of coaching, believe me.”

  “Mm.”

  I want to frown, but resist when I remember the camera’s still rolling. It’s hard—those little grunts of his are really starting to tick me off.

  There’s another pause as he watches me carefully. Then his gaze sharpens, he sets his leg down, and he whispers, “You’re a slack-faced vomit guzzler,” in Old Gutnish.

  Several things race through my mind. First, that’s a variant of Old Norse he’s speaking, and there’s practically no chance a starlet—even a Scandinavian one—would know the first thing about it. Second, he’s pitched his voice so low, the odds are just as slim that any normal girl in my seat could hear clearly enough to make it out, let alone translate it.

  Third … what did he just call me?

  I know I’m being tested, taunted for some dire purpose, but it’s so hard to resist smacking him down with the fury of the heavens. He’s clearly watching to see what I’ll do, and unleashing the Valkyrie is precisely the wrong move, no matter how badly I want it. I clamp on to her, holding tight as she flashes up in a surge of heat, and instead try to favor the surprise I’m also feeling, to twist it into something that could be mistaken for curiosity.

  “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that,” I say, desperately hoping my voice sounds light.

  He watches me for a few more seconds. “Mm,” he says at last, and stands. “Those are all my questions, Ms. Valen. Thank you for everything.”

  “That’s all? I feel like you barely got to ask anything.”

  “Aren’t you sweet?” he asks with a dark smile. “Just a doll.” He nods at my assistant, who steps up to lead him out.

  Once I’m sure he’s out of the room, I turn to the cameraman. “Can I get a copy of that?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says. “Weird one, wasn’t he?”

  “Very,” I murmur, mind rattling with worries.

  * * *

  That night, back at our hotel, I review the unedited footage of Sebastian’s interview on my laptop with my friends. “If he is a god, I do not recognize him,” Sekhmet says, frowning her way through a third replay of the conversation.

  “And he’s insulting you there at the end?” Nathan says, looking deeply offended on my behalf.

  “Absolutely. In a way only a god could possibly understand.”

  “Clever,” Sekhmet says, examining the man with obvious hunger. “He wishes to expose you, and chooses a personal blasphemy as his means.”

  “It almost worked, too,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “I barely hung on.”

  “You can see a bit of it on your face,” Nathan says, reversing the footage and playing the pivotal moment again.

  “Is it obvious?” I ask, anxiety ratcheting higher.

  “I don’t know,” he says after another repetition. “Maybe only if you know what you’re looking for.”

  “Does he?” Sekhmet asks.

  I give her a helpless shrug.

  “Who is he, then? What are his goals; who are his masters?”

  “Well, there’s the obvious,” Nathan says, and we turn from the laptop to look at him. “Finemdi.”

  I grimace. “I’d really like that to not be the case.”

  “It makes sense, though.”

  “Not entirely—if he is working for them, why the whole interview song and dance? I mean, something about me tripped their radar, right? If they’re suspicious, why not just take me down and be done with it?”

  “Maybe this is just something they do regularly,” he says. “Show biz seems like a great way for gods to get power, after all. You might not be the first to think of it.”

  Damn. He could be right about that. Once you realize gods aren’t picky about where they get their belief, making the leap to the entertainment industry isn’t exactly rocket science. I’ve made the mistake of assuming I was the only one with a hot idea before, and I will not repeat it. “Okay, that sort of follows,” I say, nodding. “But still—can’t they detect gods? Playing twenty questions seems redundant.”

  “Can they? I mean, I know you can sense when they’re around, but do they really have some sort of godly Geiger counter for the mortals to use?”

  I frown and turn to Sekhmet. She shakes her head. “Somehow, I never received a tour of their armory.”

  “I guess I didn’t see anything like that, either. Garen never gave any sign.”

  “So maybe they can’t wave a tricorder and figure out who you are,” Nathan says, “but sending an actual god out to verify a hunch would probably be seen as a waste of resources.”

  “And beneath that god, depending on who they are,” I add.

  “Right, so they send Mr. Personality to tick you off and sound the alarm if it works.”

  I blow out a breath. “And he didn’t. At least, not yet.”

  “You are certain?” Sekhmet asks.

  “Nobody’s breaking down the door,” I say. A very loud silence follows. Familiar as we are with the universe’s cruel sense of causality, there’s a pregnant pause as we all turn to look at the entrance to my hotel room.

  A few seconds pass without any “hilarious” coincidences ruining our lives. “So we’re good, right?” I say at last.

  “For the moment,” Sekhmet says, still watching the door. “I would advise caution … and restraint.”

  “Restraint? From you?” I laugh, surprised.

  She grins, finally turning back to me. “You did say things would need to be different.”

  “I didn’t expect it to stick,” I reply, still smiling. “Okay. So act normal and stay the course? Assume assault squads aren’t waiting around the corner?”

  They glance at each other, then nod. “Running could be even more suspicious,” Sekhmet adds.

  “Yeah, true. Well, that works for me. I have a few more press events to finish, and Mahesh wants me back in LA afterward for some new auditions. I’m getting buzz, guys! Buzz!”

  “Fitting for the queen bee,” Nathan says. “Just be careful, okay?”

  “Oh, I’ll be the most paranoid little goddess you ever saw,” I say, tweaking his nose. “Now don’t you two have a date or something?”

  Nathan snaps his fingers. “House of Prime Rib. Yes. You’re going to love this place, Sekhmet. Hunks of meat the size of your head.”

  Her eyes glitter. “Oh! Lead on, lovely mortal,” she says in a thick voice. I think she’s five seconds from drooling.

  “Happy to! You good for now, Sara?” Nathan asks, getting up and offering Sekhmet a hand. She rolls her eyes with a smirk and stands on her own.

  “Completely,” I say, giving a quick wave and turning back to the screen.

  I grimace when they
leave, hoping that didn’t come off as too dismissive. I’ve been trying really hard to act like everything’s awesome when it comes to their lovey-dovey dealings, but this whole Sebastian thing has me distracted.

  I guess it’s gotten better. A little. I mean, filming this show has helped me shove their relationship to the back of my mind (unless they happen to be “playing tourist”), but things still feel weird. Basically, I’m caught between wanting it to end and crippled by curiosity about how it’s going.

  Their love—oh, and it’s love, believe me—is something new, which is kind of a big deal for a goddess who thought she’d seen it all. I mean, yes, gods have romanced mortals since the dawn of time, but the link Nathan’s priestly nature has forged is downright astonishing.

  It’s a blast, let me tell you.

  At least Nathan’s doing well. Even with everything that’s been going on, I haven’t let up on his priestly training. There’s no way I’m letting him go unprepared into whatever conflict awaits, so I’ve been focusing on combat and utility magic, expanding his repertoire of spells so he won’t get flambéed the second he steps in the ring with the supernatural.

  He’s getting great at shields in particular, which is almost entirely on him. I’m more of a “Die!” girl, so my spell-casting efforts tend toward nearly the exact opposite of Nathan’s new area of expertise, but I know enough to recognize talent when I see it. His leaning elsewhere isn’t terribly surprising, either. That’s the thing about mortal magic—unlike gods, they have choice.

  Give someone the gift of spellcraft, and you get a window into who they are, as if all those webs and weaves can’t wait to match themselves to their new wielder’s heart. Nathan, it seems, is a protector, someone who wants to deflect pain from those he loves.

  It’s possible he fancies himself a knight in shining armor, but I think it unlikely. People like that tend to romanticize themselves, to approach chivalry from a selfish place. No, I believe those who truly wish to shield others from loss do so because they understand all too well the hurt they wish to halt.

  And Nathan’s lost plenty.

  After we get to the point where I can’t dent his barriers (which doesn’t take long, sadly), we bring in Sekhmet, which becomes a rather humbling experience for us both.

  “A fine thing,” she says after he forms a shield between them, splitting his hotel room with a wall of gleaming force. She smiles vaguely, then hauls her fist back and sends a lazy punch blasting through it.

  Thrashing, severed threads of spellcraft twitch and unravel around the impact site, unmaking the wall in moments, and as Nathan winces from the feedback, she walks through the remains of his spell and kisses him.

  “Yet I am finer still,” she whispers.

  Nathan shakes his head, then grins and says, “If I get a kiss every time I lose, why win?”

  Sekhmet laughs, and gives him a knowing look. “Because until you succeed, kisses are all you’ll get.”

  His next shield is much, much stronger.

  Punches and inspiration aren’t Sekhmet’s only contribution, either: She also takes it upon herself to begin training Nathan in physical skills and techniques. Between the two of us, he makes great strides over the months, getting stronger, faster, and deadlier in the ways of battle both mystical and mundane. He was never pasty, but now he’s actually approaching “fit.” It’s great to see, though still kind of annoying when you combine it with the fact that he’s getting aid from another goddess.

  Besides Spell-slinging 101 with Nathan, my only other encounters with the supernatural are the dozens of preset contingency spells I have to reapply to myself each month. I’m getting better at really basic things—especially magic that’s closely tied to my portfolio, like scrying—but unless I want to risk draining myself when danger nears, these triggered spells remain my best bet. Most of them are variants of illusions like the ones I used to impress Harv and Mahesh, though there are a few showstoppers, too.

  I hope I won’t have to use them anytime soon, but better safe than sorry.

  Another week of last-minute requests and interviews passes in a blur, and then it’s just a short flight home. I’m not sure when we’ll be back in San Francisco, but I already have a checklist of must-eat specialties for us to hit when we do return. For now, though, my new hometown calls.

  I grin as we step out of LAX and into the warm sun of SoCal. Being here is a relief. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the shoot, but these past months have been pushing me to my limits. Even so, I can tell things are improving; I’m not much mightier, but there’s a peculiar sense of support growing behind my eyes.

  Setting aside the odd influx of power Nathan and Sekhmet’s relationship has been sending me, everything I’ve been doing in service to this new career has definitely helped. The press, the Twitter warfare, the high-end clothes and trigger-happy paparazzi—it’s all feeding the call of vanity, and that means something. It’s like the pool of strength I draw from hasn’t gotten any deeper, but the months I’ve spent playing starlet have widened it. Still can’t call lightning from the skies or raise the dead, but hey—progress!

  Public perception of Sara Valen seems fairly good, too. Just as we were leaving the airport, I noticed my face on a celebrity magazine at a tabloid stand, a very bright headline shouting, SARA’S SKIN SECRETS! (TWO WORDS: IN. SANE!). I’ve been popping up a lot in gossip rags and periodical spreads, and with HBO’s hype machine running full bore, there’s a good number of articles about me and the rest of the show’s cast. The fact that I’m a relative newcomer is an added bonus, as there’s nothing like a mystery actress without a past to set tongues wagging. Of course, some bloggers have less-than-flattering theories for how I landed such a sweet role, and the number of times I’ve run into paparazzi hoping for a candid photo op is verging on ludicrous (seems there’s always an unmarked sedan following us, these days), but on the whole, I’m quite satisfied with how the spotlight’s been treating me.

  We settle into our rental car and Nathan begins driving us back to the Sunset Tower Hotel. I pull out my Mim a half second after my seat belt clicks, intent on catching up with my growing fan base and checking my e-mails.

  I’m soon engrossed in the unrelenting chatter of social media and the latest round of volleys from Kirsten Riley’s camp. Stars above, I love this. I’m not sure it’s ever getting old, either—I mean, how could it? Take a sprawling world of info about everything from celebrity cats to your favorite actress’s hair product, smash a tidal wave of raw emotion and opinions onto it, and I’m in. For a god of passion and war, mainlining that sea of memetic madness is absurdly addictive.

  Somewhat later, I’ll realize this compulsion of mine has a nasty side effect: tunnel vision. While I take another dip in my favorite digital waters, what I don’t know is that it’s causing me to miss Nathan’s constant glances at his own phone, or the knowing looks he’s exchanging with Sekhmet through the rearview mirror.

  My high priest is up to something, you see, and I’m too wrapped up in the distractions of fame to notice.

  14

  EXHIBITIONISM

  NATHAN

  “Is this cheating?” Nathan asks Sekhmet.

  “On whom? Freya?” she replies, looking up from her museum guide.

  Nathan shakes his head. “Oh, no—I don’t think she’d really mind us sneaking off to New York for a night on the town.”

  “Then why the secrecy?” Sekhmet says with a sly smile.

  “Because I wanted to surprise you, and that’s already hard enough when it’s just me with something to hide,” he says. “You’re very good at killing mysteries, you know.”

  “I’m good at killing everything,” she says with a wink, and gives her map a shake. “Now, why have you brought me here? Or is that another enigma I must slay?”

  Nathan smiles at that. In lieu of an answer, he nods at the soaring entryway of domed arches and stately columns around them. Hordes of tourists stream in all directions, eager to experience the
treasures of New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. It’s nice, Nathan feels, to be part of that crowd, to take a day off from gods and glamour and just … hang out.

  “My dad took me to the Met a long time ago,” he says, feeling unexpectedly wistful. “Awesome experience for young Nate, and a big part of why I went into art and design. There’s this one painting of a girl here—Lady with the Rose, I think. She had this incredible smirk, and I remember wanting so badly to be able to make something like that.”

  Sekhmet holds up her map to Nathan and taps the section labeled EGYPTIAN ART. “I am reasonably certain you brought me here for more than mere reminiscence,” she says in a knowing tone.

  Nathan can’t help laughing at that. For a five-thousand-year-old cat goddess, she does a remarkable job of keeping him grounded. “Well, sort of,” he says, holding out a hand. “It wasn’t my past I brought you here to see.”

  Sekhmet’s smile widens, and those stunningly dark eyes of hers seem to pull at him with passion and delight. “You know, I believe I quite enjoy being surprised,” she says, entwining her fingers in his and letting him lead her into the museum.

  “So what did you mean by ‘cheating’?” she asks as they approach the Egyptian wing.

  “Oh, right—how I got us here,” Nathan says. “I mean, using the Graces’ spa portals to skip across the country? Feels a little easy, y’know?”

  “Magic is, by definition, a cheat,” Sekhmet murmurs, pocketing her map. “It is almost always used to defy natural laws.”

  “Does that mean you have a problem with it?”

  She scoffs at that. “One must pick their battles, love. My responsibilities concern the laws of Ma’at and the rights of women. So long as it does not violate them, magic is simply another tool to be used in their service … just as you have so cleverly used the Graces’ spells in mine.”

  “Well, that’s—”

  Sekhmet cuts off his reply with an elated gasp as they move into the following room. “How delightful!” she says, clasping a fist to her mouth as her head twitches in what seems an attempt to look in all directions at once.

  They’ve entered the first gallery of the Egyptian wing, an elegant space dotted with freestanding podiums and plinths, glass cases, and wall-mounted displays, all containing beautiful relics from the ancient world. “Look, Nathan!” Sekhmet cries, dragging him to stand before an imposing lion carved from lightly speckled granite. “Why—but this is from Henen-nesut, I’m sure of it!”