Tune in Tomorrow, page 13
She knocked again.
It hadn’t occurred to her that Fiona might be lying about Cris’ presence in his office. Shrugging, Starr reached for the doorknob. Perhaps if it swung open, she could confirm whether he was there.
At her touch, the knob disintegrated into sand. Starr jumped back and the door transformed, morphing into smaller and smaller pieces while retaining its general barrier shape: fist-sized, diamond-sized, crystal-sized… and then, sand. The sand door stood in place, swinging inward slowly, then collapsed.
Coughing as sand engulfed her feet and dusted her face, Starr glanced up. The door was gone. Beyond lay… trees.
“Whoops,” she said.
Perhaps this was how a pombero said, ‘Come in’?
She took a tentative step inside, immediately surrounded by skyscraper-sized trees, vines as thick and tangled as Medusa’s hair, and unseen, cawing birds. She trod along a dirt path that cut through the forest office and opened into a small clearing filled with a collection of boulders that vaguely resembled a desk and chairs. The ground was charred in several places, indicating either Cris had lost his temper a few times, or just didn’t care where he built a firepit. The burble of a stream winding through the clearing caught her ear first, then her nose—it smelled like molasses and butterscotch. The whole place was humid, leafy and dim; barely any light penetrated the canopy above.
It was a freaking rainforest.
Starr spun around, trying to take it all in.
“Cris?” she called out. “Fiona wants to chat. But first—” She cut herself off, wondering if maybe she was talking to nobody but the unseen birds. Did mythics leave the glamour on when they weren’t in like somebody forgetting to turn out the lights?
Thirsty, she bent down and scooped up stream water into her hand. “I was hoping to ask you about this actor who was here before me. Maybe you remember Amelia Beckenridge?” She tilted the water into her mouth and gagged—it was sweet and burned like alcohol.
Because it was alcohol. The creek was made of rum.
A giant hand clamped over her face, and she breathed in tobacco and sugar as she was dragged down the path. Struggling, she tried to remember that free Krav Maga class she’d taken six years ago but left halfway through—but with every flail the mysterious grip tightened. She could barely catch a breath, much less scream for help, and whoever it was, was not talking. When they reached the boulder desk, her captor flung her away and she stumbled against the rocks. “Who—” she gasped.
Cris stood before her, stark naked, fists on his hips.
Starr’s eyebrows lifted. That’s impressive. So are those. And so is— She shook her head, trying not to gawk at his sculpted, enormous body. He was like one of those god statues people left gifts for or insisted on caressing for good luck.
He stood about ten feet tall.
“You failed to knock,” Cris boomed, and it wasn’t really Cris—it was the most Cris-iest Cris she’d ever met, the Über Cris or something. Like when Jason’s horns appeared, how he became… someone else. A cold fear cut into Starr. The cigar in Cris’ mouth—also twice as large as it ought to be—shifted to one side. “I would have heard a knock.”
The voice was not so much loud as powerful, like a bass speaker had been pressed to Starr’s head. “I tried—but your door—it turned into sand—”
“That is not supposed to happen!” Cris boomed.
Kind of the motto of this show, Starr thought.
The pombero reached into a pile of ferns and withdrew a pair of cargo trousers, then slid them on. His dark eyes flared. Grabbing hold of a long vine, he curled it under one arm and tugged hard. “Uninvited trespassers are to be lashed to a tree, and the fire ants administered.”
Ants of retribution! Sweat broke out on Starr’s forehead. Cris didn’t seem to recognize her at all. “Hey! It’s me!” she babbled, trying to back away. “Starr! Sam! Helping the show! Too much hair flipping!”
He staggered to her in slow, menacing steps, all while wrapping more vines around his massive arm, eyes blazing.
Run, thought Starr. How does a person run again?
“Once the fire ants have consumed your flesh your bones shall be added to the—”
Unable to flee, Starr used the only thing she carried as a weapon: her script. Curling it tighter, she lashed out and bopped a pectoral muscle the size of her head.
Cris glanced down at the script, then at Starr. She grinned once, then threw the script at him. It bounced off his chest and fell into the rum stream, carried away to an unknown destination.
Crap on waffles. Starr was sweating harder, beginning to shake.
“Sugar Ears?” A small female voice called from the trees. “Dear?” Dakota’s head peeped from around a mahogany tree, her lustrous auburn hair coursing down bare shoulders. “I said, ‘Ready or not, here I come,’ but you didn’t even try to hide, you silly—”
Cris clapped a hand over his face with an enormous sigh. The fire drained from his eyes.
“I think my dress fell in the water—oh!” Dakota noticed Starr for the first time. “What are you doing here?”
“Hoping to avoid being a snack for fire ants.” Starr was breathing hard, sweat pouring from her scalp.
Dakota cocked her head. “Your makeup is… um, interesting.”
“I’m not done yet.” Starr remembered how weird she must look.
“How did you get in here again?”
“The door—disintegrated.”
Cris shoved aside trees, which split under his grip. “Doble hijueputa,” he swore. “I am to be protected in my chamber. That is not supposed to happen.”
“Fiona sent me,” Starr rushed on.
“I heard that part.” Cris tossed his collected vines aside. “I also heard the other part.” He removed the cigar and used it to point. “First answer is: Fiona Ballantine can come find me when she’s ready. Because she knows how to knock on a mythic portal.” He leaned in closer and now the sugar scent reminded her of a campfire. The second part is none of your business. You hear anything about an Amelia or a Joseph, and you erase it from your tiny skull. That’s ancient history. This show has moved on. Completely.”
Clearly. Starr was still trying to get her legs to move again. But that second name—Joseph—she’d heard it from Cris before. Another person who was no longer here. Who had moseyed.
Joseph’s work is off-limits. For eternity.
Cris had said that in the diner. When the leaves fell off the plant.
“Starr.” Dakota gave a little wave, still hiding behind the mahogany tree. “I think you’re marvelous and I promise to clear that interview with Helena any day now. But I really must ask that you leave this instant. We are in the middle of our—exercise.”
“Read you loud and clear.” Starr was still intending to flee—but managed to take one step toward Cris. He’d been gradually reducing in size, along with his pants and the cigar, and now loomed just over six feet. He didn’t move out of her way, and she held her ground even though her hands were sweating. Swallowing, she asked what she most wanted to know: “But come on. Who are they?”
“If you have so much free time,” Cris ran a hand down his bristly face, “I will have to chat with Emma. Perhaps she is not giving you enough to do.”
Starr smiled awkwardly. “That would be”—she stepped to one side—“amazing, of course.” She began backing toward where the door had been, nearly tripping over a fallen branch. “But honestly”—she reached for a knob that wasn’t there—“not necessary. I’m doing great. Super busy.” Her hand closed around something smooth and cold that was not a doorknob, and she flung it into the room.
Cris caught the small yellow snake in one hand and set it on the boulders. “Go,” he boomed, waving at the trees, revealing a hallway behind her. “Drop this thing about Amelia. It is not your concern. And remember, I do have fire ants, if need be.”
Starr swallowed and jumped into the hallway. Her heels clattered on familiar linoleum, and she felt a wave of relief. “No need. Of course. By the way, you have a really nice office.” She fled into the lobby without glancing back.
Roused mythics were terrifying people.
Head pounding, heart doing a drum solo, Starr hurtled into the cavernous lobby. It was empty except for Nico and Phil, who were chatting away over mugs of something. Coffee probably for Nico, sriracha for Phil.
Head down, keep moving. Starr tried to blot out everything that had just happened in Cris’ office. I have makeup and hair and lines and—no script.
Nico intercepted her with a step to the side. “Hey, hey.” He smelled of rosewater and cardamom. “Got a bee in your bonnet?”
Starr blinked up at him and thought fire ants, not bees—and burst into tears. Her legs felt soft. Her heart was still racing. Nico reached for her arm but she pulled away. A linen cloth the size of a bedsheet landed on her head. She could make out an embroidered red ‘P’ on one corner. Sliding it off, she glanced up at Phil.
“Or do you need security?” Phil asked hopefully.
Starr blew her nose on one corner of the handkerchief and wiped her face with another.
“Tell us what happened,” Nico insisted. “I’ll punch it if I can. If not, Phil will eat it.”
The dragon cleared his throat. “As I have explained many times in the past—”
“Fine, Phil will grill it to perfection.” Nico’s comforting hand on her shoulder made Starr feel silly about having gotten so emotional. But this was her first encounter with a ten-foot pissed-off pombero threatening a gruesome death, so she forgave herself. Nico had become much more tolerable since he started leaving the sunglasses and Roland persona on the set, and she appreciated his solicitousness. He still could seem sketchy as anything—but he appeared to know how to be a decent person. And he couldn’t help being handsome.
Maybe he was growing on her.
“I met a pombero,” she said. “He was not happy to see me.”
“Ah.” Nico’s gaze flicked over her shoulder, back toward Cris’ office. “Let me guess: black mamba landing on your head from a tree? Or fire ants crawling up your leg?”
“Threatened fire ants. Retributive kind.”
He nodded. “That’s a bit of extra angry from Cris.”
“Your good friend sent me in there.” Starr glared at him. “She knew he’d be in there with D—”
Nico held up his hands. “Exnay on the AkotaDay, there.” He faltered and turned to Phil. “What the hell is pig Latin for ‘Cristian del Noche?’”
“I only know serpent Latin,” said Phil. “Has a lot of esses in it.”
Nico waved him off. “My point is, you never know when AsonJay will come by, and we really don’t want him to know about them. He could turn up at any time, and he’s a stickler for protocol.”
Starr frowned; Nico had dodged the central element of her fury. “Well, Iona-Fay was the reason I was there in the first place.”
Nico took a long beat before answering. “Fiona is… Fiona. Try to bear with her. Our relationship is complicated.” He propped an elbow on the reception desk and leaned forward. “Of course, we could go into more detail on this topic over dinner sometime.”
Roland was back. Well, kind of. He wasn’t waggling his eyebrows. He wasn’t acting like some kind of lounge lizard. He seemed sincere. Starr nearly rejected the idea out of hand—then had an idea: if Cris wouldn’t cough up details, perhaps a few bats of her eyelashes might winkle the truth about Amelia, or Joseph, out of Nico.
And maybe he’d get more than a few bats, if he behaved himself.
Starr closed the gap between them, intrigued by the halos in his caramel-colored eyes. “I could look at my schedule.”
“Tonight.”
“Jeez, you don’t waste time. I’ll miss the Gate. It’s Friday, so I’d be stuck here all weekend.”
“I usually miss the Gate. Tonight. Here.”
“Dinner in the lobby?”
“I’m an excellent cook.” Phil breathed loudly.
Starr had almost forgotten he was there. A person would have to be pretty bewitching to make you forget a dragon in the room, she thought. “You’re not using some kind of charisma prize, are you, Nico? Right now?”
He set a hand on his chest. “That’s adorable. We’ll meet here. But let’s just say I have ways of spiriting us elsewhere.” He withdrew a small marble from his pocket. Inside the glass orb a white stripe swirled, dipped and circled around like a trapped dream. “This can take us to some very special places.”
“Are you offering me drugs, Nico Reddy?”
He laughed. “It’s just a MARBLE. Haven’t you consulted your Guide yet on MARBLEs?”
“Yes. No.” Her memory raced. The Guide had been incredibly helpful on any number of topics, but it kept updating itself and expanding and contracting every day. It was impossible to finish, much less know everything. Figuring out what those little glass spheres she occasionally saw actors pull from their pockets barely made the top ten of her list of questions. “Maybe.”
Heels clicking on linoleum broke the moment as Dakota arrived in the lobby. Everyone turned; instead of her usual Junior League look, she wore a belt holding up an oversized pair of trousers, topped by an equally oversized man’s blouse with the sleeves rolled up.
“Classy,” said Nico. “The pumps are an extra-nice touch.”
She sniffed at him and sailed over to Starr, kissing her on both cheeks. “You are the soul of discretion.”
“That’s me,” said Starr. “A soul who needs to understand portals better.”
“That never happened before,” Dakota whispered, as if Nico weren’t there. “Cris and Jason are going to have a meeting about it.” She straightened. “You haven’t seen my dress, have you?”
Starr shook her head. “Nor my script.”
Dakota coughed into a fist. “I’m so late. Fiona says she has a column for me to pick up.” Brightening, she turned on a big smile and spoke to the room. “Good news, though! I will be interviewing Starr for the upcoming WaterWorlds!”
Starr grinned, delighted.
But for some reason, Nico only looked distressed.
Chapter 15
Starr Rising
Jason hoisted himself up on Phil’s desk and broke open a bag of hot peppers whose odor alone was enough to crisp his nose hairs. Without emotion, he nibbled on one, then tossed a second down Phil’s gullet.
“Mmm,” said the dragon, rosy-pink smoke drifting from his nostrils. “Thank Gorgon it’s Friday?”
Jason signed dramatically. “I suppose. I’m halfway between doom and despair.” He eyed the milling mass of show extras and guest actors who’d gathered in the lobby, waiting for the Gate to appear. Soon, they’d be gone for the weekend and he’d be left with a half-finished episode.
Part of him wanted nothing more than to be the actors’ usual cheerleader, waving them off with aplomb so he could shuck off his boots and clothing and take off on a glorious gallop through the open fields and shady glens of his office glamour. Like sharing outrageously hot peppers with Phil at the end of every week’s shift, his run was meant to be sacrosanct. He could burn off his excess energy for an hour before swooping in to rescue Cris’ ‘director’s cut’ version of the show, which varied in quality and comprehensibility. Cris was an efficient director who basically scared all his performers into getting the job done—but he was a terrible editor.
“I am, as the mortals say, avant-garde,” Cris once told him. “An auteur. Do not mess with my process.” Cris had spent a few years in France in the 1960s making movies with mortals, then returned with big ideas and phrases that meant little to Jason. It had taken until just last year to get him to stop wearing a beret all the time. Alas, all that attention to how humans told stories did not translate into an episodic reality show. Once, Cris had tried to send TPTB an ‘uncut, raw’ episode that had zero editing at all; another time, he’d included a segment that was eight minutes of nothing but reaction shots.
Jason told him to wise up: audiences wanted one hour of three arcs and a little cliffhanger at the end. “Simple,” he’d said. “Don’t overthink it.”
“Your ‘simple’ is my ‘boring’ and maybe we need a little more overthinking,” Cris had snapped. But the fact was this: putting out five hours of so-called human ‘reality’ every week to an audience that ate it up was both joyful and grueling. Jason had to pick up a lot of slack, and it was starting to wear on him.
“So,” said Phil now, chewing on his pepper. “It’s a Carolina Reaper week.”
The strength of the pepper choice was dependent on how Jason’s last few days had gone; a true barn-buster of a five-day cycle meant peppers that had to be eaten wearing goggles and handled with asbestos gloves. Reapers were the strongest hotties humans could produce—but only fair to middling in the mythic universe.
Jason’s mood was also fair to middling at the moment. So many little problems kept cropping up: doorknobs and doors turning to sand. Every pen transforming into a lit candle. Then this afternoon a script and a red dress had clogged up Cris’ septic system, causing the studio’s water supply to be replaced by incredibly powerful rum—and the eternally thirsty cameradryads had gotten so drunk their bark had begun to peel.
Shooting had ended early for the day.
At first, Jason had worried that all the small issues with the show had been another sign of their waning viewership. But after Celtis stumbled by, rum-punch-drunk, Jason had put two and two together and got… sex. That dress belonged to Dakota and had fallen into Cris’ rumspring for a reason. He was going to have words with the pombero later about dallying with the press—and it would not be pretty.
But the bigger problem was that they barely had a show to send to TPTB. Jason had managed to shoot perhaps three scenes before the cameradryads lost all their senses. Now, Jason was so mopey that even hot peppers couldn’t light a fire under his mood. He took everything personally: Tune in Tomorrow was a work of art in his mind, on a par with Stonehenge, fairy pools and crop circles. He’d spent decades shaping it and making it live and breathe. He’d always felt he had a right to be proud.
