Tune in Tomorrow, page 17
“Try harder!” Valéncia barked. “Where’s your moxie, girl?”
Another made-up line. Starr put Sam on full blast and lifted a booted foot, pressing against the dresser. Using both hands, she pulled hard on a drawer handle, which gave about a quarter inch. Another tug and another quarter inch.
The entire cabinet tottered, like a tooth gone loose in its socket.
The Wills fluttered, strobing.
The cabinet rocked on its legs.
The Wills went dark.
The entire stage fell into blackness.
“Hey,” Starr began, but many things happened all at once. A large, heavy object thudded squarely on her chest, buckling her knees. The dresser! Falling! But—it’s tethered!
A scent of lavender and linden tree drifted nearby.
“Oh, my!” Nora’s twang, strangely close to Starr’s ear, surprised her. How had she moved so quickly to the stage in that outfit? She wasn’t even in this scene. “Look out!”
Starr shoved hard against the dresser, trying to slide out from under its angle, but her jacket caught on a handle. A wardrobe door smacked against her head. A drawer slid out and thudded onto her boot, sending bolts of pain up her ankle.
A high, metallic clang rang out, followed by a muffled thwack and a dull, sawing sound.
Move, her brain screeched, but while one foot was on fire from the drawer, the other seemed glued to the floor. She was losing ground with the dresser, which bore down against her outstretched arms. It would flatten her in a matter of seconds.
Come on, she imagined Sam telling her. Sam, her old self, her old name, surging up in this moment of desperation. Mango time.
Starr yanked with all her might, hearing the jacket rip. One foot landed in the fallen drawer, which skidded. She lost her balance and pinwheeled, still attached to the dresser, which was about to crush her. Everything seemed inevitable now. She couldn’t help herself anymore.
And where the heck was everyone?
“Help!” she tried to say one last time, thudding her fist on the wooden dresser. The sound was thin and raspy with fear. “Hel—”
But the world collapsed then, squeezing the breath from her, replacing all sound with an enormous splintering crash. The darkness got darker. She couldn’t take in a breath. She was under the wardrobe. Under the world. It was like being buried alive.
Just before she lost consciousness, she thought, Being the mango might not be enough to save you.
Chapter 20
Starr Wars
“Twenty-seven hours without me and this show falls apart!”
Starr could smell Cris before she opened her eyes; even when he wasn’t smoking, he carried a scent of autumn and cloves wherever he went. Right now, she was also getting a whiff of salt brine.
Cracking her lids open a smidge, she caught Cris pacing across a hospital room floor. He was hunched over, hands clasped behind his back like an expectant father, heading in one direction. Jason, horns extended and tail fluffed, was headed the opposite way.
“Goose eyelashes, she’ll be out of commission for a week! At least!” Jason worried his well-manicured fingernails. “Maybe a year!”
“Don’t get your fur in knot.”
“Hair!”
“It’s a few measly bruised ribs.” Cris paused his pacing and pulled a cigar from a pocket of his Hawaiian shirt, gripping it like a magic wand. “Mortals bounce.”
Jason trotted faster, cowboy boots clacking on the tiled floor. “The convention! The rewrites!”
“Tame your tail already,” Cris insisted. “I could have been back in ten minutes. I knew this place would circle the drain if I wasn’t around.”
“You look like you had a nice time.”
Cris held out his arms; he was darker than ever. “How’s that for a tan? ’Course, calling Atlantis ‘lost’ is a big lie. It was full of mortals and there were water slides and bars everywhere. I went snorkeling twice and they got pissy because I kept eating the fish on the reef. And have you checked out a human bikini lately?”
“Why bother coming back?”
“They have ‘no smoking’ signs everywhere!” Cris made a disgusted noise. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to light a cigar under water?”
That doesn’t sound like the mythic Atlantis, Starr thought. I think he ended up at the Bahamas resort.
Even that much thinking, though, gave her a pounding headache. The last thing Starr remembered was the lights going out, Nora’s voice—and not being able to breathe. Passing out. She opened her eyes wider, noting she was now wearing a white, nearly transparent linen gown. She tugged on the neckline, glimpsing bandages encircling her chest and a bruise of some size that ran like spilled wine up to her shoulder. A machine to her left went “boop” every few seconds.
“Practically a scratch,” Cris noted, puffing on the newly lit stogie.
Jason folded his arms. “And when was the last time you sustained an injury?”
Cris gestured with the cigar. “When I was—well, no. During the war with the elves—OK, not then, either. There was that time the siren caught me with her sister—” He grinned at the ceiling. “Fine, you got me, Smarty Goat. Never broken a thing. But neither have you.”
Flashbulbs of memory went off in Starr’s head. Darkness, followed by metal ringing. A particular scent. Nora’s voice again. Being lifted and carried and—more darkness.
“You MARBLEd me to a hospital?” she croaked.
The mythics stopped pacing.
A mug with a straw poking from it appeared under her chin, and she drank deeply. “Howdy, little lady,” said Mav, the holder of the mug. “Good to see those peepers open.”
Starr swallowed. Mav’s forehead was creased with concern, but his eyes—chestnut now, with flecks of gold—shone. And hearing that twang was like being covered with a warm blanket.
“You came, too?”
“Everybody did.” He gestured with an arm. “Well, most everybody.”
Starr squinted into the distance, discovering the hotel room had only three walls. Where the fourth should be stood a de-costumed Nora; a clutch of brownies, each holding a lit vigil candle; Wills hovering in the air; Phil’s enormous eyes blinking in the far distance; Jan looking extremely hip in a pair of sunglasses and oversized bag; Dakota bouncing on her toes, eyes sliding from Cris to Starr and back again; Emma, padding in the background, and Nico, paler than she’d ever seen him. No Fiona. No Griz.
The brownies bounced up and down, cheering.
“I’m still at the show?” Starr sat up too fast and saw stars. She fell against the raised back of the bed. “On the hospital set? Who undressed me? Who—” She tried to shift and a shockwave of needles pierced her. She gasped, trying to breathe.
“Settle.” Mav gestured. “You’re doing fine. Loads of bruises. Cracked rib, probably, or some such. You owe Nora some thanks.”
Nora raised her hand. “Beatrice was a nurse for a few years when she first arrived in Shadow Oak. I did research back then. I ripped up the costume to make those bandages.”
Great, Nora’s sweaty fabric is holding my chest together. Still, it sounded like Starr had been lucky to have her around. She gave the actor a strained smile. But Nora’s voice—something came back to her—Nora had said something. Right before the dresser fell.
“Look out!”
Why would she have said that? It was dark; no one could have seen anything, including that dresser crashing down. Starr shook her head. It was too hard to think right now. Instead, she glared at Jason. “What does a person have to do to actually leave this place when there’s no Gate? Sever a limb?”
“Sweetie, this has never happened before.” Jason leaned over her exposed blue socks. “This is not a usual thing.”
“So, in the eight hundred years this show has been going on—”
“Approximately,” muttered Cris.
“Not one person has been injured?”
“Try not to get so worked up.” Jason shifted around the side of the bed and smoothed her hair. “You’re still covered in electricity.”
“Shock!” shouted Nora. “Shock! Maybe. And since she’s functioning, I’m off to tell the leprecostumers they need to make me new inflatables.” She and several onlookers waved, or swirled, into the darkness of the stages. Oleander and a few brownies raced over, candles doused, and deposited flowers on her bed. Oleander shooed the others away and raised her eyebrows.
“Does Starr need anything else?” she queried.
“I think I’m in good hands, Oleander,” said Starr, patting her hands. “You can scamper.”
The bro darted into the dark, leaving Nico as the only one remaining offstage. He’d been lurking in the shadows, rubbing at his neck, and now approached the bed. “I just—I can’t—” he stammered. He set his hand over hers and looked like he might cry. “It’s untenable what happened to you.”
“What did happen?”
“Wardrobe fell.” Jason raised and lowered his forearm in a demonstration. “Came off its moorings.”
“Tell it straight, Valentine.” Mav refilled Starr’s mug. “Danged tether was cut. That’s intent. Establishes a modus operandi.” He winked at Starr. “Got my detective lingo down pat.”
Jason’s tail swished. “Perhaps it broke on its own. I am looking into it. Everything is on film.”
“Except for the critical part in the pitch dark.” Cris puffed his cigar.
“I plan to have a deep and meaningful conversation with our set designer, who was responsible for installing it on the set and securing it.”
“Good luck, interrogating an ogre,” Cris snickered.
“Well, Griz didn’t dump it on her.” Nico shifted on the bed. “I was standing next to him when the lights went out.”
“The Wills,” nodded Mav. “Talk to the Wills.”
“They won’t know anything,” said Nico. “They don’t have a mean bone in their bodies.”
“They don’t have bones,” noted Jason.
Starr was silently steaming. They were pointing fingers at everyone except the most obvious candidate: Fiona. Yet—though she had many powers and talents, so far as Starr knew, physical strength wasn’t one of them. Nor was carrying around something that could easily cut through a securing rope. Still, someone had to say the obvious. “Someone told them to turn off the lights,” she said thinly. “Someone they’d listen to. Someone who has influence.”
Silence fell. The “boop” machine went “boop” a few times. No one spoke.
“Fiona!” she finally barked. “Fiona! Come on, already!”
Jason cleared his throat. “Certainly, everyone on set will be questioned.”
Starr tried to fold her arms and discovered it hurt too much, so she balled her fists on the sheets. “Really? That’s all I get here?”
Nico seemed even paler now. Even Mav wasn’t looking at her.
Quit now, Sam suggested inside Starr. Get out while you can, before she kills you. It’s the smartest move.
Starr wasn’t sure she wanted to be smart, though. She wanted to be right. She glanced around, but no one was budging. A wave of weariness washed over her; she suspected her electricity—her shock—was asserting itself.
“So…” Jason traced a circle on the bed sheet. “How long before you heal?”
“Better ask how short she needs,” growled Cris. “We’ve got a schedule to maintain.”
“There’s no spell you can give me to just—make it all better?”
Mav shook his head. “Not that simple. Cuts are doable. Bones are trickier, and you’ll want ’em to mend right. Which means time.”
“Monday,” said Starr. “I’ll be ready to go on Monday.” She knew she wouldn’t be a hundred percent, but Starr wasn’t going to slack off. That was what Fiona—or whoever was behind this—was counting on.
“Sure?” Mav leaned in.
“I don’t need time off.” Starr sat up again, ignoring the stabbing pains in her chest. She gave a clenched-teeth smile. “Work the injury into the script. I mean, it’s reality, right? Use the footage. Tell the story.”
“It’s gold,” admitted Cris. “You bet your sweet bandages we will.”
“Viewers’ll eat it up,” nodded Jason, eyes bright.
“And that’s all that matters,” Mav nodded. “How many folks tune in.”
Cris craned over Starr’s legs to get into Mav’s face. “Ding, ding, mortal. You win the prize. Only took you, what, eighty years to figure that out?”
“I knew it a long while back.” Mav half-stood, leaning back. “Sometimes, though, I like to pretend we’re more than an eyeball-generating machine for mythies.”
Starr cleared her throat. She was a bit closer to Cris’ armpit than she cared to be; it smelled like a campfire. “Wounded warrior here.”
Cris glanced at his cigar, which had fired up green. “That’s mythics, human. Don’t go being racist.”
“All right.” Jason held up his hands. “Dial it down. And don’t smoke in a hospital, Cris. It’s bad luck or something.”
“We’re not in a hospital!” cried Starr.
Cris puffed thoughtfully. “Thank the gods I returned. I’ll take charge tomorrow, Valentine. You go do your”—he waved his cigar—“ogre kaffeeklatsch or whatever and I’ll see the scenes get shot.”
“Thank goddess,” Jason sighed.
The pombero chuckled. “C’mon. We were in the middle of a fight when I was so rudely teleported out.” He threw an arm around the faun’s shoulders and the pair sauntered from the set. “Don’t go trying that again. I’m now armed with my own MARBLE and it’s not charged.”
Starr was left with Mav in a chair on one side of her and Nico perched on the bed. An awkward silence fell. Mav gave Nico a nod, indicating he should move along, but Nico didn’t budge. The theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly started up in Starr’s head. She finished her water with a noisy slurp.
“Right.” Mav stood. “Time for a refill. You all right for a few there, gal?”
This was her moment to tell him he didn’t have to return. But to her surprise, she didn’t want that. Having him here made her feel secure. Just a minute ago, having Jason, Nico, Mav and Cris all surrounding her had been like being warmed by the strength of several suns. Almost worth getting nearly killed by a murderous wardrobe.
Almost.
“Sure.” She smiled at him. He was such a gentleman around her, acting like she might break if he didn’t keep an eye out. Mav backed away and left the set.
“Is it past seven now?” she asked Nico.
He chuckled softly. “We can’t seem to catch a break.”
“Part of me wants to say there’s an infinite number of other chances,” she said. “Part of me says I’ve shot my last scene.” Starr hadn’t made any final decisions, but having spoken the words aloud, they had a certain ring of truth. This show was a parade of red flags, and she should listen.
Nico’s expression was stony.
“You have something you want to say?” she asked, as gently as possible. She’d just accused his best friend of trying to smash her, yet he hadn’t exactly rushed to Fiona’s defense.
He shook his head, staring at the blankets. “I don’t have an answer for you, Starr. I saw what you saw, which is nothing.”
“But when I said ‘Fiona,’ you didn’t tell me I was crazy.”
Nico sighed, worry and pain knotting together in his expression. It was a familiar look to Starr, who’d seen it in Mama’s face right before she poured herself another cup of ‘medicine.’ But he didn’t speak.
“I am thinking of quitting.” Her insides curled at those words. Could she really do it?
“Ma cheri,” he lifted her hand and put on his Roland voice. “I would throw myself into the infinite pit of despair if I thought the marvelous Samantha Draper could be felled by a mere piece of bedroom furniture.” He raised an eyebrow. “Shall we sacrifice ourselves together?”
“That would make Fiona happy.”
“Who is this… Fiona?”
“Stop it.” Starr pulled her hand back. “If you can’t be serious with me—if you can’t be Nico with me—then you ought to go.”
Roland disappeared from his demeanor, and Nico immediately began drumming his fingers on the bedsheet. “You’re such a strange duck, Starr Weatherby. Why would you prefer a nervous wreck like me to a character I’ve spent decades sculpting?”
“Maybe I just like being able to tell the difference between real and glamour.” She blinked at him and there was a long silence. “You can’t fake real, even if you’re making a reality TV show.”
Nico nodded. “Are you seriously considering tucking tail and running?”
“What would you do?” She toyed with the sheet. “Somebody does not want me here.” Her throat tightened. The more she put into words the idea of not coming back here, of not seeing the faces that had become so dear to her, of voluntarily abandoning the one place that ever made her feel good about doing what she loved—the more it felt like lopping off an arm.
Damnit, she realized. I’m in love. With this place.
“You know what happens if you take off before the first year’s up.”
“The Guide says I lose pretty much every penny I’m supposed to get. But if I’m dead, I won’t care much about my checking account balance, will I?”
In fact, what the Guide explained in excruciating detail was the nature of fairy gold: it had to acclimate to the world behind the Veil, so while her bank account would positively overflow each month, only eight percent of those funds would become ‘real’ money each month. Withdrawing more than that sum every four weeks would lead to those funds evaporating the moment she walked out of the financial institution, which was referred to as a Leprechaun Storage Facility in the Guide. If she quit, or was fired, only eight percent total would remain. Why eight? Why ask for any form of logic from this side of the Veil?
“Starr, no one wants to kill you.”
“Evidence to the contrary.” An odd thought occurred to her then: Amelia might not be misplaced at all. Amelia might be dead.
Footfalls in the darkness neared as Mav approached with a fresh mug and straw, plus a pitcher of water. A thick sheaf of papers stuck out from under one arm.
