Tune in Tomorrow, page 3
Throughout it all she’d slogged through a dispiriting job at Mike’s for paltry wages, while Jason kept to the shadows. Meanwhile, viewership on the show continued to decline a trickle away, the loss reflected in failures all around the studio: objects transformed randomly, floorboards began to scream, sets were vandalized, crew vanished for hours or days at a time. The thought of his show being canceled, of losing his access to all this excitement and those wonderful mortals, depressed Jason beyond understanding. Yet he couldn’t rush things. While Starr did seem perfect for them, Jason had to be certain they weren’t dealing with another… Amelia.
Now, six years of investment were about to come to fruition. Did he care if Starr’s acting was a little… broad? Not a whit. This was a woman who could spontaneously invent songs for tropical fruit. Actors could be trained. Performers were born with it. Tune in Tomorrow had far too many of the former, not nearly enough of the latter. Starr Weatherby was precisely the mortal his show required.
Jason touched his horns. They were the correct length. The patches of hair that had fallen out of his legs during the last stressful disaster had grown back. He wasn’t grinding his teeth as much when he slept. He had hope again. But until he saw Starr in their studio, he wouldn’t be able to focus. So he’d left his forest-glamoured office, arriving five minutes early to the immense antechamber—or ‘lobby,’ as the humans insisted on calling it—that served as the entrance to the Tune in Tomorrow studio and stages. The ‘lobby’ had to be big: for one thing, it needed to accommodate their security guard Phil, along with his cave.
Jason tugged nervously on the sleeves of his grey-and-white pinstriped shirt, ensuring they were the correct distance from the cuffs of his blue velvet blazer, which itself was threaded with nearly indiscernible pure silver threads. The blazer came to hip level over a pair of snug white cotton jeans, which almost but not quite hid the extensive hair on his legs. His tail gleamed with ointments he’d applied after giving it a thorough brushing-out that morning.
But the best expression of Jason’s excitement could be seen on his feet. He was currently wearing his treasured soft chrome aquarium platform boots. It was only proper to greet his grand project in grand footwear; no considerate faun exposed random fetlock except among intimates. Within the water-filled heels of the boots swam miniature angelfish, tended to by downsized naiads. He sensed them swirling beneath him as he stared at the lobby’s far wall—a grey, blank emptiness that would transform into a misty portal in a few more minutes.
“Oooo, hello there!” Nicodemus Reddy had taken a cross-legged seat on the floor next to Jason’s boots, and he waved a finger at the transparent heels. Naiads blew him tiny water kisses. He blew them back, then leaped up and joined the faun staring at the grey wall. “Fresh meat on the way?”
“None of your beeswax,” said Jason, smoothing down his hair. “And I dislike that particular… metaphor.”
“Turn of phrase,” said Nico, slapping him on the back. “Man, you’re wound tight. Those horns never stand that high unless you’re worked up about something.”
A young woman with lustrous red hair sidled up against Nico and nuzzled his cheek. “I wondered where you went,” she purred. “Why up so early?”
“Running an errand.” He tousled her hair. “How about grabbing me some tea?”
“Don’t you have help for that?” She planted her fists on her hips.
“I do… ” He slid on a pair of sunglasses and beamed a smile at her. “But you prepare it so beautifully, Madeline.”
“That’s Martine.”
“Of course.”
She narrowed her eyes and stalked off.
“Prince Charming strikes again,” said Jason. “Who was that one?”
Nico shrugged. “One of the extras. Passing through. Tomorrow she’ll have forgotten she was ever here.”
“You are a credit to humanity.” Jason examined the actor, who was still wearing yesterday’s costume. “You know, there’s nothing in your contract that says you have to be Roland one hundred percent of the time. I wouldn’t mind a break from the whole—” he waved his hands, “package.”
Nico straightened, then lowered the sunglasses onto his nose. “Trust me, Valentine—nobody wants to see the unvarnished Nico.” He pushed the glasses up again and gave a small twist of his shoulders, like sliding back into an invisible cloak. “And that includes me. Besides, doesn’t our newcomer deserve us at our most charming, princely selves?”
“So, you knew someone was coming.”
“Valéncia—well, Fiona—tells me everything,” Nico chirped. “You know that.”
Jason did. Little remained under wraps in the studio for long, particularly if Fiona or Nico heard about it first. What one breathed out, the other breathed in. Nico always had his antennae up—not literal ones; he was a lovely human specimen of Indian-Greek descent, a dimpled Adonis Siddhartha whose sleek black curls were the envy of all breathing creatures, mortal and mythic, at the show.
Nico’s problem was that he didn’t trust himself to be himself. His history on the other side of the Veil was so dark and painful he’d long ago taken to disappearing into character as frequently as possible—and as Roland, he could be positively insufferable.
“You just tell old furry legs that I will expect Starr Weatherby in time for breakfast.” Nico spoke in a near-perfect imitation of Fiona’s New England patrician accent, then raised an eyebrow and returned to his own smooth, low tones. “That’s direct from the source. I assume she’s not planning to eat Starr. No guarantees, though.”
“I loathe when you do that voice thing,” said Jason. “It’s… wrong.”
Nico waved his hand. “You just hate it when we use a little dime store magic.”
Jason narrowed his eyes. Mortals couldn’t do magic, not exactly. But they were awarded certain limited talents for outstanding achievement on the show at each year’s Endless Awards, along with an intricate, color-shifting statuette that resembled a fiber-optic table lamp straight out of the 1970s. Nico had thirty-four such awards; one of those was Thrown Voice Mimicry. Fiona, meanwhile, had one hundred and twenty-eight awards—more powers than any other human on the show. They might be small, ‘dime store’ level powers, but they added up and over the decades she’d become almost as formidable as Jason himself.
“Anyway…” Nico blinked. “That’s one of my favorites. I have so few that come in handy.”
“Take it up with management. Or the WaterWorlds editors.”
“I know, I know. The Powers That Be choose the prizes, the magazine picks who wins. But has anyone in the Seelie or Unseelie courts even visited this show? How do you appeal to a higher authority that doesn’t even deign to stop by?”
Jason glanced at his watch again. Two minutes. “Believe me. You don’t want them here. It’s never good news. I go to them, and it’s bad enough.” His brow furrowed. “Also, it’s hair. I have hair on my legs, not fur.”
Nico chuckled. “Spill, faun. What do I need to know about our imminent arrival? All I have is a name. Enquiring minds and all that.”
Whatever Jason told Nico would end up as a flea in Fiona’s ear, of course. Two of the show’s most veteran stars, they were close pals in real life and comrades-in-arms on the show: Roland and Valéncia, lothario rogue and wealthy Grand Dame. Yet so far as Jason could determine—not that he paid a whole lot of attention—they’d never been that kind of couple. Between them lay a weird history, something outside of sex yet beyond friendship. It was incredibly, deeply human, which meant Jason would never get to the bottom of it.
All for the best. Officially, as stated in the Guide, intra-show relationships were off-limits. Violations could get an actor fired, or a mythic removed. And while a mythic would be shunted to another production, firing a human was deeply unpleasant. Particularly for the human. Unofficially, though, what went on in an actor’s dressing room or a mythic’s office or elsewhere in the vast Veil territories was their own business.
“You don’t need to know a thing,” said Jason. “Not yet. She’s going to have to pass muster with our Grand Dame, and only then will she really matter to the show. But when she does, and she will”—he waggled a finger in front of Nico’s nose—“you leave her be.”
Nico wilted against the security desk, his Roland character in full bloom. He clasped a hand to his chest, wounded. Behind him, a wisp of smoke drifted from Phil’s bowling ball-sized left nostril, and then the guard flipped the page of his magazine, Dragon Drawn and Quarterly.
“How dare you assume,” Nico huffed, “that I would press unwanted attentions on the newest sheep in our flock?”
One minute. Jason reluctantly averted his attention from the wall. “Do I need to spell this out?”
“It is not my fault the ladies can’t resist,” he grinned wickedly, “this whole package, as you put it moments ago.” His hazel eyes sparkled. “I mean, could you?”
“I have thus far.” Yet, Jason wasn’t unaware of Nico’s charms. When Fiona had hauled one Nicodemus Reddy through the portal over half a century ago, Jason had actually caught his breath. Then he’d held it: Nico had smelled like he’d been marinating in a wine barrel. He was tidier now, at least on the exterior. His interior was still an unknown country. But what was known was how he homed in on anyone female they brought on board, mortal or not, rules or not.
Except for Fiona.
“Nico, listen,” said Jason. He had perhaps thirty seconds to make this clear.
“All ears.” Nico fluttered his lashes.
“Give Roland a breather and be serious for once. This is important.”
Nico nodded slowly and made a tiny shrug. Instantly, he seemed somehow… smaller.
“You must have noticed that the Gate’s faulty. And the coffee in the break room sometimes comes out as bubble bath.”
“And the bathroom urinals sometimes vanish mid-stream?” Nico nodded along. “Bah, it’s a little wear and tear on the old joint.”
“Mav is not here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Thought he was just on vacation. Mahroba, right?”
Jason clenched his fists. “He was supposed to be back last week, but apparently, he can’t get his MARBLE to work! We’re holding up story for him!”
Nico tsked. “What’s the fairy world coming to, if you can’t rely on a return MARBLE?”
Jason craned his face to the ceiling, willing calm, daring his hair to consider dropping out again. “Everything is going wrong, one piece at a time, Nico. And that’s because we are losing viewers. If we don’t have those eyeballs, we start coming apart at the seams. I develop mange. And over the long term, if we don’t get the audience back, we disappear.”
Nico’s natural golden-brown hue paled. “Cancellation?” he whispered.
“It’s not impossible. And you know what happens then. You land on your behind on the sidewalk. On your side of the Veil. Your prizes stay behind. You leave with nothing.”
“Not even Temporal Arrest…?”
“Naturally. You start aging again.”
“Even—”
“Yes. Even Fiona’s little gift goes.”
Nico chewed his lip.
“I need this one to work. We don’t have a lot of time. Starr Weatherby must work. So, are you on the team, or are you in the way?”
Nico saluted. “Count on me. Besides, you know I only trouble with the temporary ones.”
“Of course you do. We haven’t had any fresh long-termers in thirty years.”
Nico straightened, and Jason despaired at seeing Roland already returning. The actor backed toward the grey wall just as it began to soften. A gentle breeze rolled into the lobby like dry ice at a rock concert, and he looked as if he might be about to begin an opening number. Spreading his arms wide, Nico gave a small bow. “I vow not to lay a finger on our newest acquisition, as a favor to you.”
A figure spun through the nothingness, missing Nico by inches, and landed hard on the linoleum floor. The actor stumbled backward.
“—off my jacket!” Jan finished shouting, then scrambled to their feet. They glared into the mist, then grinned at Jason. “Better late than never, boss!” They hoisted their backpack high on a shoulder, then dashed through the antechamber.
“Jan!” Jason cried. “Someone else is coming through with you, right?”
Jan slowed, shrugging. “Maybe.” They disappeared around a corner.
Nothing happened. The mist would exist for only fifteen seconds, and not return until much later in the afternoon, unless it was glitchy again. Jason’s face fell.
“Too bad.” Nico clucked. “You made me promise all for noth—”
A woman fell out of the mist and slammed into Nico, who was still half-turned. Instinctively the actor caught what had been thrown at him, wrapping his arms around her. They tumbled to the ground, rolling on the floor, and when they came to a stop, Starr Weatherby was on top of him, her curls flopped across his face. Straightening, she flipped her hair to one side as Nico ogled her impressive décolletage.
An overnight bag arced over everyone’s heads, landing with a soft whoomp on the floor next to the antechamber’s sofa.
Jason clasped his hands together in delight, then jogged over. “Starr!” he cried, a tsunami raging in his heels. “So many happy landings!”
Chapter 4
Hitch Your Wagon to a Starr
Starr scrabbled backward, disoriented, head swirling. One minute she’d been standing on a windy jogging path; the next, she’d landed like a meteor on top of some random guy.
“Well, that’s a thing that’s never happened before,” said the man, whose sunglasses hung askew. “It’s raining women.”
Jason stepped over Mr. Sunglasses and helped Starr to her feet. He seemed taller than she remembered—though no less dashing. His angular face was different today, framed by a pair of rimless glasses. A pen rested behind one ear. His hair was still pointy. “Feeling OK?”
“I’m… great,” said Starr, momentarily distracted by Jason’s footwear: a pair of giant shiny boots that would make Elton John envious. Were fish swimming in the heels?
“I’m super,” Mr. Sunglasses grunted, squiggling around Jason’s boots. “Thanks for your concern.”
“Ignore Nico.” Jason clasped Starr’s hand between both of his own. “The important thing is you showed up. That’s ninety-nine cents of success.”
“Percent,” said Nico. “Ninety-nine percent.”
Starr felt like rubbing her eyes. She hadn’t landed in the bay under the Verrazzano Bridge. She wasn’t wet at all. But she did feel like she was treading water: she had landed in a cavernous lobby that seemed to have been designed by the same architects behind hospital wards and police interrogation rooms. The walls were grey, the floor a scratched, yellowish linoleum.
“Gosh,” she said. “I’m in the DMV.”
Nico chuckled. He was exceedingly handsome and appeared to have been spending a lot of time at the beach. Smooth was the first word that came to mind. “How very astute of you.” He cocked his head. Even his voice sounded smooth, like a cool drink of water. “I’m Nicodemus Reddy, by the way.”
Jason elbowed him. “Feeling frazzled? I promise, it gets easier to use the portal. You won’t need to land on people every time.”
“I volunteer.” Nico twirled the sunglasses by one earpiece, waggling his eyebrows.
Starr squared her shoulders, glancing behind her at a solid grey wall. No door, not even a set of stairs. There was logic behind this, but damned if she could find it. The Halloween effects by the river had been some kind of diversion—a giant fan, a dry ice machine. That smartass socialist with the leather jacket probably knocked her on the head and dragged her here. But where was here? Had she been abducted?
“I could probably use some water,” Starr said at last.
“Phil?” Jason glanced over his shoulder. “Mind snagging Ms. Weatherby a cool drink?”
Nico grinned wickedly.
“I don’t do cool,” said a voice like an eighteen-wheeler, deep and rumbling and vast. The heat of a long-idling engine pressed against Starr’s back and she completed her turn within the high school gymnasium-sized lobby to face the security desk. Behind it stood a fifteen-foot lizard the color of glowing embers, covered in feathery scales, with enormous hind legs and vastly smaller forepaws (each of which were still as large as Starr’s head). A pair of folded wings rested neatly on his back, poking out of the button-down smoke-colored shirt he wore. An embroidered patch over the left breast read ‘Phil.’
Oh! Is that real? Don’t be silly. Her mind glitched, but didn’t quite short-circuit. Oh, oh, oh! Now she got it. She was in a special effects production studio! That explained everything: Jason’s pointy hair ‘horns’ and his ‘tail,’ the smoke and wind, and now this talking ‘creature.’ Her anxiety faded, replaced by awe as things came into focus. “Wow,” she gasped at the ‘dragon.’ “What a fantastic… costume. How many guys fit in there?”
Nico made a soft noise.
Phil offered a talon. Starr wrapped her fingers around it, and they shook—or rather, Phil waggled her whole body. It was truly an impressive feat of puppetry.
“I have never consumed humans,” Phil said. His steaming breath made her sweat. “I do security here. Or, perhaps, I will do security one of these years. Mostly I do reception.”
“Phil mostly does deterrence,” said Jason, tapping the tips of his fingers together.
Starr glanced between Jason, who seemed earnest, if a bit nervous, and Nico, who was biting his lip so hard he might draw blood at any moment. She shrugged. Fine. They weren’t going to explain anything, not yet. Why should they? She was a visitor, not even an employee. Still—the effect was tremendous; she could almost imagine Phil really was a dragon. Starr tapped her nose and winked at Phil. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
