Woden’s eye burned like red flames.
‘Don’t hurt her!’ screamed Freya. ‘You can’t just smite everyone who disagrees with you.’
‘I have met with better hospitality,’ said Woden. ‘You will regret your lack of welcome.’ He stalked off.
‘Freya, who are those people?’ said Clare. ‘I’m not asking again.’
Freya didn’t answer. Behind her mother, on top of her chest of drawers, was the precious eski.
Freya blinked. She had definitely not left it there.
‘Ah, you’ve noticed,’ said Clare. ‘Where did this box come from? It looks very valuable.’ She reached inside and took out a golden apple. ‘And why on earth are you hiding fruit in it? Please keep fresh food in the kitchen. It will go off and rot and smell and then we’ll get mice and—’
‘Mum, give me that,’ interrupted Freya. Should she knock the apple out of her mother’s hand? She walked towards her. ‘Mum, put that back where you found it. Don’t touch those apples.’
‘It’s just an apple, Freya, there are plenty more in the fridge. Unless those pigs have eaten them all. Honestly, what a fuss,’ said Clare. Before Freya could stop her she took a bite.
‘Mum, no!’ screamed Freya.
‘What’s wrong with you, Freya?’ said Clare, swallowing. Then her face softened. ‘Oh my goodness, these are delicious, I’ve never tasted anything like this. Where did you get them?’
Freya watched, helpless, as Clare’s body slimmed and firmed, her cheeks plumped and her hair gleamed. She dropped the apple on the floor, where it rolled under the desk.
‘Ick, like what are these clothes I’m wearing?’ shrieked Clare, wrinkling her pink cheeks and looking down in disgust at her midi-length flowery skirt, floppy cardigan, and low-heeled shoes. ‘Like, hello bag lady. Is this a joke? Did I forget it was Halloween? Am I going as middle-aged frump?’
Clare looked at Freya as if she were an old crisp bag that had blown across her path.
‘And who are you, anyway?’
‘Mum, I’m Freya, something awful has happened, you just ate—’
‘Mum?’ said Clare. She looked around Freya’s bedroom. ‘Who are you calling Mum?’
‘You,’ said Freya.
‘I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing here, weirdo, but it’s time for you to go home.’
‘I am home,’ said Freya. ‘Mum, uh, Clare, something awful has happened to you.’
‘How do you know my name?’ said Clare. ‘I’ve never seen you before in my life.’
‘You have, Mum, you just can’t remember because you ate one of Idunn’s apples, and it’s made you … younger.’
‘I don’t know any Idunn,’ said Clare. ‘Lame name.’
‘Idunn? The Goddess of Youth?’ said Freya. She faltered. ‘You just ate one of her apples. By mistake.’ Oh Gods.
‘You know what? You’re weird,’ said Clare. ‘And if you’re one of those Gods-squad people, you can go away now.’
‘I’m your daughter, listen to me,’ said Freya. ‘I think you should lie down.’
Clare snorted. ‘Daughter. Ha ha ha. You’re mental. I’m not exactly old enough to have a daughter, am I? And when I do have a kid, which I hope is never, she won’t be an ugly ass thing like you. I’m going to change, and when I come back I want you out of my house. Geddit?’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Freya. ‘I live here.’
‘I’m not a babysitter,’ yelled Clare. ‘Go home.’
‘I am home,’ said Freya.
‘Fine. Whatever,’ said the horrible mean teen Clare.
‘Mum, why don’t you lie down for a minute?’
‘I’m going out and you can’t stop me,’ shouted Clare. ‘As soon as I get out of these granny clothes. And stop calling me Mum, you freak.’
Clare flounced out. ‘What are you looking at, weirdos?’ she yelped.
Freya looked up to see Roskva and Alfi standing in the doorway, knapsacks in hand, staring after the raging Clare.
‘Please don’t tell them,’ begged Freya.
Roskva pursed her mouth.
‘We came to say goodbye,’ said Alfi.
He looked at Freya. ‘I didn’t see anything. Roskva, did you?’
Roskva sighed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Keep your mother out of the Gods’ sight,’ she hissed. ‘If they discover what has happened …’ Roskva drew her hand across her throat.
Freya fought back tears as Alfi and Roskva left.
This was terrible. Freya thought she would faint if she didn’t sit down. What would the Gods do to her when they discovered a bite had been taken from one of Idunn’s apples? Freya shuddered. What would they do to Clare? When Alfi nibbled on a thigh bone from Thor’s magic goat he and Roskva got enslaved for eternity.
There was a clomping down the hall and Clare re-appeared. She’d squeezed herself into a pair of micro shorts Freya had outgrown, fishnet tights and a skimpy, tight red vest top. She’d added some black patent stilettos, and had slathered on a ton of make-up.
‘Mum, you can’t go out like that,’ said Freya.
‘Who are you to tell me what to wear? I’ll wear what I want and you can’t stop me,’ shouted Clare. ‘And stop calling me Mum.’
She stomped downstairs and slammed the front door as hard as she could. Freya prayed the Gods hadn’t noticed. How long would it take before the effects of the apple wore off? Would they wear off? And how could she keep the Gods from ever seeing Clare again? She’d have to find some way of getting them to leave – fast.
The apple. Where was it? Freya got down on her hands and knees and scrabbled under her desk. She found the apple where it had rolled behind the bin. There was no bite – the apple had healed itself and become whole again. Quickly, she put the apple in the box and hid the eski back in her wardrobe.
I’d better call Dad, thought Freya. She took out her new phone and started dialling. Then she paused. To say what? ‘Help. Mum’s eaten one of Idunn’s apples and it’s turned her into the mean teen from Hel? Oh, and it’s a bit crowded here, because three Gods and two slaves and a berserker have moved in.’
Freya clapped her hand to her mouth. Clare had been all set to lead evening services for the first day of harvest rituals. Somehow she didn’t think teen Clare was heading to the Fane. More likely a club. Freya shuddered. Mum clubbing.
She speed-dialled the Fane. Mum’s assistant priest, Karl, answered. ‘It’s Freya,’ she said. ‘Mum’s not well. She’s been told to take a break from her duties.’
That certainly wasn’t a lie, thought Freya.
‘Clare? Ill?’ said Karl. ‘I can’t remember Clare ever being ill,’ he added. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She’s not herself,’ said Freya. ‘Can you lead the service for her? And take services for the next few days?’
‘Is Clare all right?’ asked Karl. ‘Is she resting?’
‘She’ll be fine,’ said Freya. ‘No need to worry.’
Worry, thought Freya. Worry.
A sparrow flew in the door.
‘Worry about what?’ said Woden, changing back into his normal shape.
‘I thought you couldn’t shape-shift any more,’ said Freya.
‘I have enough believers left to do this,’ said Woden. ‘Not an eagle or a hawk. But I can occasionally manage a sparrow.’
‘Why didn’t you do that for Mum?’ said Freya.
‘I’m not a dancing animal. I don’t have to prove anything,’ said Woden.
Yes you do, thought Freya. You really do.
‘Where is our fame-maker?’ said Woden. ‘We do not have time to linger.’
Freya grabbed her shoebox. Quickly she flicked through the small stack of PR cards.
There was one at the bottom, Veronica Hastings. On the back was a handwritten message in looping green ink she’d never noticed before:
One day you’ll need me. When that day comes, call.
It felt like a sign.
PART 2
/> THE FAME-MAKER
If you pursue your dreams with determination,
fearlessness and hope, anything is possible.
Britain’s Got Talent 2011 Annual
Dr Frankenstein
In her job, thought Veronica, gulping down the first of her many double espressos of the morning, you never knew what the new day would bring. Who would be up? Who would be down? Who would ring up in tears? Who would ring up and scream?
Clients were all the same. Absurdly shy and grateful at first, sure you were going to make them rich and famous forever. So thrilled with their first mention in ICE magazine. Then their first cover in OH YEAH. Then their first red carpet appearance. First holiday in Barbados, every fab moment photographed for FAME. Modelling for Vogue if they were really fabulous – or Glad Rags if they were … less so. Singing a pop song if they could sing – or if they couldn’t, it didn’t actually seem to matter. Releasing a perfume. Publishing an autobiography – any old tat with their name and My Story So Far emblazoned on the cover. Some of them might even bother to read it.
Then the complaints. Why did X get three pages in WHIRLIGIG, and he only got two? Why did Z get invited to the opening night party, and she didn’t? What was his ‘book’ doing in a remainder shop? Why was no one buying her perfume? (Maybe because you both stink, she never said.)
Then the long slow decline to being a columnist for TEPID, calling bingo on a cruise ship, appearing on Celebrity Makeover and sharing your knitwear secrets with CARDIGAN, with the occasional yearly appearance in the gossip columns from Hel, ‘Where are they now?’ ‘When they were famous’ and ‘Whatever happened to …?’ And that’s if they were lucky. The unluckier ones had their few moments of head-spinning fame then the plummet to oblivion, all in the space of a few short months. You’d catch a glimpse of them now and then, talking obstinately about a comeback, or the new album they were supposedly working on after being dumped by their record company, or their tummy tucks and new haircuts, and think, ‘Whatever.’
Always new ones to feed the fame machine, she thought. The departure lounge was forever brimming with another hundred people longing to board the train to fame, fortune, freebies and fun. No matter how many times you warned them it wasn’t forever, they never believed you.
Well. It was fun playing gods while it lasted. After all, she created her clients. Sometimes she felt like Dr Frankenstein, but not often. She turned the ordinary into the extraordinary – at least for a brief, fizzing moment. Her job was to promote average bundles of driftwood and turn them into gods: worshipped; admired; envied; idolised; magically endowed with divine powers of healing and creativity and generous sprinklings of fairy dust. She made legends. Everyone wanted to be famous these days, which was where she came in. Veronica the fame-maker. Pulling the wires from behind the curtain, making the scenery go up and down and the actors whizz on and off.
Veronica turned up the heating – heat! In September! Then she sat down at her desk, put on her orange lipstick, checked to see how much grey was showing at her temples – too much – and waited for the phones to ring while flicking through the morning papers to see which clients were pictured where. Phew, nothing about the unfortunate incident in the nightclub. And she’d need to speak to Lilith urgently about the way she allowed her nanny to always be seen taking care of her child while Lilith herself sashayed on ahead window-shopping. It looked bad, a mum who ignored her kid.
Her assistant, Thora, popped her head round. ‘Your first appointment, Veronica,’ she said. ‘Freya Raven …’ she dropped her voice, ‘and a rather large entourage.’
‘Her parents?’ said Veronica.
Thora made her ‘I dunno’ face. ‘And cousins and aunts and …’
Usually clients waited to see her before assembling an entourage, but in these fame-hungry days, you never knew.
‘Send them in,’ said Veronica.
This morning promised to be interesting. She’d been surprised to hear from Freya Raven last night, so many months after her mysterious return from gods-know-where, but if she was finally ready to talk, Veronica was sure there would be takers for her story. Obviously the price would be much less than before, since, quite honestly, people’s attention had moved on. Still, there was a story here, Veronica was sure.
*
The girl peered shyly into her office. Veronica beckoned her in. She was followed by four people, a fierce hairy man who looked like a half-troll, and who appeared to be acting as a bodyguard (a little over the top; that couldn’t be a real axe he was holding?) and three extremely tall, glowering, oddly dressed adults, all of whom looked like they’d come straight from one of those geeky ‘let’s all be Vikings for the weekend’ role-playing games. Veronica grimaced. Oh Gods, here come the freaks, she thought. If this was Freya’s family, no wonder she’d run away. Quite frankly, who wouldn’t? They seemed even more awkward and ill-at-ease than the fame wannabes who usually cluttered up her office, and that was saying something.
Veronica peered at them as they towered above her immaculate desk, filling the office with their nervous, angry presence. Nervous she was familiar with. Anger was rarer. And intriguing. The tall man with the wide-brimmed blue hat had only one, glaring, eye, which was gross. Hello, eye-patch? thought Veronica, trying not to look directly at his empty socket as he loomed over her desk, fixing her with his cool, strange, multi-coloured eye. The other, red-bearded, man was huge, like a weight-lifter, and was for some reason lugging a decorated hammer fastened to his belt. Perhaps he was a builder on his way to work? An off-duty cage-fighter? A runner-up for Mr Muscle World? Whatever, it was pretty certain he hadn’t showered this morning.
Standing with them was the most drop-dead gorgeous young woman Veronica had ever seen. Far too young to be Freya’s mother. An older sister or cousin perhaps? A model? Actress? She’d slinked in, like a prowling golden cat, refusing even to look at Veronica, then she’d started fidgeting with the silver picture frames and looking like she’d pocket them if she could. Vain cow, thought Veronica, but then the beautiful ones usually were. She was used to being able to size up clients pretty fast, but these people eluded her.
Veronica arranged her botoxed face into a friendly smile and pretended not to notice when Hairy Half-Troll sneezed into his hand and wiped it on his tunic.
‘Freya, lovely to hear from you,’ she said in her crisp, clipped voice. ‘Sit down, sit down. Biscuit anyone?’ she asked, proffering a plate of chocolate digestives. Muscle-Man scooped up the lot in one gigantic fist and stuffed them all in his mouth. His beard filled with crumbs.
Was she dealing with Oliver Twist here? thought Veronica, as she emptied the rest of the packet onto the plate and moved it fractionally away from Greedy Guts.
‘So what can I do for you, Freya?’ said Veronica. ‘What’s your story?’
The Only Way Is Asgard
Freya gulped. They needed Veronica’s help so badly. And despite the mint-green trainers (and spare pair of sky-high silver stilettos parked under her desk) and the spiky ash-blonde hair and the bright orange lipstick and funky dangly earrings, Veronica looked like a very scary businesswoman. Freya glanced around the office walls, festooned with photographs of Veronica with some of her famous clients, and took a deep breath.
What do I have to lose? thought Freya. The frost giants are coming. The end of the world is approaching. I can risk sounding ridiculous.
‘I’m not here for me, actually,’ said Freya. ‘I’m here for them,’ she said, gesturing at the Gods. ‘They need to be famous again fast. They need a comeback. They need—’
‘Whoa, whoa, let me stop you there, first of all, to have a comeback you need to have arrived somewhere first,’ said Veronica. ‘I have no idea who any of them are.’
Freyja flushed an angry red.
‘To think we have to tell the driftwood who we are,’ she muttered. ‘Once they just had to glimpse us to fall on their knees in terror. It’s so undignified.’
Woden grimaced.
<
br /> ‘A bad beginning,’ he muttered, looking dejected. ‘That you even have to ask …’
Veronica pushed back her chair. ‘Perhaps—’
‘Are you a Wodenist?’ said Freya.
Veronica looked astonished.
‘Well obviously I was brought up as a Wodenist, but I can’t say I’m much of a believer now,’ she said. ‘I’m in the hatch/match/dispatch group. Why do you ask?’
‘Because this is Woden. The All-Father,’ she added, in case Veronica might confuse this Woden with another Woden of her acquaintance. ‘That’s Thor. The Storm-God. This is Freyja. Goddess of Plenty. And … other stuff. That’s Snot. He … uhh—’ Freya didn’t dare meet Veronica’s eyes as she spoke. ‘Snot is … a berserker in Woden’s Valhalla army.’
None of the Gods nodded as Freya introduced them. They stood stiffly, raging. It was like having to introduce the Queen to someone who doesn’t recognise her and doesn’t want to know, thought Freya. She forced herself to continue. ‘They’re the Gods. Our immortal Gods,’ she gabbled. ‘They need to get their worshippers back, because without them they don’t have their powers. And without their divine powers, they can’t protect us from the frost giants. Who are coming, by the way.’ As she spoke, Freya could hear that she sounded like a total nutter. Now she’ll think I’m mad, thought Freya. I’d think I was mad.
‘They need to get famous again. Fast. To be loved and worshipped again. All our lives depend on it.’
Freya looked up from her shoes and peeked at Veronica. Her heavily made-up face was impassive. She opened her mouth, and then closed it. A fly buzzed angrily at the window. How did she keep those windows so clean, she wondered. The ones at home always looked so grimy. Freya shook her head to focus her thoughts on willing Veronica not to burst out laughing or call security.
The Lost Gods Page 8
