The Lost Gods (11 page)

‘No!' squealed Freya. ‘I had to help them.'

‘I forbid you to see them ever again,' said Clare. ‘They are out of this house immediately. And you will go straight back to school tomorrow. I'll phone your dad. For once he'll say the same thing.'

‘Mum, you don't understand,' said Freya. ‘I have to see them again. I have to look after them. My life depends on it. All our lives …'

‘Don't be so ridiculous,' said Clare. ‘Who are
these people? Why do they have such a hold on you? Is this some kind of cult?'

Woden appeared. Had he silently walked in, or just materialised? Freya wasn't sure.

Clare blinked. She made the sign of the hammer.

‘I don't know how you did that, and it's all very well playing tricks on an innocent schoolgirl,' said Clare. ‘But I am Woden's priestess. You won't be tricking me.'

‘Bow,' said Woden. ‘Few mortals have gazed upon me.'

Clare stood very straight.

‘Woden is a shape-shifter,' said Clare quietly. ‘If you are Woden, prove it. Change shape.' Her voice rose.

‘Mum,' said Freya urgently. ‘Don't push him. Please.'

‘I'm only asking, Freya. No harm in asking.'

‘Oh yes there is,' said Freya.

Don't hurt her, she thought at Woden.

Woden glared at Clare. ‘I am Woden, Lord
of Victory. I do not need to give proof to mortals.'

Clare snorted. ‘A very convenient excuse,' she said. ‘Now pack your things and get out of here before I phone the police. I have worshipped Woden all my life. Don't you think I'd recognise him if I saw him? Just because you have one eye and call yourself by one of Woden's sacred names doesn't make you a God. Anyway, joke's over. I want you to leave my house. And keep away from my daughter.'

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.

If you pursue your dreams with determination,
fearlessness and hope, anything is possible.

Britain's Got Talent 2011 Annual

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.