The Lost Gods (12 page)

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?'

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.

‘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 silence in the room felt like it would last until the Wolf swallowed the sun. The Goddess sighed loudly. Thor fiddled with his hammer.

‘Do you want us to go?' said Freya.

Veronica steepled her manicured fingers, then tugged on her hair. To Freya's surprise, she suddenly smiled broadly.

‘Well, that's a bit different,' said Veronica. ‘Makes a nice change from the usual client come
to sell a story about her dates with some married footballer.' She paused for a long moment. ‘Just thinking out loud here,' she added. ‘So you're Gods, and you've lost your super-powers, huh,' she clucked sympathetically. ‘That's a bummer. That must be tough. You're top dog, and then suddenly you're not.

‘You've still got name recognition, which is a
big
help, so no need to build you up from scratch. But your brand is old and tired. Let's face it, you've been around, like, forever, and it's still the same old, same old. I mean, look at you, Woden. That hat! That cloak!'

‘What's wrong with my hat and cloak?' said Woden. He bristled. ‘That's how I am recognised.'

‘Yeah, before maybe, but this is
now
,' said Veronica. ‘Fashion is seasonal. You can't just keep one look, you'll bore everyone to death.' She stood up and started pacing behind her desk. ‘We'd need to jazz you up, make you relevant, help you reconnect to the public,
get those Fanes packed and the sacrificial fires burning, so to speak.'

‘So you'll help them?' squeaked Freya.

‘Sure,' said Veronica.

She took all her clients at face value. I'm a star-maker, Veronica thought. And a star-breaker, she didn't add. If these people, or Gods, or whatever, wanted to be famous, and had the money to pay for her services, why not? Why the Hel not?

‘I'm not cheap,' she said. ‘In fact, it will cost you £30,000 down plus £2,000 a week.' She glanced up to see how they took this. Money always shook down the no-hopers and the practical jokers from the fame tree.

Woden took off a glowing gold armband and held it up. Eight more heavy gold bands dropped from it and clinked into his hand in a golden waterfall. He spun them over to Veronica.

She picked one up and her manicured hand quivered under the unexpected weight.

‘O-kay, that's a nice touch,' she beamed. She'd get her jeweller to make sure the gold was genuine later. ‘Unorthodox, but I like your style, Wo … may I call you Woden?'

‘I have many names, and that one will do as well as any other,' said Woden.

‘Let's consider your situation,' said Veronica. ‘Gods want to be worshipped. We want to worship Gods. The only question is,
which
Gods? You could say, who gets our vote?'

‘What do you mean,
which
Gods?' said Woden. He glared at her. ‘
We
are your Gods.'

‘Yes, yes,' said Veronica. ‘Of course. Believe me, I'm at my local Fane most Sundays. Home-baked cakes made by my PA for you every February Feast Day. And Harvest festival. I never pass one of your altars without leaving an offering. Remember that lovely fruit basket? And the spring veg? That was from me.'

Whatever happened to her being a hatch/match/dispatch sort of Wodenist, thought Freya.

‘I hate vegetables,' snapped the Goddess. ‘Can we get back to how you're going to make us mighty again?'

Veronica smiled at her new clients.

‘Look, you're popular. Sort of. Well, all right. Just not as much. In fact, not much at all to be honest. You've been away a long time and once you vanish from the public eye, other gods step up to take your place. If you snooze, you lose.'

‘We were NOT snoozing!' hissed Thor. ‘We were dying.'

‘So long as WE are worshipped with fervour, and our rites observed,' said Woden, ‘the false gods are of no importance.'

‘Just so long as we're number one,' said Thor.

‘Obviously,' added Freyja.

‘Of course,' said Veronica. ‘I only deal with the A-list.' All right, she had a small number of D-list celebs temporarily on her books, but they were the cannon fodder which constantly needed renewing after they had their 15-minute
flight of fame and then crashed charred back to earth, to watch their identikit replacements take wing for their equally brief moment in the limelight.

Veronica looked at the Gods appraisingly. ‘I'll be honest. You aren't in the
best
shape,' she said. ‘Woden's only got one eye. Thor needs a haircut and a trainer badly. You all need your teeth fixed and whitened. And Freyja, a
little
too heavy round the hips if we're going to promote you as a new
It
girl supermodel.'

‘My body is perfect,' said Freyja.

I'll sort her out later, thought Veronica. A few rejections from model agencies and she'll be dieting sharpish. She pushed her frozen face into a smile again.

‘So, reputation. Once we've reintroduced you to the world I can get the media on your side, polish up your image, and we can hush up any old skeletons in the cupboard – let's face it, everyone's got something they'd rather not have splashed all over people's cornflakes.'

Freyja's hand went to her necklace.

Thor furrowed his brow. ‘Cornflakes?'

‘A breakfast food for weaklings,' said Woden.

The phone rang.

‘Hold my calls,' yelled Veronica.

‘And obviously you all need new clothes. We'll get in a stylist immediately. No one will take you seriously in those old-fashioned robes and tunics. You look like something off the farm.'

‘We have not changed our style of dress for millennia,' said Thor. ‘We are Gods, we are eternal.'

‘Well, that may go down well in Asgard, but here in Midgard we like our celebrities to keep up with fashion. And the tunic and boot look went out with the Vikings. You need to look contemporary, you need to look
with it
.

‘Download Woden. Access Thor. Yeah, I like that,' said Veronica, mostly to herself. ‘We'll set up a Facebook page for you ASAP. You need a Gods app,' she added. ‘
The only way is Asgard. Gods ahoy. Toga Titans
. I'm just thinking out loud
here,' she muttered. ‘The other problem is, I'll be honest, none of you look like Gods.' She thought of all the paintings of the glorious Gods in the National Gallery, the gorgeous, heroic deities striding majestically around their sparkling palaces, full of mighty power. Not this ramshackle trio standing before her.