first words, and her phone was recording, and he saw the trick. Oh, yes, he saw it. “The Aeneid isn’t something I’ve read, sadly. I’m sure Homer is very talented, but I’m not much of a reader in general.”
The last bit, at least, had once been true. Before he’d discovered fanfic and audiobooks, he hadn’t read much besides his scripts, and he’d labored over those only until he’d learned them well enough to record them, loop the recording, and play the words back to himself over and over.
She tapped her screen, and her own recording ended. “Thank you, Marcus. It was kind of you to talk to me.”
“My pleasure, Vika. Good luck with your other interviews.” With a final flash of a vapid smile, he was finally inside the hotel and trudging toward the elevator.
After pressing the button for his floor, he leaned heavily against the wall and closed his eyes.
Soon, he was going to have to grapple with his persona. Where it chafed, how it had served him in the past, and how it served him still. Whether shedding it would be worth the consequences to his personal life and career.
But not today. Fuck, he was tired.
Back in his hotel room, the shower felt just as good as he’d hoped. Better.
Afterward, he powered on his laptop and ignored the scripts sent by his agent. Choosing his next project—one that would hopefully take his career in a new direction—could wait too, as could checking his Twitter and Instagram accounts.
The only thing that definitely needed to happen before he slept for a million years: sending a direct message to Unapologetic Lavinia Stan. Or Ulsie, as he’d begun calling her, to her complete disgust. Ulsie is a good name for a cow, and only for a cow, she’d written. But she hadn’t told him to stop, and he hadn’t. The nickname, one he alone used, pleased him more than it should.
He logged on to the Lavineas server he’d helped create several years ago for the use of the lively, talented, ever-supportive Aeneas/Lavinia fanfic community. On AO3, he still occasionally dabbled in Aeneas/Dido fanfic, but less and less often these days. Especially once Ulsie had become the primary beta and proofreader for all Book!AeneasWouldNever’s stories.
She lived in California, and she’d still be at work. She wouldn’t be able to respond immediately to his messages. If he didn’t DM her tonight, though, he wouldn’t have her response first thing in the morning, and he needed that. More and more as each week passed.
Soon, so very soon, he and Ulsie would be back in the same time zone. The same state.
Not that proximity mattered, since they’d never meet in person.
Only it did matter. Somehow, it did.
Gods of the Gates (Book 1)
E. Wade
The Literary Tour de Force That Inspired a World-Famous TV Series
E-book: $8.99
Paperback: $10.99
Hardcover: $19.99
Audiobook: $25.99
When gods play at war, humanity loses.
Juno has watched Jupiter dally with mortal women too many times through the centuries—and when she leaves him in a righteous fury, his own godly temper takes hold. Heedless of the consequences, he heaves thunderbolts so mighty that the underworld itself cracks open in fissures reaching all the way down to Tartarus, home of the wicked dead. Freed from eternal punishment, they would return to Earth, challenge Jupiter for power—and doom humanity.
To preserve his cruel rule, to save the mortals he beds but does not respect, Jupiter tasks his fellow gods with guarding the new gates to the underworld he’s created in his reckless rage. But the immortals, as always, care more for their eternal feuds than duty. If humanity is to be saved, demigods and mortals will have to guard the gates too.
Unfortunate, then, that Juno has her own reasons for wanting Tartarus unguarded. Humanity be damned.
2
DIRT. MORE DIRT.
This particular dirt would tell a story, though, if April listened hard enough.
She squinted at the site’s final soil core through her prescription safety glasses, comparing the different shades of brown to her color chart, then noted the sample’s water content, soil plasticity and consistency, grain size and shape, and all the other relevant data on her field form.
No discoloration. No particular odor either, which didn’t surprise her. Solvents would emit a sweet smell, and fuels would smell like—well, fuel. Hydrocarbons. But lead would simply smell like dirt. So would arsenic.
After wiping her gloved hand on the thigh of her jeans, she jotted down her findings.
Normally, she’d be talking to her assistant sampler, Bashir, about their most egregious coworkers or maybe their most recent reality