Once again, I find myself waiting in a Visage lounge for a meeting with one of the three women that run the Forks branch of the company. This time, it’ll be Pearl Princess dragging me into a conference room, and I highly doubt she’ll be as polite as Memento and Radiance were.

  After all, I’ve just orchestrated the kind of PR disaster that social media managers have nightmares about. Clips of my little episode are already circulating the internet, polluting every channel of information that Visage tries to control. Agatha shot me a message asking if I was feeling alright, but the rest of my peers have been radio silent; they’re waiting to see what becomes of me.

  That’s fine. I have a plan. It’s a crazy, risky plan, but that’s exactly why I’m confident it’ll succeed; everyone has been playing so safe. Plotting, scheming, waiting. The egregores and Jovians have been skulking in the shadows for ten years, none of them willing to ignite their cold war and kick off the endgame.

  I’m taking that away from them.

  At least, that’s how I’m framing it in my head so that it makes me sound cool and badass instead of deranged and desperate. I guess the next ten minutes will settle which is true.

  “Pearl Princess is ready for you,” her secretary says smoothly.

  “Great, thanks.” I get up, roll my shoulders, and head inside.

  The three heads of Visage NA are all beautiful—they’re mantled, of course they’re beautiful, Venus probably hardcoded that into the system—but they display that beauty in different ways. Radiance pairs airbrushed perfection with signature rainbow-white designer clothing, because apparently she looked at Saruman of Many Colors and went, “What if that was me, but in Gucci?” Memento leans harder into the high fantasy angle, putting the focus of her presentation on levitating jewels and extravagant use of gold, and there’s something more classically regal about her features and her dress.

  Pearl Princess, in a twist of irony, looks the most down-to-earth of the three. She’s pretty in that girl next door kind of way. Blonde curls, a warm smile, and an outfit that’s eye-catching in its pink and purple coloration but still something you could put together by layering ordinary clothes at ordinary prices. I’ve watched a few of her beauty streams and she emphasizes the “natural” approach to makeup (what clueless guys would call the “no makeup” look).

  Pearl’s superpower is an aura that makes people feel more positively toward her, with effects ranging from mild awe to outright adoration. There are plenty of clips of her in her more heroic phase going around convincing muggers to stand down just by asking them nicely. Since that kind of thing can be creepy as hell in the wrong hands, she works hard to present herself as approachable, relatable, and the kind of person that you can be at ease around.

  I don’t like her. I used to, actually, but that’s bled away since I got powers of my own, and it’s gotten worse since my last trip to the World of Glass with Agatha. Just being around her now gets my hackles raised.

  She smiles at me as I enter and waves for me to take a seat. “Come in, come in. Would you like some coffee?” She seems perfectly pleasant, without a hint of anger or annoyance.

  “Thank you, but no,” I say cautiously as I sit down in the proffered chair. This room is nearly identical to the one I met the others in.

  “Suit yourself. It’s quite good coffee.” Pearl Princess gets up, fills a cup for herself, pours in a bit of milk. Sits back down, takes a long drink, sighs in enjoyment. “Quite good coffee,” she repeats. “I pushed for that, you know. I want everyone in this building to look awake and energized while they’re working, and better coffee leads to better moods. It’s the little things.”

  I drum my fingers on the edge of the table. “Sure.”

  She lets out a well-practiced laugh. “I can see you’re impatient, so I’ll get to the point.” She takes another sip of coffee, and then, still smiling, says, “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  Paradoxically, the slip of aggression makes me relax. I grin. “I was thinking that everyone loves when they get to see the more human side of their idol. I like it when you swear. I like it when someone flubs their lines, confesses a personal detail they weren’t meant to, shows us that they are more than the careful mask they perform.”

  Pearl Princess leans back and steeples her fingers. “That’s a very dangerous assumption you’ve just made. For every viewer who wants to see the ‘human’ idol, there are ten more that are only watching because we are above humanity. We’re something better. I understand you like to appeal to your viewers by showing them you come from the same place, Archon, but you cannot play in the mud like a common ape. Do you have any idea the problems you’ve caused with that little stunt?”

  “Plenty. Your PR people are scurrying around, rushing to put out a fire that’s already grown beyond them. You think this wasn’t calculated? I keep a finger on the pulse. The clips are being shared because people liked what I did. They want to see more of it. And that is a service that we can sell.”

  Pearl’s eyes narrow. “Do you think this is a fucking pitch meeting?”

  “Yes.” I’m still grinning. “Sell the scandal. You can’t cover it up, so embrace it. Tell the people that this was a trial run for an ‘after dark’ show. A glimpse at the more mature, more honest, more real side of Visage. I’ll invite the others on and they can confess whatever they feel like. You want to curate, go ahead, but this is a chance to add depth. Find a girl with a heartwarming sob story about how Visage lifted her out of debt and gave her a chance to reconnect with her family, or whatever. Find a girl willing to share some spicy details and lure in the freaks. Hell, put that one behind a paywall and rake in the dough. This is an opportunity.”

  “Or,” she says calmly, “I could toss you out on the street for violating your contract.”

  “You won’t.”

  She raises an eyebrow dramatically. “I won’t? Do you think yourself invincible? Do you think yourself that valuable to the company? If that’s going to be your attitude—”

  “Have you had the dream?” I interrupt. “White stone. A bleeding sun. A deep, dark pit.”

  Irritation becomes confusion, and then Pearl Princess squeezes her eyes shut, cries out, and clutches at her head. I’ve been in her shoes, felt that pain, ground my teeth through the disorientation. In that moment of distraction, I lean forward, expression completely serious now.

  “You work for Venus. If Venus wanted me gone, she would have told you that the very day I applied to work here. I’m in this room because of Venus.”

  Pearl tries to rebuild her poker face, but she’s too slow; in the transition from pained recollection, surprise and wariness slips through. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Too defensive,” I critique. “If you really didn’t know, you’d have been confused by the name—would have wondered if I was talking about the planet or the myth, if I’d lost my marbles. But you didn’t. You knew I meant the goddess on the other side. I’ve spoken with her thrice. Surely you can feel the connection we both share with her.”

  I can feel it. The prickling on the back of my neck when I’m in a room with Pearl Princess. Since becoming a claimant, I’ve been able to feel that subtle wrongness from a few of the Visage gals, and cross-referencing with Agatha has confirmed that what I’m detecting is others marked by Venus. My rivals, in a sense. It’s stronger from Pearl Princess than it is from Radiance or Sweet Tooth. Agatha has a theory about that.

  I have a theory, too, and testing it is half the point of this conversation. Venus and I are playing a dangerous game with each other. I’ve opened myself to her influence, but if she wants to make use of that, she has to acknowledge me. She has to grant that yes, I am like her.

  Pearl Princess squints at me, looking for something, and then rears back in surprise. “You—you’re marked. Why didn’t she tell me about another chosen? What’s going on here?”

  “That little stream I did? That was an attack against Jupiter, made on behalf of Venus.

  She rubs her temples and stares at me, trying to comprehend. “Why would Venus be alright with you rocking the boat when she’s been telling me to stay the course? We’re only days away from—”

  “Sloppy,” interrupts a new voice. Suddenly, where there was only empty air, a witch is lying atop the conference table on her side and posing dramatically, one hand at her forehead and the other gesturing dismissively at Pearl Princess. I manage to just barely avoid jumping at her sudden appearance. I smile and wave.

  The magical girl scowls at the new arrival. “Spying on me again, really?”

  This is Glamour, the illusionist shapeshifter. She’s a sequined riot of green, blue, and pink, her body streaked with colorful scales and coated in glittering gemstones that just barely preserve her modesty. In place of hair, she has a mane of feathers, and more feathers decorate her hips, ankles, wrists, and shoulders. She doesn’t usually wear clothing, though her power can conjure illusory outfits when she’s making herself look like someone else.

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  Today, she just looks like herself. In one fluid motion she shifts from lying down to crouching, still perched on the table, her tricolored eyes flicking between me and Pearl Princess with interest. “You really should have noticed the mark when she came in,” Glamour notes, voice rich and alluring, her mouth crinkling with mirth at Pearl’s failure. Then her smile drops. “And you should have questioned whether it was real before you started spilling operational secrets. If I can fake it, so can others.”

  Pearl Princess goes pale. “I didn’t—”

  “We should bring her to Venus,” Glamour says, cutting her peer off for the second time. She’s talking to Pearl Princess like they’re equals, or maybe even like she’s more important than Pearl in the hierarchy that really matters. Agatha told me that Glamour had a different kind of connection to Venus than most of the Visage women that have been marked, and I feel it, too; she and Pearl must be the true champions of Venus, or perhaps they’re her priestesses while the others are just pawns.

  “That’s fine with me,” I say in a relaxed tone. “She’s who I really wanted to talk to, anyway. We have some business to discuss.”

  And now, because you think it’s your idea, you’ll show me how you contact Venus.

  Pearl Princess sighs. “Ugh, more shadow games.” She takes a breath to steady herself, then rises from her chair. “Yes, go on then. Let’s get this over with.”

  My hidden earpiece clicks, once, quietly. Ferromancer is watching on the Spire’s cameras, monitoring our path in case Glamour does something to confound my perception of where in the building we’re going.

  Her assistance quickly proves unnecessary; they’re taking me to the golden orb above the Spire, the one held aloft by Memento’s power. I’ve been there only once, when I was getting the grand tour.

  For all the theatricality of keeping a giant sphere of gold—well, a sphere of other metals with a thin layer of gold on the outside—levitating over their tower, the inside wasn’t that impressive. Any corporate obligations need to be handled in the main structure so the non-mages can participate without being ferried back and forth, and Visage as an organization doesn’t have war councils to hold like Vanguard and the Coterie. At least, not on paper.

  The inside of the orb is a lot like the Ossuary, just smaller and simpler. Most of it is open plan, but the back third is tucked away behind marble walls and sculpted columns; allegedly, that’s where they store spare furniture and maintenance equipment. The open chamber is dotted liberally with tables, booths, benches, and stools. There’s even a bar—only alcohol, no food—and a row of vending machines—all promo stock. When they host celebrations here, food gets flown in from below and arranged in a spread.

  Unlike the Ossuary, there are photos floating around of this place. Maenad’s had a few parties here, there have been celebrity tours, etcetera. It’s primarily a rest space intended for magical girls—and witches, though a few of them prefer the Ossuary—but plenty of mortals have been invited in the past.

  The defining feature of the interior, however, is the monument it makes to vanity. There are mirrors all over the walls and ceiling, and the few surfaces that aren’t mirrored instead have screens keyed to cameras pointing at different parts of the chamber. Two grand stairways—private nooks beneath—curve up to a balcony overlooking the rest of the room, and behind that balcony is a massive floor-to-ceiling screen displaying a live feed of the very same space. That’s where we’re headed.

  A touch from Glamour is all it takes for that giant screen to become a swirling portal to the other side. “You have a permanent gate,” I say aloud—for Ferromancer’s benefit, in case she can’t get to the cameras in here but can still hear my voice. “Impressive.”

  “I’d be so curious to hear how you’ve gotten to her realm,” Glamour says, tone light but eyes full of danger.

  “Oh, I have my ways.” I step through the portal.

  On the other side, in the World of Glass, the orb atop the Spire was destroyed. And yet, I step into a perfect replica of the chamber I was just in. At a glance, the main difference between the two is the added presence of dozens of statues depicting the goddess Venus; they hold up the walls, they pose by the stairs, and they guard the doors leading out. The bar and vending machines have been replaced by fountain shrines, and many of the chairs have been replaced with cushions for kneeling on. This is a temple to Venus.

  The egregore herself stands resplendent at the edge of the balcony, surveying her domain in her full divine form—a glamorous smile, a flowing dress, and golden eyes that burn to look into. She turns to regard us as we approach. Glamour and Pearl Princess immediately drop to one knee and bow their heads.

  “We brought you someone of interest,” Pearl says, seizing the lead. “She claims to have attacked the Jovians on your behalf, and she bears your mark, but we do not know the nature of her connection to you, O Heavenly Venus.” Her tone becomes positively reverent with those final words. Priestess, indeed.

  “My sister in your service nearly betrayed your secrets to this one,” Glamour says with a touch of glee. Pearl stares daggers at her. “Luckily, I intervened. I suspected trickery, given her actions went against your commands.”

  I pointedly do not kneel, and I give a happy little wave at Venus. “I was having a chat with your followers about my place in your plans,” I say. “I thought I’d take some initiative.”

  Venus quirks her lip in wry amusement. “Is that so? Were you hoping to curry my favor?”

  And here’s the gamble. My connection to Venus is indisputable; if it were an illusion, as Glamour suggested, then Venus would be able to burn it away and reveal me an impostor. So she can’t reject my connection, but neither can she admit that I’m a claimant; doing so would strengthen my claim and sow doubt in the hearts of her believers. “Of course,” I agree.

  Venus turns her attention to her kneeling followers. “Archon is known to me, my children. She desires the power I can grant, but has not yet sworn the oaths of my priesthood. She is not initiated in our secrets… but she could be, if she proves worthy. She is still being considered for baptism in the upcoming bacchanal.”

  Pearl Princess hesitates. “But, her insubordination—”

  “I have seen her actions today and I shall deal with her myself. My command for you, my loyal chosen, is this: return to the mortal world and contain Archon’s error. When I am done with her, she shall return to you, chastened, and do her part to make up for this mistake.” Venus pauses, contemplating, and then says, “Tell the world that Maenad’s next party shall be broadcast live. Announcing it now won’t disrupt our schedule unduly.”

  Pearl Princess bows her head again. “Your will be done.”

  “Good. Now leave us. I shall discipline this unruly supplicant alone.”

  With fleeting glances at me, Glamour and Pearl Princess step back through the portal. The moment they’re both gone, the portal vanishes, its surface once again a screen. I can see myself and Venus writ large.

  “So,” I start, “shall we lay our cards on the table?”

  “That was a tawdry display,” Venus says, voice dripping with venom. “You grasp at power you cannot possibly comprehend, little mortal.”

  I chuckle. “Probably. But, see, I’d been wondering why you let me in. Enough of Visage answers to you directly that you could have blocked my application and kicked Agatha to the curb the minute you had confirmation that the two of us were working for Striga. But, you didn’t. Ergo, you want me in Visage. Enough to cover my ass in front of your minions? Well, that was the gamble at the heart of the thing.”

  The goddess snorts. “You are not nearly as clever as you think you are.”

  “But you’re not denying it,” I muse. I don’t know why Venus wants me, but I imagine it’s similar to the Jovian motivation; they all know how much I care about Sophie, and they think they can use that to get at Striga. “Keeping me in Visage, it’s one of your moves in this game we’re playing. Conceptual authority over me, forging a connection defined by disparity.”

  “A connection you seek to use for your own ends,” Venus says. “You lay claim to my seat as if it could ever possibly be yours. Foolish. You should submit while you have the chance, Rachel Emily. When I am god of both worlds, my love shall subjugate all, but those who resist will not know my kindness.”

  “I think,” I say with an edge of danger, “you should be a little more open to the idea of compromise, and a little less convinced of your inevitable victory. You don’t know what’s moving against you, out there in the shadows. The Jovians won’t suffer your ascension, Venus.”

  The goddess rolls her eyes and flicks a hand dismissively. “Of course they won’t. I have eyes, Rachel; I can see Echidna gathering her forces and Typhon drifting toward Japan. Champions of Jupiter the world over are marshaling to attack my strongholds come my day. They are blunt instruments, easily deflected. I have prepared sufficient countermeasures.”

  “You’re probably right,” I agree, not having known that little tidbit about the Catastrophes moving to attack Visage but bluffing my heart out.

  Striga has to know. If “my day” means one of the Roman festival days in April, that lines up with her model of Echidna’s attack strategy, but if it’s Valentine’s Day for the stronger modern associations, we’re in trouble. That information has to be worth it. Striga will have to think it was worth it. But I can get more. I can press Venus further, learn more about her plans.

  “That’s why I stuck a spark in Pandora and freed it from Minerva’s chains,” I say with my most shit-eating of grins.

  There’s a beat of silence. A perfectly still moment as what I said registers to the goddess and she processes the implications. Then she lunges, hand striking like a snake to wrap around my throat and lift me into the air, and when she roars, “YOU DID WHAT!?” it shatters every mirror in the room and nearly blows out my eardrums.

  There’s fury on her perfect, gorgeous face, but in those golden eyes I can see the faintest hint of panic. Vindication cuts through my terror, and I laugh to hide the fear. “You gave me the idea,” I choke out, windpipe being crushed. “Agatha. Transformation. And it worked.”

  She slams me against the wall. The air is knocked from my lungs and the screen behind me splinters into crystal shards. “Undo it. Now.” Her hand tightens around my throat, her other hand pulling back and flexing, claw-like, as if eager to cut me open.

  She’s going to kill me, I realize in a flash of pure, cold-blooded fright. She’s going to kill me. If she kills me, do I stay dead? But if she could end it by killing me—if killing me was the correct option for Venus right now—then why hasn’t she? Does she think the connection would persist past my demise, even with Prometheus returned to the Jovians or the World of Glass or whatever happens to a mantle without a bearer?

  The specifics don’t matter. She hasn’t killed me yet, and that means I have leverage. I catch my breath and rasp, “Make me. An offer.”

  She slams me again, then again, then again, until I’m seeing stars and my thoughts are all jumbled because my brain’s been jostled. If I was mortal, I’d have a concussion. “Undo it,” the rising goddess commands. “There will be no negotiation, no offers, no prize for this act of supreme stupidity. Reclaim the spark you spent or else, you lovesick little pest.”

  I laugh, though it sounds like something dying. “Else. What?”

  Her other hand, claw-like, plunges into my chest, parting skin and flesh like butter and cracking bone with sheer force. Venus grabs hold of my heart. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

  Then she tears it from my chest.

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