Celebromancy

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CELEBROMANCY

Michael R. Underwood

Pocket Star Books

New York   London   Toronto   Sydney   New Delhi

Also by Michael R. Underwood

Geekomancy

For everyone out there living their dream, putting the work in day after day

CELEBROMANCY

Chapter One

Confirm & Deny

Ree was late to her first public appearance as a screenwriter, and she couldn’t even blame it on a monster attack.

Ree Reyes (Strength 10, Dexterity 14, Stamina 12, Will 18, IQ 16, Charisma 15—Geek 7 / Barista 3 / Screenwriter 2 / Gamer Girl 2 / Geekomancer 2) was already on the bus talking with her father and one-man cheerleading section when she got the
Where are you?
text from Yancy Williams, director, executive producer, and her new boss as a screenwriter.

“The fuck?” Ree said unconsciously as she read the text.

“What’s up, Ree-bee?” her dad asked.

“I’m late. I was supposed to be there half an hour ago.” Her pulse pole-vaulted straight past nervous all the way to freaked-the-hell-out.

“How far out are you?” her dad asked, his voice level. Ree’s dad was an ex-marine and had all of the calm. She tried to borrow some, consciously slowing her breath.

It’s not like your writing career is hanging on this or anything.

“Five minutes,” Ree said. “But no one told me there was a makeup team!”

“It’ll be fine. You can’t make the bus get there any faster, so just remember why you were invited. Because you earned it. You’ll be great.”

“Gotta go. Time for a media power-up,” Ree said.

“Love you,” her dad answered.

A smile wiped away her worry for a moment. “Love you, too, daddy-o.”

Ree hung up, looked at the text message again, sent her
ETA 5 min
response, and then queued up one of her power-up videos. The bus would get there on its own time, so she did her best to concentrate on “The Late Shaft” from
Castle
.

For most new writers, watching a single scene of a TV show would be as useful as cramming French before a Medieval German exam. But Ree wasn’t just any writer.

When they arrived at her stop, Ree practically dove out of the bus, and rushed into the hotel, brushing past fancy people in furs and suits that cost as much as her entire DVD collection.

One of Yancy’s assistants, a young Chinese-American woman, was waiting in the lobby.
Was her name Patricia or Vanessa?
Ree wondered. She’d met most of the cast and crew all at once, and her brain’s capacity for new names was about four at a time, max.

Patricia/Vanessa spotted her and said, “Thank God.” She grabbed Ree’s wrist and started off like a roadrunner. “Come with me, there’s no time.”

Ree imagined the woman speaking in the Terminator voice.
Come with me if you want to live . . . or look good on camera
.

They rushed to the bathroom that One Tough Mama had commandeered for their makeup prep. As Ree stepped inside, she saw a small handful of makeup artists clustered around Jane Konrad, the owner/executive producer of One Tough Mama and the star of
Awakenings
. The bathroom had been jury-rigged into a dressing room with extra lights, a clothing rack, and three Avon ladies’ worth of makeup. The room smelled of hair spray and BPAL. And in the hot seat was Jane Konrad, (in)famous actress and producer.

Jane Konrad (Strength 8, Dexterity 13, Stamina 12, Will 15, IQ 16, Charisma 17—Performer 5 / Child Star 3 / Producer 2 / Philanthropist 2 / Party Girl 1 / Geek 1) was about Ree’s height, had a currently-limp mane of chestnut-red-brown hair, and had starred in many happy dreams of Ree’s over the years. She wore simple sweats, which hung loose on her diminished frame.

Just two years ago, Jane had been a world-class superstar, but her career had recently gone the same way as a famous young redhead’s. The Jane of now was much skinnier than when she’d last been in a movie, which the tabloids blamed on drugs but Yancy denied fervently. She’d also collected more than a few citations and DUIs, and starred on the gossip sites ONTD and WTF on a regular basis.

Ree didn’t know how long Jane had been in the chair, but she still looked pretty terrible. Makeup failed to cover huge bags under her eyes, her hair was thin and lifeless, and her skin was wan. And then there were the things makeup couldn’t touch. She looked forty, not thirty-two, and was at least ten pounds underweight, far more emaciated than her normal curvy vivacity. She was operating far below her normal +3 Charisma bonus.

Skinny could be sexy, but on Jane, it just didn’t work. The actress looked empty, used up, like she’d gone nine rounds with a wight.

One of the makeup artists ushered Ree to a foldout chair in front of a sink and mirror, then started working.

“Glad you could make it,” Jane said. Even her voice was hollow.
Are we in trouble with this show?
If her first pilot bombed, getting another job would be all that much harder.

Ree tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, still a little gun-shy around the star. “Sorry, I missed the call-time message.”

Jane managed a weak smile. “It’ll be fine. There’s no need for writers to be glamorous. They’ll want it anyway, since you’re a woman, but you’ll be fine. Just let Brendan do his magic.”

Ree’s nostrils flared at the comment. She knew it was true, and the double standard of it all stuck in her craw like a jagged chunk of popcorn.

Brendan was the man with at least four hands starting her makeup, if Ree had to judge just by the speed of his work.

“Can you see without these?” Brendan asked, indicating her thick-lensed glasses. If the money from selling the script hadn’t all gone to overdue bills, credit cards, and paying back her roommate, she might have been able to replace the specs she’d worn since college, or afford new contacts. But that would have to wait for a series pickup.

“Not in any useful fashion,” she said.

He tutted disapprovingly and said, “Then we’ll work around them. Go ahead and take them off for now.”

Ree obeyed and Brendan set to work, first removing the meager makeup she’d put on herself, then starting to rebuild her look from the base up. Thanks to an Irish-American mother and a Puerto Rican–American father, Ree had the “ethnically indeterminate” look, which had gotten more en vogue, to a point. Hollywood had still convinced Jessica Alba to go blonde after praising her “exotic” look in
Dark Angel
, after all.

Brendan highlighted the Puerto Rican part of her complexion, but also drew attention to her eyes. While he did that, Jane’s hairdresser did a drive-by, untying Ree’s functional shoulder-length braid and giving her a quick comb and treatment with some hair spray that nearly made Ree choke in her seat.

The door to the bathroom opened, and Yancy poked his head in. “Looking good, folks. Jane, how are you feeling today?”

Jane sat up, looking at Yancy in the mirror. “I’ve got this. You keep them on topic, draw attention to our new star writer, and it’ll be great.” Jane turned and smiled at Ree, who tried to restrain a blush. Her reflection told her she’d failed, even with the makeup.

“All right. We’re on in ten,” Yancy said, then disappeared behind the closing door.

Brendan flashed back and the hairstylist continued to work wonders.

Ree caught Brendan’s eyes in the mirror, then waggled her phone as she asked, “Do you mind if I zone out with a show while you work? It helps me calm down.”

Brendan shrugged. “Just listen for my instructions when I need you to move your head.”

“Got it,” she said, and restarted the scene.

Since becoming a Geekomancer, a magician drawing power from her love for science-fiction/fantasy/horror/etc. media, Ree had made the executive decision to become more organized.

Her part of the apartment was still a pigsty, but she had gotten her shit together for her new Urban Fantasy life. Over the last few months, she’d made playlists of videos to watch for short hits of genre emulation and had tagged her video collection by gleanable skills.

The short clips, she’d found, were only good for ten, maybe fifteen seconds of magic, usually just one trick. But the right trick at the right time could be a lifesaver. And with the screen only ten inches away, she wasn’t quite blind.

Genre emulation was the most powerful (and rare) form of Geekomancy, and it was her best chance to not freak out and wretch during her first ever press panel.

Re-upping her connection to the feel of
Castle
could give her the cocksure charm of author Richard Castle and help her waltz through her first press conference. She got through the scene three times, trying to talk along with Richard Castle as he charmed the reporter with his spiel about
Dead Heat
, the first novel based on Lieutenant Kate Beckett.

During her fourth watch-through, Brendan said, “That should do it,” handing back her glasses.

Ree put her specs back on and looked up to see herself in the mirror.

She blinked and felt her jaw drop.
Who’s the hottie?

The woman in the mirror wasn’t supermodel-level gorgeous, but she was far more put-together and glamorous than Ree had felt in years. Her hair had shape that wasn’t braided, and, dare she say it, volume. She had blush, eye shadow, and lashes long enough to use the D&D natural attack rules, and generally looked entirely unlike herself. It was a total violation of her residual self-image in the most flattering kind of way. She beamed, her pride boosted by the
Castle
energy buzzing in her mind.

“Wow” was all she could manage. “Wow.”

Brendan’s smile was as wide as the room. “Not bad, eh? You better get used to it. This is Hollywood standard.”

Jane leaned over to her. The star looked better herself, her fatigue concealed behind masterfully done makeup, her hair voluminous and healthy. She still looked under the weather, but the hollow look was gone, leaving the star undeniably beautiful. Changing into a skirt and gauzy top helped as well, focusing attention on her (diminished) curves.

Ree stood and cracked her neck, happy to not have to hold her good posture anymore. She resisted the urge to reach up and fiddle with her face.
Stay cool
, said a Nathan Fillion–esque voice in her head.

“Do we wait in here or beside the stage?” Ree asked.

“Out there.” Jane stood and hugged Brendan. “Great job, hon.” She turned to Ree. “Now it’s our turn.”

The two joined Yancy outside. Yancy Williams (Strength 13, Dexterity 10, Stamina 14, Will 16, IQ 16, Charisma 14—Scholar 2 / Director 5 / Producer 4 / Kingmaker 3 / Dad 3) was an impish kind of fiftysomething, with well-earned laugh lines, a full head of white hair, and a whiskey-barrel chest. Yancy lead the group down a short hall to the entrance of the Washington ballroom.

Yancy ducked his head into the ballroom for a second, then said, “They’re almost ready for us.”

Jane took Ree’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Talk slowly, and give short answers when you can. Let them ask the follow-ups. Don’t answer anything you don’t want to. Except the basic stuff. If you don’t answer the basic stuff, we look dumb.” Jane gave a lopsided smile that made her look like a normal person, not one burdened with fame or plagued by her recent past. Just one woman giving advice to another.

All right, Ree. Don’t fuck this up. It’s just another kind of performance, like talking to customers, pitching a script, or a first date.

Set mode to Ree Reyes, Screenwriter
.

Another minute later, a young man with a headset opened the door and waved them in.

Yancy went first, then Ree. Jane would go last. Ree followed Yancy up the three steps to the stage and tried to pretend there weren’t fifty reporters standing in the front rows, that there weren’t another couple of hundred people behind them clapping and cheering.

Stay cool.

Ree put on her best smile and tried to look confident as she took long steps, stopping at the seat next to Yancy. There were a water bottle, microphone, and a name card, which announced her as Rhiannon Reyes, at the space.

As she turned to take her seat, the room exploded. Ree saw Jane step up onto the stage, waving to the crowd. Whatever last-second touch-ups and costuming tricks Brendan had done in the hall made a world of difference.

Jane was stunning, a L’Oreal commercial crossbred with a red carpet parade and unleashed on the room. Her hair flowed like a waterfall as she worked the stage like a runway.

She practically glowed from within; the star looked like she’d had a month’s worth of yoga and good diet. Her famous curves were back, filling out her clothes and accentuating the confident sway of her hips.

Di-damn.
Whatever Brendan made, he deserved a raise.

The flash of cameras was nearly blinding, and the roar of the crowd was primal, enthralled.

Jane reached her seat, gave another big smile, and took her seat. Ree remembered that she was still standing and was probably staring. She took her own seat and grasped for her water bottle with a smile, eager for a chance to clear her head as a storm of thoughts bounced around her mind like a game of
Arkanoid
.

Yo. Get a grip
, she told herself.
Remember the you-have-to-talk-to-people part? The screenwriter thing?

She answered the voice in her head.
But . . . pretty!

Ree took a long swig of water and turned to the press, which had sat down as the roar of the crowd faded. She tapped into the
Castle
mojo, thinking
What Would Rick Castle Do?
and her shoulders relaxed, her smile brightened. Her connection to the power wouldn’t last, thanks to the radioactive butterflies in her stomach burning away her concentration, but she’d milk it for all it was worth.

Yancy held his hands up, and the room settled. A few moments later, he leaned in and started talking.

“Good afternoon. I’m Yancy Williams, executive producer and director of
Awakenings
. I’m honored to be joined by the one, the only, Jane Konrad.” He paused for applause. Facing the audience, Ree saw the enraptured look on many of the audience’s faces. The press seemed less enraptured, but they were still fascinated, attentive, and sitting on the edge of their seats.

Jane smiled and nodded to the crowd for a few seconds, then raised a hand herself. The cheering died out like an orchestra, with Jane as the conductor.