Over his time on Gods of the Gates, he’d been nominated for five major acting awards. He’d never won, of course, but he had to believe—he did believe—that the nominations didn’t simply reward a pretty face, but also acknowledged skill. Emotional depth. The public might believe him an acting savant, able to ape intelligence despite having none of his own, but he knew the work he’d put into his craft and his career.
None of that would have been possible without the crew.
He angled away from the cameras to look at some of those people, and to obscure the change in his expression. “Finally, I want to thank everyone behind the scenes of our show. There are nearly a thousand of you, and I—I can’t—” The sincere words tangled his tongue, and he paused for a moment. “I can’t imagine how any series could have found a more dedicated, knowledgeable group. So to all the producers, stunt performers, location managers, dialect coaches, production designers, costume designers, hair and makeup artists, VFX and SFX people, and so many others: Thank you. I, um, owe you more than I can express.”
There. It was done. He’d managed to say it without stumbling too much.
Later, he’d grieve and consider his next steps. Now, he simply needed to wash and rest.
After a final round of embarrassing applause and a few claps on the back and hugs and handshakes, he made his escape. To his trailer for a quick wash at the sink, and then to his generic Spanish hotel room, where a very, very long and well-deserved shower awaited him.
At least he thought he’d made his escape, until Vika Andrich caught up with him just outside the hotel lobby entrance.
“Marcus! Do you have a minute?” Her voice somehow remained steady, even though she was jogging over from the parking lot in sensible heels. “I had a few questions about the big sequence you’re filming now.”
He wasn’t entirely surprised to spot her. Once or twice a year, she’d show up wherever they were shooting and get whatever on-site impressions and interviews she could, and those articles were always especially popular on her blog. Of course she’d want to cover the end of the series’s filming in person.
Unlike some other reporters, she’d respect his privacy if he asked for space. He even liked her. That wasn’t the problem.
The other qualities that made her his favorite entertainment-blogger-slash-paparazzo also made her his least favorite: She was friendly. Funny. Easy to relax around. Too easy.
She was also smart. Smart enough to have spied something . . . off . . . about him.
Offering her a wide smile, he stopped inches short of freedom. “Vika, you know I can’t tell you anything about what’s happening this season. But if you think your readers want to see me covered in mud”—he winked—“and we both know they do, then feel free to take a picture or two.”
He posed, presenting her with what he’d been told was his best side, and she got a couple of shots.
“I know you can’t tell me anything specific,” she said, checking the images, “but maybe you could describe the sixth season in three words?”
Tapping his chin, he furrowed his brow. Playacted deep thought for long moments.
“I know!” He brightened and turned a pleased grin on her. “Last. One. Ever. I hope that helps.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she studied him for a beat too long.
Then, confronted with the blinding gleam of her own innocent smile, he had to blink.
“I guess . . .” She trailed off, still smiling. “I guess I need to find one of the other actors to ask about how the show’s ending deviates from both E. Wade’s books and, of course, Homer’s Aeneid. Aeneas ended up married to Dido in both those stories, but the show might have taken a different approach.”
Homer? What the fuck?
And Dido was long, looooong dead by the end of the Aeneid. By the final page of the third Gods of the Gates book, she was alive but decidedly no longer interested in Aeneas, although he supposed that could change if Wade ever released the last two books in the series.
Somewhere, Virgil was probably uttering Latin curses as he shifted in his grave, and by all rights, E. Wade should be side-eyeing Vika from her lavish compound in Hawaii.
He pinched his forehead with a thumb and forefinger, absently noting the dirt beneath his nails. Dammit, someone needed to correct such grievous misapprehensions.