Misfortune Teller E-Book

Dima Zales

• Herausgeber: Mozaika Publications
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

So I’m a seer. A Cognizant under the Mandate.

Life should be easy now, right?

Wrong.

With all the "accidents" that keep befalling me, I'll be lucky to survive the week. That is, if my crazy boss doesn't work me to death first...

Leseprobe

MISFORTUNE TELLER

SASHA URBAN SERIES: BOOK 2

DIMA ZALES

♠ MOZAIKA PUBLICATIONS ♠

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 Dima Zales and Anna Zaires

www.dimazales.com

All rights reserved.

Except for use in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

Published by Mozaika Publications, an imprint of Mozaika LLC.

www.mozaikallc.com

Cover by Orina Kafe

www.orinakafe-art.com

e-ISBN: 978-1-63142-356-7

Print ISBN: 978-1-63142-357-4

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Excerpt from Oasis

About the Author

CHAPTERONE

I groan, opening my eyes.

The bedroom is spinning, and a horde of drummers are using my brain to practice “Death Metal’s greatest hits.”

How much did I drink at the Jubilee?

All I recall is people with two glasses of alcohol, one for them, one for me—and me giving in to peer pressure.

Sitting up, I slide my feet into my slippers. Moving makes my skull feel like a white dwarf star about to explode into a supernova.

With superhuman effort, I navigate to the bathroom.

If walking with a hangover were a sport, I’d get a gold medal.

A pale ghost of my already-pasty self looks out of the bathroom mirror with huge bloodshot blue eyes and a jet-black mop of hair.

Looking at the toilet generates flashbacks of me hugging the white marble, and I vaguely recall Ariel and Felix fighting for the honor of holding back my hair.

After a thorough shower and five minutes of brushing my teeth, my mind clears enough for me to decide that this hangover is the worst of my life.

I’m never drinking again.

At least I had a good reason to get so trashed—the Jubilee is a big deal. It was my entry into Cognizant society, the secret race that includes psychics (like me), descendants of Hercules (like my roommate Ariel), and whatever techno-thing Felix is. Not to mention, vampires, werewolves, necromancers, and who knows what else.

I stumble back into my room and strongly debate skipping work. The problem with this idea is that my boss Nero is now my Mentor in the Cognizant world—a role with as-yet-unclear meaning. Last night, after informing me about a raise, he demanded I research two new biotech stocks for our portfolio by 11:00 a.m.—and it’s already 7:45, so I don’t have much time.

Figuring I should break the problem into smaller chunks, I decide to jam some liquids and electrolytes into myself, to see if that makes me feel human again. Though maybe the expression should be “Cognizant again,” since we don’t seem to be human.

Dressing in my most comfortable work clothes, I waddle into the kitchen and find Felix by the stove.

“Morning, party girl,” he says with an annoyingly cheerful smile. “Do you want eggs or oatmeal?”

Felix’s face is a melting pot of Slavic, Asian, and Middle Eastern features, and he’s the only person I know who looks endearing when wiggling a bushy unibrow.

“Whatever works better for a hangover,” I croak, the smell of food failing to entice me for once.

Felix nods and fusses over the stove as I watch the kitchen spin.

“I’ve put some salt and bananas into your oatmeal,” he says a moment later, his voice much too loud for my comfort. He sets the bowl in front of me with a skull-shattering bang. “Let me also pour you some juice and tea.”

When he hands me the liquids, I guzzle the juice in one gulp, like medicine, and slurp the tea while I wait for the oatmeal to cool.

“Did you see Ariel dancing with that vampire?” Felix says conspiratorially, putting his own plate of eggs on the table with another too-loud smack. “What was she thinking?”

“You mean Gaius?” I catch some banana with my spoon. “She says they’re just friends.”

“Just friends,” Felix mutters. “We are just friends, and if I rubbed against her like that, she’d probably break my neck.”

He blushes, realizing what he’s said, then looks at the door and turns beet red.

Ariel jauntily sashays into the room. Though her Jubilee makeup is gone, she still looks like she could pose for a cover of Maxim magazine. Batting her perfect eyelashes at Felix, she asks, “Who would break your neck and why?”

“No one. No reason.” Felix stuffs food into his mouth.

“All right,” Ariel says and blitzes through the kitchen like a sultry Tasmanian devil from the cartoons. Cabinet doors slam, plates thump against the counter, and dishes rattle in the sink. I’m pretty sure I see a crack appear in the cup she’s holding as she bangs it against the kitchen faucet in an effort to get water. Before I can beg her to stop making such a clamor, she grabs a plate of eggs and a cup of coffee, and heads for the table.

“Would you sit down?” Felix says to her as she jumps up a second later to grab milk in the same frantic manner. “What, is this your tenth cup of coffee?”

Actually, Ariel is acting like she’s on amphetamines, but I don’t say it out loud because that would upset her. My roommate takes a range of legal and, I suspect, some not-so-legal drugs to help her cope with the PTSD she denies having. Felix and I generally don’t give her a hard time about that because taking those pills seems to improve her quality of life.

“I’m just excited after having so much fun last night.” Ariel’s megawatt smile blinds my hungover eyes.

“So much ‘fun.’” I make air quotes to make sure no one misses my sarcasm. “I could use a guillotine right about now.”

“Is your hangover really that bad?” Ariel’s smile dims slightly. “I can hook you up to an IV, if you’d like. They say it helps with dehydration symptoms.”

“I think I’ll pass,” I say, sipping my tea. “But I will take enough Tylenol to cure or kill an elephant.”

Ariel jumps up and beelines for the medicine cabinet. Almost instantly, she’s back with a bottle of painkillers and a glass of water.

I gratefully shove a handful of pills into my mouth and chase them down with water. Hopefully, my liver can take it.

“You better recover soon. The Jubilee was just the first step in our celebration,” Ariel says as I resume eating.

I nearly choke on my oatmeal. “More celebration?”

“Of course.” She beams at me again. “I’m taking you to Earth Club.”

I picture loud club beats, and my left eye twitches involuntarily, the headache gleefully pulsing at the base of my noggin.

Felix looks me over. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to take her there so soon?”

“No. Not a good idea,” I say, clearing the knot in my throat. “I’d rather go to a shooting range and let someone put a bullet in my head.”

“I’m not saying we go today,” Ariel says, her hyper manner undiminished. “We don’t even need to go tomorrow. We’ll go on Saturday—that’s when everyone’s going to be there, anyway.”

“What do you mean, everyone?” I massage my throbbing temples.

“All the Cognizant,” Ariel says and spears a piece of egg on her fork. “Earth Club is where we hang out without having to hide our natures.”

“That does make it a little more interesting,” I say cautiously and eat half a spoon of oatmeal. “Maybe in a few years, when this headache is gone—”

“It’s located in the Otherlands.” Ariel’s smile threatens to break her face. “It’s your chance to officially go there—I know you’d want that.”

“I’ll think about this,” I say and sip my tea again. “But no alcohol at the club if I go. No alcohol for me ever.”

“Sure.” Ariel shoves her fingers through her hair in a jerky motion, still beaming like a lunatic. “They have every drug known to man—and some not known to man.”

My concern about Ariel’s sobriety returns with a vengeance. I catch Felix staring at me intently—his thoughts must echo mine.

“Are you going with us?” I ask Felix. What I leave unsaid is, “Maybe you can help me keep an eye on her?”

Felix hesitates, then nods. “Yes. All right. I’ll go.”

Ariel all but jumps up and down in her chair. “This is going to be so much fun, you guys.”

In the momentary silence that follows, I hear the pitter-patter of fluffy feet. With a wave of guilt, I realize that in my hangover misery, I completely forgot to feed Fluffster—my pet chinchilla.

Fortunately, Fluffster doesn’t look particularly grumpy, so hopefully, he just woke up and hasn’t realized I forgot about him. In fact, he looks extra bright eyed and bushy tailed today, his tiny nose wrinkling in the middle of majestically long whiskers and his large ears standing up like radio antenna dishes ready to receive alien transmissions.

My roommates exchange a strange look, then stare at me.

I look at them, then at Fluffster—and then I see it.

Fluffster has a tiny aura.

The glow is similar to the one both of my roommates possess—which in their case means they’re under the Mandate, like me.

In other words, Cognizant.

“Felix. Ariel.” I point at the aura. “Are you also seeing the glow that’s supposed to indicate people under the Mandate? Do you know why my cute rodent has one?”

“It’s a long story.” Felix puts down a butter knife and looks at Ariel.

“Fluffster isn’t what or who you think he is,” Ariel says, her smile as bright as ever.

Fluffster scurries closer and jumps onto my knee, then leaps onto the table, displaying a dexterity I’ve never seen from him before. He then looks at Ariel with his pretty black eyes, his posture radiating unusual intensity.

“No,” Ariel says, seemingly to Fluffster. “It’s better if you tell her.” Fluffster looks at Felix in the same intense way—as though he wants to hypnotize him.

“Don’t look at me,” Felix says. “I think it should come from the horse’s mouth. Or chinchilla’s brain. Or whatever.”

“Tell me?” The room starts to spin again, and it’s no longer because of the hangover. “Guys, please. This is the worst day for jokes.”

Fluffster stands on his haunches on the table, and it could be my imagination, but did he just gesticulate with his little hand-like paws?

“I wouldn’t know where to start.” Ariel puts down her fork with a loud clank, her smile disappearing as she full-on glares at my pet. “It’s your charade; you deal with it.”

Fluffster begins to pace the table. From time to time, he looks at Felix or Ariel, then at me.

“Okay,” Felix finally says to my pet. He then turns to me. “You ever hear of the domovoi?”

“Yes,” I say, my headache evolving into a full-on migraine. “It’s some kind of a Russian house spirit or something like that, right? Vlad and Pada called Fluffster by that word, so I looked it up.”

“Correct,” Felix says. “The domovoi feature prominently in Slavic folklore. And, according to my dad, they’re a group of powerful Cognizant within their own realm of influence, and he”—Felix points at Fluffster—“is one of them.”

I gape at the little animal. “But he’s a chinchilla. A rodent native to the Andean Mountains in South America—as far from Russia as you can get. I bought him at the pet shop. This makes no sense.”

Both Felix and Ariel look at Fluffster, avoiding my gaze.

“This isn’t funny,” I say. “Are you seriously about to tell me Fluffster is a were-chinchilla? Or is he supposed to be a chinchilla who got bitten by a rabid guy from Siberia, making him a were-man—a cute furry creature who turns into a hairy Russian dude during a full moon?”

“Having grown up in the States, I don’t know that much about the way the domovoi work,” Felix says. “What I do know is based on what my dad told me. The domovoi usually stay in an insubstantial form, but sometimes, they take the shape of a passed-away pet—usually a dog or a cat…”

I stare at everyone in turn, the hair on the back of my neck rising.

Fluffster walks over to my oatmeal bowl, stands on his haunches again, and stares directly into my face.

My eyes widen, and I blink repeatedly.

There’s always been intelligence in Fluffster’s gaze, but never this deep. Never this intense.

“I’m so sorry you had to find out this way,” says a soft voice in my head—and though it’s purely mental, it has a hint of a Russian accent.

CHAPTERTWO

I put my spoon down. “I just heard a voice in my head.”

“Yeah,” Felix says.

“Join the club.” Ariel beams again.

My stomach clenches. “It’s a symptom of psychosis,” I say to no one in particular.

“Not if your roommates have been conversing with the same voice in their heads.” Felix winks at me. “So unless it’s a group psychosis…”

“No jokes,” I say to Felix, then look at Fluffster intently. “You were saying?”

“I was trying to emphasize how sorry I am for your loss.” The voice in my head is as soothing to my brain as Fluffster’s fur is to my skin. Even the hangover recedes slightly, though it could be the Tylenol taking effect.

I stare at my pet as though I’m seeing him for the first time.

He stares back at me, standing unnaturally still.

“You better start at the beginning.” I rub my brow. “Why are you sorry? And what did I lose?”

Fluffster now gives Felix a penetrating stare.

“Fine,” Felix says to the chinchilla after a moment. “I’ll help you.” Turning his attention to me, he says, “So, he doesn’t remember this, but when we first moved in together, he had a transparent form that Ariel and I would sometimes spot. We thought maybe he was a ghost at first—”

“Wait, ghosts exist too?” I look at Fluffster, who seems to shrug his tiny furry shoulders.

“There are many Cognizant who can be invisible to people not under the Mandate,” Ariel says. “A few groups have the characteristics of mythical ghosts—but they are never souls of departed humans, so in the strictest sense, ghosts do not exist.”

“Fine,” I say, at a loss for words yet again. “Let’s get back to the domovoi. You two saw him, and I couldn’t because of the Mandate.”

“Correct.” Felix smiles. “You’re catching on very quickly.”

“And what did he look like?” I skeptically examine the squirrel-bunny-like creature in front of me.

“A bit scary, actually,” Ariel blurts out, then gives Fluffster an apologetic look. “But Felix’s dad explained that it was a domovoi, and that they protect the dwelling they inhabit.”

Felix nods and shoves away his plate. “It’s considered a huge blessing for a Russian household to have one.”

“I understand,” I say, though I don’t really. “What did you mean when you said he doesn’t remember? Do these domovoi have memory problems?”

“Right.” Felix shifts in his seat. “It all happened the night you got the original chinchilla.”

He looks at Fluffster pointedly, who seems to shake his head.

“As far as Ariel and I could puzzle out,” Felix continues, “the creature you got from the pet store had a seizure the very first night you brought him home, so the domovoi saved it, sort of, by taking its embodiment.”

“Fluffster had a seizure?” I look at my pet uncomprehendingly.

“I’m so sorry,” says the voice in my head. “My very first memory is trying to save the little creature’s life. The damage to his brain was too severe for my powers to repair, so I took his body.”

“You took his body,” I say dumbly. “So he’s dead?”

“I think that’s a philosophical question,” Felix says. “If this body were killed, the domovoi would be incorporeal again, so to me that implies the animal is still alive—or his body is, at least.”

I rub my temples.

“The key thing to remember,” Ariel says, “is that the being you know as Fluffster has pretty much always been the domovoi. And though he couldn’t tell you the truth about his nature, he’s always tried to be what you wanted him to be—a companion.”

I try to wrap my mind around that and wish for the millionth time that I weren’t so hungover. With the headache squeezing my brain out of my head, I’m having trouble deciphering how I should feel. Do I mourn the chinchilla I’d only known for one evening, or do I feel grateful to the domovoi for all the joy he’s brought me?

“He didn’t do that good of a job pretending to be a mere animal,” I say after a pause. “I always thought he was the smartest pet who’s ever lived.”

Fluffster proudly lifts his chin and chirps excitedly. In my mind, he says, “Thank you, Sasha.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, and giggle hysterically as I picture someone who isn’t one of my roommates witnessing this conversation. “So where did you come from?”

“I don’t remember,” Fluffster says and hungrily stares at my bowl of unfinished oatmeal.

I dip my spoon into the oatmeal and offer it to Fluffster. With a chirp, the chinchilla-domovoi grabs a clump and puts it in his mouth.

“Do either of you know where he came from?” I ask Ariel and Felix while Fluffster is eating.

“He didn’t talk to us when he wasn’t embodied,” Felix says. “Just kind of spooked me a few times.”

“At first, we thought he was Felix’s family’s domovoi.” Ariel sips her coffee. “Until Felix asked his dad about that.”

“Yeah,” Felix says as he gets up—probably to make himself a cup of coffee. “My dad says our domovoi lives in my grandfather’s house in Yakutsk, Russia. My best guess is that some Cognizant from Russia once lived in this apartment and had the domovoi, and when he died, he left the entity here. I think they follow people in certain families, but if no one is left, they stick with the house itself.”

Ariel looks like the proverbial lightbulb just lit up above her head. “You know,” she says. “Back when we pondered all this, we didn’t know Sasha was a Cognizant. But since she is, there’s a more intriguing possibility for Fluffster’s origin. He could be hers.”

“You’re right.” Felix places his coffee mug on the table, his eyes shining with excitement. “That would mean we have the first ever clue about Sasha’s heritage.” He looks at me. “Could you be from Russia?”

“Your parents always said that Sasha is a Slavic name,” Ariel says to him. “So it’s feasible that—”

My mouth literally hangs open as their words penetrate the haze of my hangover.

A clue about my heritage.

The mere thought triggers a cascade of hard-to-identify emotions that I should probably discuss with Lucretia, the Cognizant shrink at my work.

I’ve known I was adopted from the very beginning, so I’ve obviously wondered who my biological parents were and what happened to them. However, Mom (my adoptive one) wasn’t a big fan of such questions. She thought they meant I wasn’t happy with her and Dad. That logic was faulty, though, since I was happy with my new family—I just wanted to know who my real parents were.

When I was little, instead of counting sheep, I would regularly ponder questions about my biological parents as I was falling asleep. Did they lose me, or did they abandon me? If they abandoned me, was it because I somehow deserved it? Who are they? Where are they? What were they doing at JFK airport on that fateful day? The list of questions grew as I got older, until I learned to suppress my curiosity—as many of the possibilities were too painful to contemplate.

Now that I know I’m a Cognizant, however, I need to revisit the topic. The Council didn’t seem to have a clue as to my origins, and to quote Gaius, “not for lack of trying.” The good news is that being a Cognizant has shrunk the pool of potential candidates for my parents dramatically, as we are only a percent of a percent of the total world’s population.

On top of that, one or both of my parents were seers, which narrows it down even more. And now there might be something else I can latch on to: the domovoi, a.k.a. a Russian connection, assuming Fluffster really is—

“Sasha?” Felix says worriedly. “Are you there?”

“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head in the hopes of clearing it.

“It must be a sensitive subject for you,” Ariel says, lowering her voice in sympathy. “I’m sorry I just blurted—”

“No,” I say. “This is indeed an interesting idea. Does a domovoi have to ‘belong’ to a Cognizant household? What if he was living in the household of one of my adoptive parents?”

“I have no idea,” Felix says.

“I have to find that out,” I say. “Is there any way to make Fluffster remember what happened before he became furry? A way to verify that he really lived with my biological parents? Because if so, maybe he’d remember who they were—”

“I’d love to remember, but I just don’t,” Fluffster says mentally, and there’s a large dose of sadness in his words—which I guess is less odd compared to his mental voice affecting an accent.

Ariel looks at Felix, who shrugs and says, “I think you might want to talk to my dad about all this. I’d never met a domovoi before this apartment, but Dad knew the one at my grandfather’s house.”

“Okay,” I say and realize all this—or pills and liquids and food—has made my hangover recede. “I’d like to meet your dad for lunch sometime this week and see what he might know. I want to be sure Fluffster isn’t here because of your family. Besides, maybe your dad knows a way to jar Fluffster’s memory.”

“He’d be thrilled to have lunch with you,” Felix says, then grimaces. “My mom might not be as excited, though. You know how jealous she gets.”

In Felix’s mom’s defense, his dad does seem to enjoy the company of females a little too much—and that includes me, though at least he’s not as weird around me as he is around Ariel. I think I saw him drool when he first met her.

“Maybe a family lunch?” I say. “This way, your mom would be there to supervise.”

“Sure,” Felix says. “But you’ll regret adding Mom to it. Despite what I keep telling her, she still thinks we’re together.”

Ariel chuckles, and I just shake my head. His mom actually thinks both of us, Ariel and I, are with Felix. I’m not sure if it’s because polygamy is a thing in Uzbekistan, or because she’s convinced her son is irresistible to women—or both.

“Great,” I say. “I’m going to research who owned this apartment before us, and if they were Russian. I’ll also find out if my adoptive parents have any Russian heritage, or had pets, or, for that matter, if they are Cognizant—since we do tend to attract each other.”

“Your mom doesn’t have the Mandate glow,” Felix says. “But I’ve never met your adoptive dad.”

“It’s unlikely that a Cognizant would marry a human,” Ariel says.

“Then again, they did divorce,” Felix says and yelps in pain. Ariel must’ve kicked him under the table.

I exhale a relieved sigh. If Mom were also Cognizant, I don’t know what I’d do.

I eat another spoonful of breakfast and give Fluffster the next one. “I have to head to work soon, so we’ll have to set up the lunch via text.”

“Sure thing,” Felix says, taking out his phone. “Let me call the family units.”

“Are you going to finish your oatmeal?” Fluffster asks in my head.

“No.” I push the plate toward him. “You’re welcome to it.”

“I’m actually full,” Fluffster says but walks up to the oatmeal and gives it a mournful glare. “I guess I’ll eat it. It’s a shame to throw away perfectly good food.”

“Felix poured too much for me as usual,” I say. “He thinks my stomach is as big as his.”

Fluffster looks at Felix’s unfinished plate disapprovingly. “That boy is going to bring this household to financial ruin.”

Felix pretends to be busy with the phone, but I can see he’s trying to suppress a grin as he mouths to me, “Welcome to the dictatorship.”

“I heard that,” Fluffster says in my head—and given Felix’s reaction, it’s clear he heard the thought too, proving that the domovoi can send thoughts to multiple people at once.

“Hi, Mom,” Felix says into the phone. Covering the mouthpiece, he tells us, “Sorry, guys, I’m going to take this in the living room.”

“No respect for his elders,” Fluffster mumbles in my head, darting a grumpy look at Felix’s back.

“I better go,” I say, getting up. “I have stocks to evaluate.”

“Wait,” Fluffster says in my head. “Can I ask for a big favor before you go?”

“Of course, buddy,” I say out loud, and despite the lingering headache, I can’t help but smile. I’m actually having a multidirectional dialog with my pet. “Do you want your dust bath?”

“Felix can help me with the bath,” Fluffster says. “I was hoping you could show me one of your magic tricks. Ariel has told me so much about them, but you’ve never shown any to me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, blinking. This has to be the first time I’ve been accused of not showing someone my effects. “I didn’t know you would understand—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Fluffster says, his mental voice extra soothing. “It’s just something I’m dying to see.”

Though I really need to rush to work, I don’t think I can say no to such a cute and cuddly spectator. Besides, now that I’m forbidden from performing magic for people not under the Mandate—which is almost all of them—I have to treasure these opportunities.

“Show him the thing you do with the cards,” Ariel says.

“A thing with cards.” I suppress the urge to chastise Ariel for reducing a whole branch of magic to such a triviality. Casually dropping my hands so they’re parallel with my pockets, I say, “Got it. Too bad I don’t have any cards on me. But hey, can you get me a lighter?”

“Here.” Ariel walks up to the kitchen counter and grabs the lighter we keep there in order to relight the stove burners when necessary.

Since she shifts her own and Fluffster’s attention so admirably, I dive into my pockets to make sure I have the props required.

I have a deck of cards in one pocket (who doesn’t, right?) and random utility items in the other one, including a small lighter I just pretended not to have. I breathe a sigh of relief when my fingers brush over flash paper—something I also carry in most of my pockets. This assures I’ll be able to add nice pizzazz to my effect, so I say, “Please also bunch a paper towel into a small ball for me.”

Flash paper is nitrocellulose—an explosive that somehow became a magician’s prop. When lit, it makes an extremely bright flame, like the combined flashes of a zillion phone cameras. And, when the stuff is bunched into a ball, it looks a lot like a wrinkled paper towel.

Ariel does as she’s told. In the meantime, I prepare what I need without Fluffster or Ariel being the wiser.

“Here you go,” she says and hands me the ball of paper.

I take the paper towel and pretend to make it into a tighter ball—but in reality, I put it on top of the crumpled flash paper. I then pretend to bunch the paper further, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to palm the original paper towel and be left with the flash paper ball visible.

Neither Fluffster nor Ariel notice the switch, which makes me feel better about all the hours of my life I’ve spent practicing this move.

“Keep your eyes on the paper,” I tell them, mainly because I enjoy rubbing in my deceit like that, but also because psychologically, it tells them I want them to make sure the paper doesn’t get switched. This way, they’ll later swear the paper couldn’t have been switched thanks to them “always keeping eyes on it.” Also, it helps with the next part because as they stare at my hand, they miss the moment when I palm the deck of cards in my pocket.

“Actually, Fluffster, can you move back a little?” I ask, in part as misdirection and in part because I’m really concerned the flare might ignite his gorgeous fur.

As he scurries back, I move the paper into the hand that’s secretly palming the deck. Neither participant can see the deck from their point of view. I then use my now-empty left hand to grab the lighter from Ariel’s hand.

They don’t question me moving the paper. Fluffster’s motion distracted them, and I also used a principle in magic known as “in transit action.” The paper ball went into the hand I needed as though to make room for the lighter. I mean, would I grab a lighter with my left hand, like a barbarian?

I inwardly smile.

The first part of the trick hasn’t started as far as Fluffster and Ariel think, but in terms of methodology, it’s already over.

“Look very closely.” I light the lighter. “I’m going to turn this paper towel into a deck of cards.”

I touch the lighter to the ball of flash paper, and the explosive substance ignites—blinding Ariel and Fluffster exactly as I re-grip the deck of cards in my outstretched hand.

My own headache reignites thanks to the ultra-bright light, but I disregard the pain as a worthy sacrifice for my art.

“Wow,” Ariel exclaims.

“How?” Fluffster asks in my mind.

To them, it looked like in a literal flash, a paper towel ball turned into a deck of cards.

“I’m not done,” I say and launch into my own version of the famous Ambitious Card routine—an effect where a card appears at the top of the deck after being put in the middle, under progressively more impossible conditions. Most of the phases I show them are from magic books, but I end with a finale that I invented.

Ariel squeals in glee as the card jumps to the top despite the deck going back into the card box and being held inside Ariel’s hands.

“You’re so much better than that guy on YouTube,” Fluffster says, his rodent nose crinkling.

“You watch YouTube?” I stare at him, dumbfounded. I still retain enough wits to extend my hand to Ariel—who puts the deck back into it.

Since everyone thinks the trick is over, I use their lack of attention to swap the deck for the bunched-up paper towel that I hid all this time. Then I say, “Oh, one last thing. I should give you back your paper ball.”

I reveal that the deck of cards “turned back” into the paper towel, and Ariel examines it in disbelief before putting it in her pocket like a treasure.

“Fluffster loves to watch YouTube,” Felix says as he reenters the room. He looks at me with that very annoying expression he has when he thinks he knows how I did something. Often, he does indeed know, so I’m glad he missed the majority of my performance. “I rigged up a computer for him in my room,” he continues. “If you could get a PhD in cat videos, he would be Doctor Fluffster by now.”

“Isn’t it scary for you to watch cats?” Ariel asks. “In a rodent’s body and all.”

“No,” Fluffster says, presumably in all our heads. “I like cats. Well, most cats—not that neighbor’s one. Maybe I was a cat before?”

Now that I’m not performing magic, my sense of time returns, and I realize I’m going to be so late that I won’t have time for the research Nero demanded—and I don’t want to start our Mentor-Mentee relationship on such a sour note. “I’ve got to run,” I say, heading for the door.

“I set up the lunch with my parents,” Felix says as I pass him. “I’ll text you the deets.”

“Sounds good,” I say from the doorway. “Later, everyone.”

In the hallway, I risk a glance at my phone and wish I didn’t.

Not only am I late, but I have messages from Nero. He added a few more stocks to his early-morning demand.

If I don’t get to the office right now, I’m screwed.

I’m rushing to the elevator when a familiar voice rings out from the farther end of the hallway.

“Sasha,” Rose says gleefully. “I’m so glad I bumped into you.”

I turn to look as she approaches.

A recycling bag in one hand and cat in the other, Rose looks to be having one of her good, spry days. This happens sporadically, as though Rose goes and takes a swim in the alien rejuvenation pool from The Cocoon movie Mom loves so much.

I’m not at all surprised when I spot Rose’s Mandate aura. Her being one of the Cognizant is the only thing that could at least partially explain her relationship with the modelesque Vlad, who, thanks to his vampirism, looks to be her grandson.

Feline eyes stare into mine, and I’m relieved to find that Rose’s cat Lucifur doesn’t have the same aura as the rest of us.

If this creature were supernatural, I’d be extremely concerned.

The cat realizes I’m staring back, and (though this could be my imagination) gives me an imperious nod. Her eyes seem to say, “Ah, if it isn’t the peasant who saved our majestic life when the enemies of the crown conspired to make us swallow that loathsome key. We shall grant you a boon, peasant. We will let you keep your pathetic life. Bask in this honor. Now get out of our sight.”

I lose the staring contest with the cat, and to cover it up, I say, “Let me help.” Coming up to Rose, I grab the recycling bag and take it to the garbage disposal shaft.

“Vlad already told me about your status, but I had to see it for myself.” Rose nods appreciatively toward my Mandate aura when I face her again. “How could I not realize you were a Cognizant?”

I study her carefully. With her heavy but stylishly applied makeup, she looks at least twenty years younger than the eighty-plus I always suspected her to be—but then again, being a Cognizant, she may be exponentially older.

“So, Vlad isn’t your nephew,” I say, curiosity almost making me forget how late I am for work.

“No, he isn’t,” Rose says, and I catch a hint of a blush through the makeup. “I apologize for that lie. I’m not even sure why I said it. Perhaps because our relationship is so tied with my power that I—”

“And what power is that?” I ask, my curiosity stoked further.

“The power of a witch, of course,” she says, her chin lifting. “I would’ve thought that part would be obvious.”

“Not to me. You’re the first witch I’ve met.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Rose says and strokes Lucifur behind the ear—to the creature’s purring delight. “Some of us can be… less than nice.”

I can’t help looking at Rose’s frail stature and wondering what she means by that. Is she hinting that witches are evil or dangerous in some way? Not wanting to offend her, I steer the conversation to what I’m most curious about. “So how did you and Vlad meet?”

A small smile appears on Rose’s face. “It was back in France,” she says, her gaze taking on a distant look. “Right before that dreadful Revolution—”

“Wait,” I say. “What do you mean ‘back in France?’ Are you originally French?”

“I thought you knew,” Rose says and glances down at her stylish outfit, as though for confirmation.

“You have no accent,” I say and realize that with the last name of Martin, Rose could indeed be from France.

“Of course I don’t,” she says proudly. “I’ve lived in the United States since the Civil War. But if you have any doubt…” She proceeds to say something in what sounds like fluent French.

My hangover reasserts itself, making the hallway spin. “So, when you say you met around the French Revolution, you’re talking about the one with Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, Robespierre, and Napoleon?”

“Yes,” Rose says. “And the Civil War was the one with Abraham Lincoln, who was such a nice—”

A door across the hall opens, and one of our neighbors comes out. He has no Mandate aura, and he looks to be around Rose’s age—except I now know that isn’t the case. He could easily be Rose’s great-great-great-grandson.

Rose wrinkles her nose almost imperceptibly, the way she always does when this neighbor tries to flirt with her. Now that I know what I know—that she has a hot boyfriend (or maybe husband?)—I can’t blame her for her lack of interest in the older man.

“Hi, Rose,” he says and smiles—a tactical mishap, given the stained teeth.

“Hello, Mr. Duffertnizer,” Rose says, her voice even cooler than usual.

Lucifur hisses viciously at the guy, bringing to mind territorial lions on nature shows. Mr. Duffertnizer—who must’ve seen those same nature shows—submissively takes a step back toward his apartment.

“We’ll have to continue this conversation later, Rose,” I say. “If I don’t get to work soon, Nero will—”

“Say no more,” Rose says, her expression reminiscent of Mona Lisa. “I best feed Luci before she gets all cranky.”

Both Mr. Duffertnizer and I look at the small fluff of nerves in Rose’s hands and wonder what this cat would be like when actually cranky. However, he bravely remains in place, and I hear him try to engage Rose in conversation again as I enter the elevator.

Exiting the building, I grab the first taxi that comes my way and start reading up on the stocks Nero asked me to research.

At 10:45 a.m., I unpeel my eyes from my work monitor. In the ten out of fifteen remaining minutes before my deadline, I write up my recommendation in an email to Nero. However, my finger stops before pressing “Send.”

This isn’t my best work. Because my time was limited, I had to cut a lot of corners, and the resulting analysis is more instinctual than backed by data.

If I’m honest with myself, this recommendation is little better than an educated guess.

“Most of the financial sector runs on hunches,” I tell myself and click the send button decisively.

Then I stare at my inbox, expecting Nero to instantly reply with some kind of admonishment about my lack of research rigor.

When no instant reply shows up, I distract myself by checking voicemail.

Two of the voicemails turn out to be from my dad, and my guilt over doing a crappy analysis blends into a more familiar shame—that of being a questionable daughter. Including these two messages, I’ve probably ignored over a dozen voicemails from Dad at this point.

Not that he doesn’t deserve it. Like a horrible cliché, he cheated on Mom with his secretary, which led to the break in my adoptive family. I don’t know if my strong reaction to their divorce was normal or if it was made worse by my biological parents abandoning me.

Whatever the reason, I couldn’t face Dad for years.

After a while, I did forgive him enough to reconnect. Until his screw-up, he’d been a good dad, and even after the divorce, he’d paid all our bills up until I moved out of Mom’s place—though his shark lawyer had ensured he didn’t have to. However, more recently, he’s left Mom to fend completely for herself, and I’m again mad at him for that. It might be irrational, but it feels like he’s abandoned our family yet again.

I locate Braxton Urban in my contacts and stare at the number. Do I want to do this? Then my finger taps the screen, and the phone starts ringing before I consciously decide to return the call.

Have I forgiven my dad, or am I doing this because I have questions for him? He could have Russian ancestry that would explain my domovoi.

In fact, he could be one of the Cognizant himself.

Of course, it’s also possible that my recent near-death experiences have put my anger at him in perspective. If one of those zombies had killed me, Dad would’ve been extra crushed because we hadn’t seen each other in so long.

The phone keeps ringing, and I realize I’m secretly hoping I get his voicemail—which is completely illogical. I guess a part of me thinks that if I leave him a message, it would be possible for me to pretend my earlier avoidance was at least in part a game of phone tag and not—

“Sasha!” Dad’s gruff voice is overflowing with excitement. “Sweetheart, I’m so happy to hear from you.”

“Hi, Dad,” I say sheepishly. His enthusiasm amps my guilt more than any chastisement would have. If it were Mom in Dad’s shoes, she’d start with, “So you remembered you have a mother?”

“I saw you on TV,” Dad says. “You were amazing.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say and wonder if he’s actively trying to make me feel guilty. Now I regret that I wasted the invite to the TV studio on Mom. If I were honest with myself, I’d known that Mom wouldn’t show up, just as I’m now convinced that Dad would’ve flown from San Francisco, where he now lives, to be there for me.

Then again, if he had come, he would’ve seen a zombie try to kill me and then gotten glamoured into forgetfulness by vampires, so maybe it’s for the best he wasn’t there.

“Please don’t tell me how you did that,” Dad says, repeating what he’d always say to the teenage me when one of my effects fooled him—a rarity when I was starting out.

“Sure,” I say as sarcastically as I did back in the day. I guess Dad didn’t see the debunking YouTube video. “I was so going to tell you before, but now that you don’t want to know…”

Following the old script, Dad laughs his distinct, guttural laugh.

Instinctively, I glance at my inbox. There’s an email from Nero that’s just one line.

Come to my office, now.

“Dad, I got a work thing, but we should get together and catch up,” I say into the phone. “Are you going to be in New York anytime soon?”

Dad doesn’t speak for a few seconds. He probably can’t believe I just invited him to meet. “I’m here until Tuesday,” he finally says. “That’s why I called.”

“Awesome. Are you free for lunch on Monday?”

“I’m always free for you, sweetheart. How about Fuji Emporium? You still like sushi, don’t you?”

“Sounds great,” I say. “I’m sorry, I really have to run now.”

“No problem,” he says. “I’ll see you there at 12:30. Monday.”

“See you.” I hang up the phone just as I hear Dad say, “Love you—”

I stare at the phone for a moment, then switch my attention to my inbox.

For some unknown reason, my heart rate is up, as though I’m afraid of what will happen when I meet Nero. But that’s absurd. Yes, meetings with one’s boss are important, and can cause stress, but you’d think with the last few days under my belt, I’d be beyond such mundane worries. Unless this is excitement over meeting my new Mentor?

I know what it’s not—jitters at seeing a person I dreamed about kissing.

And briefly thought I actually kissed.

It can’t be that, because it was Kit, a shape-shifting Councilor, all along.

The real Nero has no clue that we kissed, because we never did.

As I make my way through the building in the direction of Nero’s office, the anxious symptoms worsen, and I resort to relaxing breaths in the elevator in order to calm down.

Am I worried he will fire me for the crappy job this morning? And if he does, would he also end his Mentor responsibilities (whatever they are)? Would I ever see him again—

Wait.

Why do I care if I see him again?

Almost on autopilot, I tell Venessa—one of the more annoying specimens in Nero’s horde of assistants—that I’m expected. She looks incredulous for a moment, but then reluctantly instructs me to proceed.

My treacherous hands shake as I reach for the handle of Nero’s office door.

Knees wobbly, I stumble into the brightly lit, spacious, modern-artsy room as though it were the dark and cold underground lair of an evil villain.