Sleight of Fantasy E-Book

Dima Zales

• Herausgeber: Mozaika Publications
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

My deal with Nero and my growing powers are supposed to keep me and my loved ones safe—yet the unthinkable happens.

When lines are crossed and blood is spilled, nothing will ever be the same again.

Leseprobe

Sleight of Fantasy

Sasha Urban Series: Book 4

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 © 2019 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: 978-1-63142-387-1

Print ISBN: 978-1-63142-386-4

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

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Sneak Peek at The Thought Readers

About the Author

Chapter One

The stupid doorbell blares.

Through my still-closed lids, I see the sun rays peeking into the window. Which means that though I feel like I’ve only just gone to bed, it’s already morning.

Whoever is at the door isn’t being as unreasonable as they seem.

“Felix!” I shout without opening my eyes. “Can you get the door?”

“He left for work,” Fluffster states in my head, and I can almost hear him wanting to add, “Unlike some people.”

“How about you?” I pull the bedsheets over my head. “Can you get that?”

“Me?” Confusion replaces Fluffster’s attitude. “I can’t open the door with these tiny paws.”

We both know his “tiny paws” can turn into gigantic claws that rip and kill, but I don’t argue. Instead, I grudgingly open my eyes and pull the blanket down.

Yep, it’s daytime.

Grumbling, I get up, put on a bathrobe, step over Fluffster, and trudge to the front door.

As I walk, the reason for my grogginess becomes clear.

Despite my hopes, my sleep was not dreamless. I had nightmares about mind-controlled gangsters trying to kill me. Worse, some dreams featured me and my boss in compromising positions—and I’m not talking about the stocks in our portfolio.

“Who is it?” I ask the door hoarsely.

“It’s Rose.”

The peephole verifies the truth of that statement, so I unlock the door.

“What time is it?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.

“Oh my.” My elderly neighbor flutters her heavily mascaraed eyelashes. “Did I wake you?”

“It’s eight a.m.,” Fluffster says, presumably in both of our heads. “Sasha’s going to be late for work.”

Dang it. With everything that’s happened, I totally forgot to set my alarm.

“Nero is going to kill me,” I mutter. “I’m going to be late on my first day back.”

“Oh.” Rose looks crestfallen. “I wanted to ask you something…”

Adrenaline attacks my drowsiness. “What’s up? Did something happen?”

“No, nothing like that.” She looks guiltily at me, then at Fluffster. “How about you stop by my apartment before you leave for work, and I’ll feed you breakfast?” she suggests. “You need proper nourishment.”

I bite my lip, cognizant of the time. “I know there’s no such thing as a free breakfast.”

“You make me sound so Machiavellian.” She chuckles. “I just wanted to ask for an itsy-bitsy favor.”

“Fine. Give me a minute.” I do have to eat.

She shuffles away, and I close the door.

“What do you think that’s about?” Fluffster asks me as I head to the bathroom to get ready.

“I have no idea,” I tell him. “Whatever it is, I hope it’s quick.”

Closing the door before Fluffster can get in, I take care of all my washroom business, finishing with a splash of ice-cold water on my face.

I’m awake now, but deeply disappointed.

I hoped that a good night’s sleep might clarify last night’s events, but here I am, in the morning, and nothing makes any sense still, particularly that kiss…

“So, what happened after you left?” Fluffster asks as I make my way to my room.

“Didn’t Felix tell you?” I begin to get ready.

“He did. But he also said you hung up on him, so I was wondering if—”

“Not much happened after I hung up,” I lie. “I got out of there and came home.”

The chinchilla tilts his head in an oddly human gesture. “Well… I’m here if you want to talk about it.”

Did Fluffster’s mental message sound extra sage in my mind, or is it my imagination?

“Thank you,” I mumble.

Of course, I’m not planning to discuss the kiss with Nero with my fluffy domovoi.

Or Felix.

Or anyone, really.

I guess I could see myself talking to Ariel about it if she really pried, but she’s in rehab for her vampire-blood addiction and won’t be talking to me anytime soon.

I sigh. I already miss Ariel, and I'm still really worried about her, even if she’s finally getting the help she needs.

The guilt, though, is the worst. It’s lurking just under the surface of my mind, ready to suffocate me—the way Ariel nearly choked me while under Baba Yaga’s control.

Shaking my head, I glance at myself in the mirror and frown.

It figures.

Working purely on autopilot, I’d put on my leather pants, black bracelets, the black vinyl vest, and the rest of my restaurant getup.

Well, so what?

When Nero so brutally negotiated my comeback, he didn’t stop to discuss the dress code—so I can wear whatever I want, even if I look like I’m headed for the nearest goth club rather than a hedge fund.

Hurrying out of the room, I stop by the door to put on my steel-toed boots and then make my way to Rose’s apartment.

She opens the door before I ring her doorbell and rewards me with a wide grin.

“Come in,” she says, leading me into the kitchen.

My stomach rumbles as I inhale the aroma of freshly baked muffins and jasmine tea.

“Sit. Eat,” Rose says, pointing at the head of the table—where she set up my breakfast.

“I only have time for a quick bite.” I look at her wall clock and cringe. “Nero doesn’t like tardiness.”

“I’m sure he’d rather face you when you have eaten,” Rose says, a smile touching the corners of her eyes. “Otherwise, he’s the one you might bite.”

I fight a flush. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply there.” I blow on my tea as casually as I can.

“Okay, tell me then,” Rose says. “What happened after Vlad took you to the facility in Gomorrah?”

So I do. I tell her about my spying on Nero, and how it revealed an ancient Russian contract between my boss and the man who turned out to be my biological father: Grigori Rasputin. As Rose’s eyes widen, I go into how Nero fulfilled his side of that bargain—by keeping tabs on me my whole life and interfering whenever he saw fit. I stop just short of telling her about the kiss, but the way she moves her eyebrows during the part where he caught me with the folder in my hands makes me wonder if she guessed it anyway.

“So your birthday isn’t in the summer?” she asks when I stop talking.

I nearly choke on my tea. “That is your reaction to everything I told you? Not that I’m over a hundred years old, sort of? Or that Nero did what he did? Of all the million things, you’re worried about my birthday?”

“I need to know when to get you your gift,” Rose says, her eyes twinkling. “Gifts are important.”

“I’ll still celebrate my summer birthday,” I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “It marks the day when my adoptive parents found me at the airport, and I don’t see any reason not to celebrate it as I’ve always done.”

“Great,” Rose says. “I have that in my calendar.”

I bite my delicious blueberry muffin and sip the tea.

She just sits there, watching me.

“You’re not outraged at Nero’s behavior? You don’t think it was a big deal that he—”

“Nero’s bad behavior is the reason you are alive—Vlad too,” she says, her tone now somber. “Unlike you, I make it a habit not to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Well, you’re welcome to this horse,” I grumble and hurry to finish my muffin so I can skulk away. Rose clearly doesn’t understand the perversity of the situation.

“I have my own wonderful horse that I can ride, thank you very much,” Rose deadpans. “And besides, I don’t think you mean it. I doubt you’d want another woman to mount that—”

“I’m late.” Face burning, I jump to my feet. “What was that itsy-bitsy favor you wanted?”

“Wait. Please don’t run away like that.”

Chastised, I sit back down, mentally blaming my rudeness on Nero.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” Rose says when I pick up my tea cup again. “It’s just that I saw the way Nero looked at you when Isis put you in that healing sleep yesterday.”

“Sure. Like Scrooge McDuck at his gold-filled swimming pool.”

“The way you talk about him betrays you, you know. You want him, but you think it’s inappropriate, so you’re unwilling to give it a chance.”

I catch myself squeezing the cup so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t shatter. “You only have one thing correct. That atrocious scenario would be inappropriate.”

“Oh child.” Rose’s blue eyes take on a distant look. “I understand your situation far better than you think.”

“You do?”

“Of course.” Rose stares at the tablecloth as though determining the thread count. “I, too, find myself in a relationship that is the very definition of inappropriate, and when it started, I was in denial, like you, and likely for the same reasons.”

I feel a strong urge to shout that Nero and I are not in any kind of relationship. I also want to storm out of the room and slam the door behind me, teenager style. I don’t let myself do any of that, though. Rose is finally delving into the mysterious waters that are her relationship with Vlad, and I’m too curious to stop her.

Staying silent, I raise my eyebrows slightly.

It may have come off looking like a nervous tic.

“My beloved’s lifespan is theoretically limitless,” Rose says quietly. “Meanwhile, I have only a few decades of life left.”

I hold my breath, worried that even an exhalation might spook her.

“We could never have children—and I wanted a daughter so desperately…” She keeps staring at the table as though it were a movie screen replaying her long life. “His blood has the same effect on me as Gaius’s blood has on Ariel,” she says in an even softer tone. “We always have to be extremely careful.”

Unable to hold my breath any longer, I let it out.

Either that barely audible sound or some memory seems to bring Rose out of her strange reverie. Looking up, she catches my gaze and her lips twist. “I guess that’s a long way of saying that no matter the circumstances, it’s always worth it to have love in your life.”

“I’m not going to argue with that,” I say. “I’d consider myself lucky if I found someone who’d mean as much to me as Vlad clearly means to you. Big emphasis on if.”

She smiles, then sheepishly glances at the clock. “I’m going to make you late. Do you want me to wrap you a muffin to eat on the way to the office?”

“Sure,” I say. “That would be great.”

I finish my tea as she gets up, slowly walks up to the oven, and gets a muffin out.

“So, about that favor,” she says as she wraps my treat. “Vlad wants to take me on a little vacation again…”

“That’s great.” I stand up. “You two should enjoy yourselves.”

“Right,” she says. “Here’s the thing.” She hands me the brown bag without meeting my gaze. “Luci finds our vacations stressful. And she felt so comfortable in your house yesterday. I was hoping—”

“You want me to babysit your hell spawn?”

“She’s in her carrier already,” Rose says defensively. “And she’s been washed.”

I take in a deep breath.

Rose deserves a vacay. Vlad too. After the way he risked his life for us yesterday, I should be willing to even bathe the cat for him. Without any protective gear.

“Where is she?” I ask, resigned.

Rose leads me into the living room and picks up the carrier.

Lucifur is sleeping inside, looking like a feline angel.

Rose either drugged the beast, or Vlad used his glamour on her—if it works on cats or demons, that is.

Not wanting to lose a limb, I carefully pick up the crate and bring it to my apartment. Rose comes along.

“Do not kill the cat,” I tell Fluffster when he stares at the cage with a dumbfounded expression.

“Another mouth to feed?” The chinchilla looks at Rose indignantly.

“I’ll bring her food and toys over,” Rose tells him. “Sasha, you should run. Nero awaits.” She winks.

“Thanks,” I say, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. “You enjoy your vacation.”

“Will do,” Rose replies and goes back to her place to get cat accoutrements.

The elevator is still broken, courtesy of my driving into it, so I take the stairs.

When I get into the cab, I take out my muffin and start chewing it.

Nope.

The food does nothing to suppress the hungry butterflies that seem to have taken up residence in the pit of my stomach.

Really? Am I worried about facing him?

That’s just silly.

Yet the anxiety increases as we get closer to the fund. Questions swirl through my head, each more difficult than the other.

How should I act when we meet?

Do I pretend like the kiss never happened?

I could probably manage that, though it would be like standing in the rubble of one’s house and acting like the tornado that destroyed it didn’t happen.

Choking down another bite of the muffin, I replay the end of last night’s encounter in my head like a broken record.

Then I catch my fingers touching my lips and snatch my treacherous hands away.

One thought keeps nagging at me.

Kissing the real Nero was completely unlike my experience with Kit pretending to be him. With fake Nero, I remembered that he was my boss, and knew the whole time how wrong any liaison between us would be.

Not so with the real deal.

It’s as though my brain took a break and let my hormones ride my body last night—despite the fact that the boss/Mentor aspect is now just the tip of this mountain-sized iceberg of inappropriateness.

Nero is old enough to be my distant ancestor, my weird century-ago birth aside—and he watched me grow up.

Doesn’t that make him something like that Humbert guy from Lolita?

Then again, I am in my twenties.

Wait, am I actually defending him? Did Rose’s words bewitch me, or did the kiss give me permanent brain damage?

“This is you,” the cabbie says, pulling me out of my confused thoughts.

I pay, stuff the rest of the muffin into my mouth, and sprint to the elevators.

Getting to my floor, I nod at a few coworkers, most of whom are looking at me strangely, and head over to my desk.

Except, my desk is missing.

And not just my desk. My chair, my computer—it’s all gone.

Instead, there’s a hand-written note—a rarity in this paperless office.

It’s lying boldly on the now-empty floor.

The impeccable penmanship states in strong, masculine strokes:

Come see me first thing.

-Nero

Chapter Two

Storming by an outraged Venessa, I barrel into Nero’s office unannounced.

He has his sit-to-stand desk in the standing position and is blissfully typing away, seemingly unaware of my arrival.

He’s dressed in a striped shirt and has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows—a lot like magicians do in order to prove we have nothing up our sleeves.

What a load of crap.

I would trust Nero as much as anyone should trust a magician. As in, not at all.

I clear my throat.

He doesn’t acknowledge my presence.

“Where is my desk?” Though he’s fully clothed, I can’t help but see the image of him naked—no doubt his exposed forearms are to blame. “How am I supposed to work without a chair or a computer?”

“You’re finally gracing us with your presence?” Nero stops his typing and looks me over, his gaze lingering on my leather pants. “Is there such a thing as a casual Monday?”

“Is fashion advice part of your famous Mentorship training?” I plop into his visitor’s chair without an invitation. “If so, I could use some makeup tips.”

“You don’t need any makeup.” Nero’s eyes scan my face as though he’s making a 3D printer plan for it.

I frown. “Was that a compliment?” If he meant to distract me with that statement, he succeeded admirably.

Nero lowers his desk and sits down in his own chair, bringing our eyes to the same level.

“Tell me everything,” he states imperiously.

“42,” I say. He raises his eyebrow, so I explain, “That’s the answer to life, the universe, and everything.”

“I’ve met Douglas Adams, you know—the author of the book you’re now referencing.” Nero’s lips curve sardonically. Before I can pepper him with questions about such a bombshell, he says, “Let me make myself clear. How did you get into that mess with Baba Yaga?”

“That doesn’t seem to be work related.” I slowly cross my leather-pant-clad legs—channeling Basic Instinct.

My maneuver works as intended. The limbal rings in Nero’s eyes seem to grow, and for a moment, he looks like he’s about to leap at me from his chair.

Wait. Why would I want that? My heart rate speeding up, I uncross my legs and sit forward belligerently. “Why should I tell you?”

He gets himself under control in an eyeblink and with annoying calmness asks, “Because you don’t want to piss me off?”

I’m about to give him a wholehearted, “Yes, I do want to do that,” but he must realize my intent because he gives me a knowing shark’s smile and says, “Never mind that. I’m your Mentor. It is my prerogative to know such things in that capacity, so you will answer. Is that clear?”

Sighing, I explain how the search for my heritage led me to Baba Yaga—and what the evil witch wanted in return for giving Fluffster a memory of belonging to Rasputin. When I get to the part about her wanting me to have sex with Yaroslav the bannik, Nero’s face turns so dark I worry his orc-tearing claws might come out.

I rush to explain how said bannik sex did not happen, and wasn’t ever going to happen to my conscious body, and Nero relaxes slightly. I then mention my escape, and how I learned about Ariel’s kidnapped state. Finally, I tell him about the rescue all the way to the part when I called for his help.

“It was all your fault,” I say in conclusion. “You’ve always known who my father is. If you’d just told me that, I wouldn’t have met Baba Yaga.”

“You’re going to see Lucretia next.” Nero pulls out his phone and looks at the screen. “In two minutes.”

“You’re changing the subject, just like that?” I resist the urge to leap to my feet.

“Seeing Lucretia is going to be part of the Mentorship, and therefore, the time you spend with her isn’t going to be subtracted from your work allotment.”

Work allotment? Is he kidding? What about giving me some answers?

“Who is my mother?” I demand. “And where is—”

“Lucretia will be seeing you in her office.” Nero puts his phone away.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me about my parents.”

“We made a bargain,” Nero says coolly. “When it comes to Mentorship and your job here at the fund, you will do as you’re told.”

“Is it the secrecy clause in that stupid contract?” I cross my arms. “Can’t we figure out a way to bypass that? Maybe you can write me an email; that wasn’t invented in 1916.”

Nero looks at me, then pointedly gazes at the door.

“Please, Nero.” Dropping the attitude, I make puppy eyes, hoping he’s susceptible to the trick that always works on Felix. “Imagine if someone hid your family from you. If—”

I stop speaking because Nero’s face turns terrifyingly dark. The skies above Mordor didn’t look this bad. Then he blurs into the supernatural motion that preceded the orc massacre, and a fraction of a second later, he’s standing by the door.

“Out,” he growls, jabbing at the exit with his thumb. “Now.”

Something in his voice makes me obey without question.

Leaping to my feet, I sprint out of the office as though something extremely dangerous is about to chase me.

And for all I know, that might’ve been the case.

Chapter Three

“Please have a seat,” Lucretia says when I enter her office.

I plop onto the brown leather chaise, stretch my legs out, and practice relaxing breathing as she herself had taught me.

She watches me with seemingly infinite patience.

When I calm down enough, I reexamine my surroundings.

Now that I know Lucretia is centuries old, the traditional feel of this office makes more sense. She might’ve owned that antique bookshelf since it was new, and watched her book collection turn yellow and pricey-looking over the years.

Then again, Nero is ancient too, yet his office is ultra-modern.

She gets up and closes the intricate curtains that cover the glass walls of her office.

“You think that gives us privacy?” I say. “Nero no doubt has monitoring equipment all over this room.”

“We have a contract, Nero and I.” She walks over to the bookshelf, grabs something, and approaches my chaise. “What happens in this room is private.”

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to assume that man is a liar and a cheat.” I look around but see no hidden devices—but that just means someone did their job well.

“It’s a written, binding contract.” Lucretia hands me the object she’s holding—some sort of an ancient doll. Am I supposed to squeeze it for stress relief? Before I get a chance to ask, she adds, “Such contracts cannot be broken.”

“He can steal your notes.” I squeeze the toy. Definitely stress relief. “He did it to my mom’s therapist.”

“Privacy of my notes is in the contract.” She lowers herself into her throne-like chair.

“Well, okay, but for all I know, you might report everything I say to him yourself.”

She exhales sharply, looking as though she’s been gut-punched.

“I’m sorry.” I drop my gaze to the doll in my hands. “I’m not exactly in a trusting mood today.”

“Why don’t you tell me about that,” she says softly. “Pretend like we indeed don’t have any privacy. Surely there are topics we can still discuss?”

“You’re right.” I straighten in the chair and look at her. “How much do you know about my situation?”

“Not much. Why don’t you run me through everything from the beginning?”

So I launch into my story—the TV performance gone wrong, the zombie attacks, the visions, the Council, teaming up with Ariel to deal with a necromancer named Beatrice, Nero’s orcs, Beatrice’s succubus girlfriend Harper, and Harper’s revenge.

I then start telling her about the mess with Baba Yaga, and she moves to the edge of her seat when I get to the part about the bannik.

Why does that, of all the horrific things that happened to me, get special attention?

“Do you know Yaroslav?” I ask, going on a hunch.

She fidgets, and a hint of color spreads over her cheeks. “When he had more autonomy, Yaroslav was a client of mine. We still meet from time to time, but less formally, given his new situation.”

“You still meet him?” The idea of the bannik seeing a shrink seems odd, but then again, I’m seeing her myself, so why not? In fact, if I were under Baba Yaga’s thumb the way Yaroslav is, I’d sure need loads of therapy.

“Why shouldn’t I meet him?” Her blush deepens. “I’m allowed to treat myself to a spa treatment from time to time, so why not chat with someone who happens to already be there?”

“I figure Baba Yaga might mind,” I say.

“She can’t mind what she doesn’t know about.” Normal (for a pre-vamp) paleness finally returns to Lucretia’s face. “We only converse when no one else is in his sauna. The banya is open to anyone willing to pay, and Baba Yaga takes pride in the profits the place makes. It’s actually very popular in the Cognizant community, especially with the vampires.”

“Seriously?”

“Why not?” She lifts her eyebrows. “Vampires like spas too. I saw Gaius there on numerous occasions, and some other Enforcers too. When I was there last week, there was a—”

“You were there last week?” I nearly get up from my chaise.

“Sure. But before your unfortunate adventure.” She bites her lip. “I can’t tell you more details, though—client confidentiality, you understand.”

“But—”

“Please, Sasha,” Lucretia says. “Let’s talk about you.”

I sigh. She’s clearly back in her shrink mode and won’t say more about this intriguing topic.

I can’t stop my mind from wondering, though.

Does Lucretia also have an inappropriate relationship? With a client, no less? Yaroslav was extremely easy on the eyes, so I can’t blame her for—

“Please tell me the rest of the story,” Lucretia says, leaning forward to gaze at me intently.

Oops. Did my emotions somehow betray what I was just thinking about?

She is an empath.

“I was almost near the end,” I say and proceed to tell her about the bannik’s vision-based plan for my escape and what followed it. I then conclude with how the search for my parents revealed Nero’s role in my life last night.

Though I don’t tell Lucretia about the kiss, I get the same feeling as with Rose: that the shrink might’ve deduced it somehow.

Her expression appears far too knowing.

“That is a lot to handle,” Lucretia says when I fall silent. “Your emotions are all over the map. Nero was right to suggest that you see me.”

“He didn’t suggest.” I squeeze the doll. “He commanded.”

“Well.” She gives me an enigmatic smile. “At least his heart was in the right place.”

“His heart is probably a hunk of metal he keeps in some underground bunker,” I grumble.

She chuckles. “In any case, you’re here, so you might as well get some benefit from the situation.”

“I guess.”

“Why don’t you choose a topic. Any topic. We can then simply talk about it as friends,” she suggests.

“I honestly don’t know where to start.” Somehow, she’s putting me at ease by just being in the same room—a strange effect I noticed the first time we met.

“I sensed a lot of guilt when you were telling me your story,” she says, “and guilt is a heavy burden to carry. So unless it has something to do with the forbidden topic of Nero, why don’t we talk about what’s making you feel that way?”

Do I have any Nero-related guilt?

I did spy on him using Felix’s gizmo, and I also broke into his house.

Nope. No guilt on that score.

If anything, I’m almost proud.

The only thing I may regret is kissing him back. Maybe. Still, I don’t feel guilty about it.

If anyone should feel guilty about the kiss, it’s Nero. Hanky-panky wasn’t part of the deal he made with my father, I’m pretty sure.

“We can talk about something else entirely,” Lucretia says when I remain silent. “There were some very complex emotions I detected toward the end of your story, and—”

“Guilt is a good topic,” I say quickly. No way am I digging into the emotions surrounding the kiss. “I feel extremely guilty about Ariel’s predicament.”

“Vampire blood addiction is a horrible affliction.” Lucretia steeples her fingers. “I actually worked at that rehab facility early in my career. It’s excellent. If Ariel really wants to get better, they will be able to help her.”

“I don’t know if she wants to get better.” I pull my legs to my chest and hug them. “I hope so.”

“Hmm.” Lucretia stares at me unblinkingly, as if she’s peering into my soul. “I know logic doesn’t fix situations such as this, but it might be a good place to start.”

“Logic?”

“You didn’t drag Ariel to fight Beatrice,” Lucretia says. “It was the other way around. She was going to face the necromancer, and you forced her to bring you along. Yet you’re acting as though she was hurt because you made her go.”

“She was protecting me from my problems.” I lower my legs and hug the squeeze toy against me, as I would Fluffster. “If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have gotten hurt and thus tasted vampire blood.”

“Do you realize that one drink from Gaius should not have made her an addict?” Lucretia says.

“No?”

“No.” She winces. “I know this from personal experience. I was hurt some time ago, and by coincidence, Gaius saved me in a similar fashion. I didn’t become addicted in the slightest. It’s a lot like getting morphine after a horrific injury; any chance of euphoria is miniscule.”

“Even if what you say is true, I suspect she got hooked because of her PTSD.”

“You say that as though that is your fault,” she says. “You didn’t send her to war. You didn’t—”

“Still, I could’ve done more.” I catch myself nearly choking the poor doll and loosen my grip. “I could’ve suggested that Ariel come see you, for example.”

“Do you think that would’ve worked?” she asks. “Isn’t she in denial about her PTSD?”

“It would’ve worked if I’d tried hard enough,” I say stubbornly. “Besides, the addiction is only a part of it all. I also failed to notice that my friend was kidnapped.”

“You said she’d stopped coming home before the kidnapping. How were you supposed to know that she wasn’t just out with Gaius?”

“I guess.” I lower the doll to my lap. “Still doesn’t make me feel that much better.”

Actually, that’s a lie.

Somehow, I do feel a little better.

“We can talk more about this later,” she says—no doubt sensing my relief with her empath powers. “Were there any other guilt-related issues you wanted to discuss?”

“Maybe,” I surprise myself by saying. “Or more precisely, my lack of guilt.”

She gives me an encouraging look, and I feel a strong compulsion to squeeze the damning words out.

“I shot and killed Baba Yaga’s men.” I grab the doll again. “And I didn’t feel any remorse about it. I kept on shooting them,” I whisper, recalling it with a shudder. “And I didn’t give their deaths much thought until this very moment. Beatrice and Harper’s deaths, too. Granted, I didn’t personally—”

“I can feel how much those actions bother you,” Lucretia says, frowning.

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Well… I’m worried I’m some kind of monster.”

“Don’t be. I’ve known real monsters in my life,” she says sharply. Then she inhales a big, calming breath and seems to shake off whatever oddness came over her. “You’re not like that,” she says in a steadier voice. “Your very questions demonstrate that you’re capable of remorse.” She smiles thinly. “Monsters don’t bring up their sins to their therapists. Monsters aren’t conflicted.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m conflicted.” I put the doll on the coffee table next to my chaise. “What you’re sensing is probably due to a certain someone I sometimes want to murder.”

The smile spreads to the corners of her eyes. “The source of your angst might feel the same way.”

I frown. “I’m not sure he—I mean, the source—is capable of feelings.”

“You’d be surprised,” she says, then glances at the drapes. “When it comes to feelings, the hypothetical person might be just as afraid as you, even if your reasons are different.”

“Afraid?” I’m tempted to reach for the doll again, but instead, I just stare at her in confusion, unsure of what I find more impossible: the preposterous things she’s implying about me, or that Nero can be afraid of anything.

“I think I’d rather you arrive at these insights over many sessions.” She looks down. “I’m not being a good therapist by bringing this up in the first place.”

“But now that you did, you have to elaborate,” I say. “As a friend.”

She glances at the door.

“You said we wouldn’t be overheard,” I remind her. “You can’t use that as an excusewhen it suits you.”

“Fine.” She faces me. “You haven’t had a relationship for a long time. Nor did you ever have one where you felt emotionally vulnerable. Am I right?”

Wait a second. I never told her about my dry spell, or the brief, unsatisfying relationships that preceded it.

Did she really just figure this out using some Hannibal Lecter-like shrink methods?

The magician in me wants a simpler explanation, so I ask, “Did you pull that info from the files Nero keeps on me?”

Her blue eyes take on a sorrowful look. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

“No.” I unclench my hands, realizing they’d turned into fists. “You’re right about my past, but so what? It’s just bad luck. I was focused on school and then my career. There’s no sinister deeper meaning.”

She tilts her head. “You fear being abandoned by the person you fall in love with.”

“Well, duh,” I say. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not me,” she says. “Not Vlad and Rose. Not—”

“Fine,” I say testily. “Even if what you say is true, which it isn’t, it has nothing to do with why I shouldn’t develop feelings for the hypothetical person we were talking about before. It’s perfectly normal to be wary of evil, manipulative bastards.” I realize that my voice is starting to rise, so I take in a deep breath and more calmly add, “What’s he afraid of?”

“That another person he cares about would die,” she says somberly. “But don’t ask me for details because they’re not mine to share.”

As though waiting for that exact moment, Lucretia’s stomach growls like a bear roused from hibernation.

She covers her belly with a delicate hand and chuckles mirthlessly.

“Saved by the stomach,” I mumble, still overwhelmed by the topic we stumbled upon. Swallowing, I square my shoulders. “Should we end the session?”

“If you wish.” She nods.

I stand up. “How about I buy you breakfast before I go face a certain someone again?”

“Deal,” she says, getting up from her throne. “But you have to promise to come back.”

“I doubt I’ll be given a choice,” I say as we step out of the office.

I, too, could use a visit to the cafeteria.

To face Nero again, I need to consume enough espresso to make a rhino bounce off the walls.

Chapter Four

Jittery from all the caffeine, I storm into Nero’s office for the second time in one day.

This time, he stops typing instantly and looks me up and down.

“That was quick,” he says. “I never said you had to make your therapy quick.”

“I’m here to deal with my ‘work allotment,’” I say. “I’m dying to know what that is, and how I can accomplish it without a desk.”

“Follow me,” he says and marches out of the office.

By the time I catch up with his long-legged strides, he’s already summoned the elevator.

Surprising me with a gentlemanly gesture, Nero holds the elevator door from closing. “After you.”

Is he mocking me?

My heart rate elevated for some reason (no doubt the brisk walk), I slink inside and lean against the back of the car.

Nero saunters in and stops by the elevator buttons, his side to me.

I grit my teeth in annoyance. The guy manages to look great even from the profile.

My throat feels uncomfortably dry as I realize we’re confined together in a small space.

Does he always take up more room than the laws of physics dictate?

Oblivious to my discomfort, Nero takes out some unusual-looking card and swipes it over what I would’ve guessed to be the fireman’s override on the elevator button console.

The elevator dings approvingly.

Nero presses the button labeled B01—one of several that don’t work when a mere corporate peon presses on them, no matter how curious said peon is.

We ride down in a silence that gets progressively more uncomfortable. “Are we headed to your secret underground lair?” I ask, only half-jokingly.

The persistent rumors about Nero having a cave filled with money and riches often feature these off-limits basement floors.

Nero raises an eyebrow but doesn’t answer.

“I’d sure like to take a swim in gold,” I say.

“No time for that today, I’m afraid,” he says, his expression unchanging. “Your task is simplicity itself. You are to provide me with a stock recommendation. Just one. That is all.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.” I give him a relieved smile, and he smiles in return—but something about it isn’t right. It seems like he’s laughing at me, not with me.

The elevator dings.

We exit into a long, poorly lit corridor that reminds me of the secret passages that lead to the gate hub in JFK airport.

As I follow Nero down a few forks, the resemblance grows stronger.

Just in case, I sneak my phone out and make notes on the turns we take—just like I did in the JFK labyrinth when Ariel was leading me.

We turn right, and the corridor ends with a metallic door.

There’s a digital screen on the front of the door.

Nero reaches for it, and I prepare to nonchalantly spy on what he types in.

As though he’s the psychic, Nero uses his body to block the keys he presses from my sight.

The only thing I get a good look at is his backside—not bad as far as consolation prizes go.

“Is that a safe?” I ask when the door swings open. “Is this where your money is stashed?”

Nero just gestures for me to enter, so I do.

The safe isn’t a safe.

It’s a furnished room.

A fuzzy carpet with a modern-art motif is on the floor, with a comfortable-looking meditation cushion in the middle of it. My old chair is here too. It’s standing to the side, but there’s no desk or computer. However, there is a couch in the back.

Could the computer be in one of the adjacent rooms? I do see two doors inside, so perhaps that’s where the workstation is kept?

The only monitor-like screen is a keypad identical to the one outside.

Nero again blocks what he types into the keypad, and when he’s done, 8:00.00 shows up on the screen above the number pad. A second later, the clock changes to 7:59.59.

Wait a minute.

He can’t mean—

“This is the work allotment,” Nero says, pointing at the digital countdown. “You are to put in eight hours of work every weekday.”

“This is outrageous.” I look at the metallic sheen of the walls, then at my boss.

Nero lifts an eyebrow again. “You’re going to be the only person at the fund putting in so few hours, and you know it. Even you used to work more.”

“I’m talking about this.” I wave around the safe-like contraption. “This is every claustrophobe’s worst nightmare.”

“It’s nine hundred square feet, which makes it the second largest office in this building.” Nero crosses his arms. “And you don’t have claustrophobia.”

“After eight hours in this cage, I just might develop it,” I mutter.

“If you convince Lucretia that you genuinely ‘developed claustrophobia,’ I will swap offices with you.” Nero comes toward me.

I back away from him. “Why are you doing this?”

“This room is soundproof, and no one will be able to interrupt you.” To my relief, he stops a couple of feet from me. “Can you think of an environment more conducive to your visions?”

I want to smack myself for not getting it sooner.

Of course.

This is theperfect place for meditative contemplation—in a way that, say, a cave in the mountains might be.

Then again, it’s also very similar to solitary confinement, which is usually a punishment that’s worse than mere incarceration.

And it all comes down to the stupid visions.

How could I forget that?

Grigori Rasputin—or I should say my biological father—gave Nero a prophecy that listed all the notable events in the years between 1916 and 2016. Like Biff, the villain in Back to the Future II, Nero has turned Rasputin’s foresight into obscene wealth.

So now that we’re outside the list’s timeline, Nero is going to use me to keep the money flowing.

Perhaps I’m lucky he plans to let me leave this cage after eight hours.

At least I assume he does.

He turns toward the door.

“What about lunch?” I ask quickly.

He walks up to one of the doors and opens it. Metallic walls aside, the room looks like a high-end kitchen, with a microwave and regular oven, a toaster, and a giant refrigerator with glass walls.

Inside the fridge are enough gourmet dishes to feed an army of the pickiest foodies.

Some stuff looks so good I almost wish I hadn’t eaten all those muffins.

“What about a bathroom?” I ask, my heart falling further because I see where this is going.

Nero takes me to the other door, and of course, there’s a huge fancy bathroom behind it—with a shower stall and a Jacuzzi. Most disturbingly, he opens a closet, and I see it filled with my favorite brands of cosmetics, shampoos, soaps, and even feminine products.

“What if there’s an emergency?” I ask, in large part to keep myself from wondering how he knew which products to get.

“Press 911 on the keypad,” Nero says. He must see some glint in my eyes because he adds, “If you do so when there isn’t an emergency, your work allotment for that day will be doubled.”

I stalk out of the bathroom.

He follows me out. “And don’t try to guess the password and claim you meant to type 911. If a wrong password is entered at any point and for any reason, I will know it—and your work allotment will double for a whole week. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” I give him a baleful glare.

How could I have kissed such an insufferable man? I must’ve been insane to find him appealing on any level.

“I will see you when you’re done,” he says and walks to the exit.

“You expect me to give you a stock recommendation without doing any actual research?” I ask, frowning at his back. “Without using any technology?”

“I believe in you.” Nero turns and taps his forehead. “Now get to work.”

He leaves, and the thick metal door locks with the finality of a tax audit.

“You suck!” I yell, but I doubt he can hear me over the thickness of the metal.

Yep. No reply comes. In fact, the room is so quiet it’s eerie for a New Yorker like me.

In the dead silence, I hear my rapid breathing.

The nerve of that guy.

How does he expect me to have visions if he’s going to piss me off like this?

Then again, he miscalculated.

He didn’t explicitly say I must have a vision to provide him with the stock tip.

I could in theory tell him to buy whatever stock pops into my head.

We’ve never invested in CAKE, for example, which happens to be the ticker for The Cheesecake Factory. Nor did we ever buy EAT—a company that owns several other restaurant chains.

No, that might be my stomach talking. There was cake in the fridge.

Alternatively, maybe I should offer up BOOM, which is a metalworking company that uses explosives. The investment in that stock would also go boom.

I smile, Grinch like, getting into the spirit of the exercise.

Maybe I should tell Nero to invest in Harley-Davidson Motorcycles? That would suit him: their ticker is HOG, and Nero is being a pig.

Or is he being a dog? There is WOOF for that case—a veterinary medicine company.

No.

Too obvious.

I’ll tell him to invest in Majesco Entertainment, a videogame company that has the ticker “COOL.”

Unless that makes him think that we’re “cool,” which we are not.

My smile falters.

What happens when I tell him one of these fun stock names, and he loses a ton of money? Will that also double my “work allotment?”

I sigh.

Now that I’m calmer, I should try to get Nero a stock tip based on a vision—regardless of how much I would’ve enjoyed the petty revenge of having him invest in purely random stocks.

Parking my butt on the meditation cushion, I close my eyes and attempt to get into Headspace.

When my breathing evens out, my mind goes blissfully blank. All I notice now is my breathing.

I hover in that wonderful state for an indeterminate time, until my palms get warm.

This is it.

Lightning shoots from my palms into my eyes, and I spiral away.

The usual bodiless strangeness of Headspace surrounds me once again.

I float there, trying to readjust to the foreign set of senses unique to this place.

Soon, I become aware of the surreal shapes all around me—shapes that represent visions.

Okay, now what? I have no clue how to locate the shapes that will make Nero money.

Should I seek out green and minty shapes? Or ones shaped like coins or diamonds?

Better question is, why do I always have to figure out these things on my own?

Why did Nero have to scare Darian away from me?

Despite all his faults and obvious agendas, Darian has saved my bacon plenty of times now—and I doubt I’d have reached Headspace so soon without his Jubilee gift of the videotape.

Good old manipulative Darian.

Where is he now? Is there a way he could talk to me without risking Nero’s wrath?

I can almost picture him now, evading my questions, sounding all British-royalty proper—

Suddenly, something extremely odd happens—that is, odd even for Headspace.

A moving shape appears next to me.

A shape so different from the others it might as well be a different species.

No, it’s more like comparing a concrete physical object (like a pickle or a skunk) to something ephemeral (like honor or justice).

Besides the Headspace attributes I’ve labeled temperature, colors, taste, and music, this apparition has millions more—most without sensory parallels.

Yet that’s not what’s most strange about it.

It’s the conviction that its appearance was triggered by my thoughts about Darian.

That, and the fact that it’s sentient.

I don’t know how I know this. I just know that it is like me. I bet if I magically turned my Headspace attention inward, I’d probably see the same awesome complexity.

Expectation (for lack of a better term) pulses from the entity.

“What do you want me to do?” I want to ask it, but don’t know how.

The entity kaleidoscopes the myriad attributes impatiently.

I float there, pondering what to do.

Then it hits me.

Why don’t I try the usual?

When it came to regular shapes, I had to sort of extend myself and metaphorically touch them to activate a vision.

Will it work in this case?

I try it.

The entity pulses in excitement and seems to reach for me just as I reach for it—which is when a vision-like black hole sucks me in.

Chapter Five

I’m staring at a playing card in my hand.

My fingers look strange—bigger and without nail polish.

How odd.

I try to move, but find that I can’t.

Huh?

“Two of Diamonds,” thinks a male voice inside my head with a noticeable British accent.

“Darian?” I reply. “What are you doing in my head?”

No answer.

Instead, my eyes move from the card to take in my surroundings—which is when I realize I’m unable to control my body.

The surroundings are startlingly familiar.

This is the restaurant where I had performed my magic until I was forbidden from doing so—only everything is washed out, for lack of a better term.

It’s as though everything was filmed with an ancient camera, and then someone turned that footage into a virtual reality environment.