by Dima Zales
“What about you?” I touch his drenched shirt and feel his heart banging against his chest. “You’re as wet as I am.”
His nostrils flare as he grabs my wrist to pull me away. “I’m going to one of my seven other bathrooms,” he says harshly.
I haven’t been this disappointed since the ending of the second Matrix movie that Felix made me watch. The near-death experience must be messing with my brain because I don’t want Nero to leave.
He steps farther out of my reach. “Did your phone survive?” he asks me.
Blinking, I fish the thing out of my pocket and check. Unlike my brain, the phone works as it should.
“It’s all good,” I mutter. “Waterproofing strikes again.”
“Call me as soon as you’re done changing.” Nero turns to leave.
Would it be crazy for me to ask him to stay?
Before I can decide, he strides out and bangs the door shut behind himself.
Sighing, I undress and get into the bubbling water—which feels boiling hot.
In a minute, I realize the water wasn’t hot—it was me who was freezing.
As I thaw out, I can’t stop thinking about Nero.
Though I’m reluctant to do so, it’s only rational to reassess some long-held notions about the man, starting with the assumption that he doesn’t care about me. This takes many forms, though most frequently I swat away any good deeds of his as “he just keeps me safe because he needs me as his pet seer.”
Is that valid anymore?
He now has access to the bannik, who is also a seer.
Yet despite the fact that I’m no longer a unique unicorn as far as seer abilities go, Nero is acting more protective toward me than ever.
Actually, that’s an understatement.
There’s “protective,” and there’s “risked his life not once but twice for me now.”
Suppressing an unbidden yawn, I force myself to admit it: if actions do speak louder than words, Nero is showing me that he cares about me.
Or is that wishful thinking?
He could be just performing his duties as a Mentor, or fulfilling his contract with Rasputin.
Maybe I’m wishing for him to care about me because I’ve started to care about his bossy ass?
I increase the intensity of the tub’s massage feature and let myself ponder if and how something between the two of us could work.
He saw me grow up—but that’s not a complete deal breaker. I mean, I saw Daniel Radcliffe grow up in the Harry Potter movies, and I think he’s cute as an adult. Besides, it’s not like Nero has actually raised me; I only met him in my twenties. And he certainly doesn’t look old, thanks to those Cognizant super genes.
He’s also my Mentor—but so what? I haven’t heard anyone say Mentor/Mentee relationships were frowned upon.
That he is my boss is a bigger obstacle but not insurmountable either. After all, work relationships are extremely common, and if other people can make it work, why can’t two people as smart as the two of us? Besides, I can always get another job (assuming he doesn’t block me from it) or—
I yawn out loud.
Like the last time I used this tub, the food coma conspires with the pleasure of the warm water to make me super drowsy.
I have to fight this.
The last time I fell asleep this way, I woke up naked in a bed—and it was obviously Nero who’d brought me there.
I yawn so hard my jaw joints hurt.
I guess that little nap Isis gave me didn’t make that big of a dent in my sleep deficit. Oh, and I’m crashing after having so much adrenaline swimming through my system.
Still, I can’t bring myself to get out. The warmth is so nice, and the outside air is so cold. Surely I can stay awake for one more minute?
I close my super-heavy eyelids for just a second.
I’ll open my eyes and get out any moment now…
I wake up to the feeling of motion.
I’m dry and pruney. Crap. Have I fallen asleep in the tub after all?
My eyes flutter open, and I confirm that I’m indeed not in the tub anymore.
Nope.
I’m in Nero’s powerful arms yet again.
And surprise surprise, I’m nude… and an inch above a lush bed, which somehow makes this worse.
He lowers me onto the sheets, and I notice that he’s not wearing much either—just a towel.
Also, the limbal rings in his eyes—and something under that towel—are out of control.
Flashing back to the last time he was wearing a towel, I recall the glory of it dropping to the floor, and the kiss that followed.
My hand reaches for the towel of its own accord.
As if possessed by a mischievous demon, I pull on it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
My breath stops in my throat.
Holy pogo stick, that is huge.
A memory of something I heard in a half-sleep trance pops into my head. Nero was putting me to bed just like this, and Isis had implied I’d need healing if something were to happen between us. Is this what she meant? If so, she’s a wimp.
I can totally handle this.
I mean, I’m pretty sure. It has been a while since I’ve handled anything.
Nero doesn’t seem to notice the fallen towel. His eyes are too busy roaming over my body.
I lean up.
He leans down.
Our lips touch.
A melting heat moves through my body as his arms wrap around me, and the kiss turns hotter, rougher. We devour each other, our breaths mingling, our tongues tangling in an almost violent dance. My hands skate over the broad plane of his back, and I feel the incredible warmth of the muscles flexing under his skin as he presses me into the bed.
Moaning, I wrap my leg around his hips, pressing closer—and with an animalistic growl, he wrenches himself away from me.
Heart hammering, I stare at him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask through bruised lips and look down at myself.
Spotting no discernible new deformities or pustules for him to be grossed out by, I look back at him.
Without a doubt, he still looks very happy to see me, so what gives?
Following my gaze, he uses his super speed to pick up the towel in the millisecond it takes me to blink.
“This can’t happen.” He does his best to wrap the tiny-seeming towel around his hips as he turns away.
I grab the blanket and pull it to my chin. “Why not?”
The muscles in his back tense as he stops to look over his shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Is he talking physically à la the Isis thing, or is this something else?
“Hurt me how?” I blurt out. “Because I can handle—”
“No. You can’t,” he growls. “You don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
I ball my fists over the blanket, fighting the urge to leap out and punch him in the towel.
Or kick.
Before I get a chance to do either, he strides out of the room, nearly taking the door off the hinges on the way.
Feeling like I took a dip in a polar ice hole, I leap to my feet and stomp into the bathroom.
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath as I dress. “How good does he think he is?”
No one replies—though I do hope he has a recording device here so he can hear the flood of obscenities spewing from my mouth.
Over the next two minutes, I set records for cursing, dressing, and how fast one can traverse a giant apartment.
An also-dressed Nero blocks the front door as I’m about to leave.
“Move,” I snarl.
“Someone is trying to kill one of us,” he says, his face so unreadable he might as well be wearing one of those masks from the Rite. “Or have you forgotten?”
“Right.” I step closer. “And if they’re trying to kill you, I’m in unnecessary danger if I stay here.”
A hint of emotion breaks through the mask. “The limo isn’t—”
>
“I can survive a single cab ride.” I glare up at him. “It might even be for the best not to use something of yours.”
“That limo belongs to a security company that—”
“I’ll use the limo when it’s available then. But it isn’t now, so I’ll make do with a cab.”
He doesn’t move.
Teeth clenched in frustration, I ball my hand to deck him in the chin.
He grabs my wrist before my punch can connect. “Without gloves, you’ll hurt yourself more than you’ll hurt me,” he informs me coolly.
Huffing, I yank on my captured wrist, but he doesn’t let go. “I can’t stay here,” I hiss.
He still doesn’t move, nor let go of my wrist.
Spurred by frustration, I get an idea and start to breathe slowly, preparing to execute it.
The mental effort is on par with doing this in a fight, but I finally manage it.
I reach Headspace.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I float among the shapes and enjoy not having to deal with Nero for a few moments.
Then I proceed with my plan—which is to get a vision of myself in the safety of my apartment.
Except, how?
Dwelling on the essence of the apartment doesn’t bear fruit.
But what if I just focus on a person who’s always home? Seeing the futures of people has worked pretty well for me thus far.
So, I try to summon Fluffster’s essence.
I bring to mind his kindness, his thriftiness, and, most importantly, the extreme fluffy fuzziness.
A set of rounded pyramids show up, playing music so chill you’d think someone put them on Zoloft.
Good.
Metaphysically rubbing my ethereal wisps together, I touch the nearest shape.
“So you’re saying Hekima created a walking and talking illusion of Rose?” Fluffster says with undisguised jealousy. “All I saw from Felix’s feed was him reading from a paper.”
I feel my heart squeeze painfully at the memory. “Sounds like Illusionists can’t do their tricks long distance,” I say.
Fluffster’s ears droop. He must’ve realized the topic is upsetting me. “What happened after Nero carried you out of the room?” he asks.
I sigh and launch into a highly edited, PG version of that story, ending with the huge fight I had with Nero in order to get him to let me take a cab home.
Back in Nero’s hallway, I look at his hand on my wrist and pull once more—to no avail.
“I just had a vision,” I grit out. “In this vision, I was perfectly fine when I got home.” I lift my chin. “In that version of the future, we’re about to have a big fight and I make you let me go.”
Eyeing me with confusion, Nero finally lets go of my wrist.
“You know I’m telling the truth.” I look him square in those hypnotizing eyes. “Why do more things we will regret?”
“You’re not lying.” He moves partially out of my way. “But I can’t believe I would’ve let you leave without the reassurance of the vision.”
I squeeze past him, ignoring the rather heated impact his proximity has on me. “Perhaps you underestimate my persuasiveness,” I say as I exit.
Whatever he says in return, I don’t hear thanks to the door I slam in his face.
As I summon the cab, a million thoughts swirl through my head.
How could I have thought even for a second that Nero and I could be anything but boss and minion? Did hormones drive me completely insane?
Once inside the cab, though, I realize something slightly mind-bending—and worrying.
If I assume that the hypothetical fight with Nero that I saw in my vision took longer than a few seconds—which is a valid assumption—then I summoned this cab much sooner than the hypothetical cab in that version of the future.
Which means I have no reassurance that this cab is going to get me home safely.
Chapter Twenty-Five
My heart hammers throughout the cab ride, which seems to drag on forever.
Great. I’m scared unless I’m in a bulletproof limo. It’s official. I’ve drunk Nero’s Kool-Aid.
My phone dings.
It’s a text from Nero.
Let me know as soon as you are home.
I guess he realized the same thing I did—that or he just misses bossing me around.
No one has tried to kill me by the time we pull up to the curb, which makes me feel relieved yet perversely disappointed.
It’s not just Nero who doesn’t want me; apparently, even the would-be assassin is over me by now.
Assuming it’s me they were after.
Still, when I reach the new bulletproof apartment door, I exhale a big breath of relief.
Once inside, I take out my phone and send Nero a terse reply.
“Sasha,” Fluffster says excitedly in my mind. “Where are Felix and the rest of the gang?”
I explain to him that I left the funeral early and that they’re on their way home in the limo, and then we proceed to have a conversation similar to the one I saw in my vision.
“You should rest,” Fluffster suggests after I tell him everything.
“Great idea.” I go to my room and lock the door.
One encounter with Copperfield, my “massager,” later, I take a nap.
By the time I wake up, Felix and Ariel are back, as evidenced by the loud conversation in the living room.
When I walk in, Fluffster is sitting on Ariel’s lap and the cat on Felix’s.
“Where is Kit?” I ask.
Felix blushes, then shrugs. “With Lola?”
“Speaking of reunited lovers…” Ariel wiggles her eyebrows lasciviously. “What happened after your knight in hedge fund armor carried you out of the evil castle?”
I cringe and give them the same PG version of the events that I gave Fluffster. It’s obvious Ariel realizes there’s more to the story, but she doesn’t push in front of the others.
“I heard from Itzel,” Felix says when I’m done. “She wants to do another test as soon as possible.”
“How about now?” I suggest. “I just need to grab a bite to eat, and I should be as ready for suicide missions as I’ll ever be.”
We all go to the kitchen and snack. When we’re almost done, I realize there’s a problem. “Thalia works for Nero, and I don’t want him to know about the Otherlands trip,” I tell them.
“We can sneak out,” Felix suggests.
“Or you can tell her the truth,” Ariel says. “I need to return to rehab, and you’re going to accompany me on the trip. You mentioned she won’t go into the Otherlands because of her vow, so she won’t join us on a ‘trip to Gomorrah.’” She makes air quotes around the last couple of words.
“That’s devious,” I say with almost motherly pride. “On the day when we go for real, we’ll tell her we’re going to visit you at rehab. It will be close to the truth, assuming you’re still up for joining, which you totally don’t have to—”
“I’m joining,” she says firmly. “Especially now that it doesn’t look like Vlad is going.”
I frown. I was hoping to invite Vlad, but given the way he was at the funeral, I don’t think he’ll be up for the trip—now or in any foreseeable future.
Kit might be out too—for Lola reasons.
“If you’re sure,” I say. “You can change your mind, though.”
“I won’t,” Ariel says and starts to clean up around the kitchen.
“We better go,” Felix says after we all help Ariel tidy up.
“Just be careful,” Fluffster says mentally with grumpy overtones.
“Okay, Mom,” Ariel and I say in unison, then chuckle.
“Itzel, this is Ariel. Ariel, this is Itzel,” Felix says when we enter the lab and the gnome greets us excitedly by the door.
“You look familiar,” Itzel says in her Darth Vader manner, looking Ariel over from head to toe. “Are you a Gomorrah virtual reality actress?”
“No.” Ariel smiles a Hollyw
ood-worthy smile. “Not yet, anyway.”
“I see,” Itzel says, clearly disappointed. “I’m trying to get better at recognizing non-gnome faces. When I first got to Gomorrah, all human-looking Cognizant seemed the same to me.”
“Racist,” Felix says, making it sound like a sneeze.
Itzel doesn’t show any sign she heard him.
“You said you help out at the rehab facility,” Felix says when it’s clear his earlier comment was ignored. “Maybe you saw Ariel there?”
“That sounds right.” Itzel can’t seem to peel her eyes away from Ariel’s perfect features. “Even if I’d only glimpsed you there, you have the kind of looks that stick in the mind.”
“Thanks.” Ariel’s smile is gone without a trace.
“Dude,” I hiss into Felix’s ear. “The rehab stuff is kind of Ariel’s private business. You can’t blab about it to every—”
“Can we see the suits?” Felix asks Itzel with overexaggerated excitement.
“A suit,” she says. “Singular. If the test is a success, I’ll work on more.”
We follow her to the suit in question.
When we see it, Felix whistles, Ariel gasps, and even I—who thinks herself harder to impress than most—stare at Itzel’s handiwork with a healthy mixture of awe and respect.
If someone was designing a Halloween costume and couldn’t decide between cosmonaut and Iron Man, this might be the result. The impression is mainly driven by the back of the device, where Itzel trapped her ball lightning in a bottle-like contraption that crackles and spews energy throughout the whole suit.
There are extra gizmos all around the contraption, but the extra weight must not be an issue because Itzel also added hydraulic servos (or whatever they’re called) at the joints of the device—making it look like something the military would pay dearly for.
“That’s to make it easier to lift heavy objects and walk,” Itzel explains when she notices me staring at the exoskeleton.
“It looks like the suit Batman wore when he fought Superman.” Ariel seems as excited as at one of my magic performances.
