Sleight of Fantasy: Sasha Urban Series: Book 4

by Dima Zales

  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 excuse when 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?”