Sleight of Fantasy: Sasha Urban Series: Book 4

by Dima Zales

  So, using my ethereal wisp, I finally touch myself.

  And feel as though I implode—straight out of Headspace.

  I look around the metal cell that is now my office.

  I did it.

  I left Headspace without having to see a vision.

  Did that use up any seer power?

  The best way to find that out is to try to go into Headspace again.

  Before I do so, I take out my phone and find a playlist Felix made for me. I locate a song on it by Divinyls called “I Touch Myself” and press play, grinning the whole time.

  The meditation goes better to the upbeat music, and I return to Headspace faster than ever.

  I stumble a little when it comes to summoning my Headspace self once again, but I do get it to work—after which point I touch the summoned me with the ethereal wisp and find myself back in Nero’s metal cage.

  I repeat the whole ordeal over and over, until my legs cramp up.

  Getting up, I fix myself another snack.

  I can now exit Headspace almost seamlessly—though I’m far from Darian-proficient when it comes to entering it.

  I should probably train some more. It’s not like I have anything better to do with my jail-like “work allotment.”

  I sit on the chair and get into Headspace, then swiftly get out.

  I do this over and over until I do it as well on a chair as in a lotus pose.

  Next, I try doing it standing—which works out, just takes somewhat longer.

  So I practice getting into Headspace standing until my legs really hurt.

  I’m now just as good doing this standing as I was sitting.

  I check Nero’s countdown.

  I have an hour left.

  Time really flies when you set yourself a task.

  Mastering Headspace reminds me of the years’ worth of hours I put into learning sleight of hand. That practice also made the time fly.

  Standing by the digital pad, I get inside Headspace once more but do not exit.

  I should at least try getting the slave driver his stock tip.

  Thinking green and minty thoughts doesn’t work, so I try to think of happy Nero instead, figuring making money brings him joy and all that.

  A shape shows up in front of me.

  It’s a room-temperature, red, caviar-tasting snowflake-ish thing with safe melodious music emanating from it.

  Seems like my life isn’t in danger in the vision—else the music would be less friendly.

  That’s a great sign. Stocks tips aren’t usually dangerous. At least not to one’s immediate survival.

  I zoom in on the shape a few times to make sure the resulting vision will be nice and short. I don’t want to use up too much of my power supply all at once.

  Happy with the size of the shape, I will my ethereal wisp to touch it—and tumble into a vision.

  Time seems to slow as I focus on Nero’s face, blocking out everything else.

  My fist flies forward and, to my utter shock, smacks into his jaw.

  Even through the glove, my hand screams in pain.

  Nero, however, doesn’t seem to care. It’s like I just gave him a boring stock tip instead of committing aggravated assault.

  No. There is emotion on his face; it’s just well hidden.

  Does he look satisfied?

  What—

  I open my eyes and find myself still standing by the digital screen.

  I furtively stare around the room as though Nero could’ve somehow spied on what just happened inside my mind—or wherever the visions occur.

  That is what I got when I tried to summon a vision of him happy?

  Me punching his smug face?

  Does that mean he’s a secret masochist? If so, given how much he keeps pissing me off, perhaps that vision I saw was us reaching a mutually beneficial arrangement?

  Jokes aside, though, what was my future self thinking in that vision? Who punches the boogeyman of the Cognizant community—not to mention her Mentor and boss?

  Between Darian’s wet dream and this, I’m beginning to get the feeling that my future self doesn’t think before she does things—not as much as I would in her shoes. Whatever happened to being older and wiser?

  I check the work allotment timer.

  Not done yet.

  I sit back on the cushion and try to get into Headspace.

  And fail.

  I try it once more and fail again.

  Looks like I ran out of juice after all—at least for now.

  Hopefully, I’ll be as good as new tomorrow.

  Making my way into the kitchen, I eat again, then spend the rest of my time with a deck of cards in my hand, rehearsing my favorite moves.

  When the hated timer finally reaches zero, the big metal door swings open, revealing Nero.

  I walk up to the door, but he blocks my way.

  We stare at each other like two cowboys about to draw their guns.

  I blink first. “Can I go?”

  “The stock suggestion,” he says. “Give it, and you can leave.”

  I take a breath. “You should go long ML Macadamia Orchards.” Fighting to keep a serious expression, I add, “Their stock ticker is NUT.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Nero says, his expression unreadable. “What I want to know is: did you use your time in the room productively?”

  “Sure,” I say, trying not to think about the Jacuzzi session. “Totally.”

  He frowns. “Let me be more specific. Did you utilize your powers?”

  “I made some very good progress with my powers today,” I say carefully.

  I can’t forget the man is a walking polygraph exam.

  The frown upgrades to narrowed eyes. “Let me be even more specific. Did you use your power to guess the stock market for me today?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I did.”

  Of course, I only did it for a little while, and failed at it, but hopefully, it doesn’t make my affirmative statement register as false to his truth-recognizing ears. If he then assumes I got the NUT recommendation using my powers, and not because he is driving me nuts, that is his problem, not mine.

  He relaxes.

  I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’ve been holding.

  “Why is this so important to you?” I ask, though I’m not sure why I care.

  Looking noticeably less satisfied, he raises an eyebrow.

  “To lock me up, I mean.” I stand up straighter. “All so that you can get richer when you’re already rich as sin.”

  He steps toward me. “Giving you a chance to use your powers isn’t—”

  “Please don’t make this about me.” I step back.

  “Your car is waiting,” he says and turns on his heel.

  “Wait, what car?” I ask, but he’s already ahead.

  Annoyed, I follow him as he walks with those long strides.

  I’m huffing and puffing by the time we get into the elevator. But hey, at least I’m burning off one of the snacks.

  He presses the button for the lobby, and I notice he doesn’t need his special card to get us off the secret floor, only to get to it.

  We ride up in sullen silence.

  Then, without turning, Nero says, “It’s not about wealth.”

  “Making money isn’t about wealth?” I’m shocked my earlier question is actually getting answered.

  The muscles in his back tense up. I fight the urge to give him a little backrub because—what is wrong with me?

  “It’s about power,” he says, still facing away. “And power is survival.”

  The elevator dings before I get a chance to follow up.

  Nero strides out so fast you’d think he’s running away from me.

  Confused, I follow. Power is survival? What does that even mean?

  Lost in thought, I exit the lobby… and slam into Nero’s hard body with a loud smack.

  If this were a cartoon, I’d slide off him into a puddle on the floor, but in this very real reality, he just gently
grabs me by the shoulders, as though to make sure I’m steady on my feet.

  And all I can do is stupidly ponder: when did he stop his brisk pace and turn around?

  “Are you okay?” he half whispers, half growls.

  I recover enough of my wits to look up at him and mutter through my dry throat, “Fine.”

  The gleam in those blue-gray eyes makes it clear he detected my lie.

  “This is your car.” Nero gently turns me toward the road, and I see a sleek limo standing there. “It will be taking you home.”

  A limo?

  That’s new.

  What—

  “Wear something sporty tomorrow,” Nero says from behind me.

  “Excuse me?” I turn around to stare at him.

  “You’re going to meet me in the gym at seven a.m.,” he says. “Do not be late.”

  “What?” I look at him for signs of amusement and find none.

  “A sports bra would work nicely,” he says—and this time, there might be a hint of mirth touching his eyes. “Perhaps yoga pants?” He looks me up and down. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

  I inhale a lungful of air, preparing a tirade, but before I get a chance to unleash it, Nero turns and stalks back into the building.

  Was he serious?

  Workout clothes? Gym?

  Unless… could he also be worried that I’ll put on weight with all that sitting around inside his gourmet-food-stocked cell? If so, that’s so wrong, and probably illegal too.

  An orc-sized driver exits the limo and opens the door for me.

  I examine the guy carefully, trying to decide if he’s actually an orc.

  There’s no aura, but the orcs who worked for Nero didn’t have one either. But the driver also has no makeup on his face—a much better clue.

  Tentatively, I decide he’s just an extremely beefy human.

  “Thanks,” I say when I get inside the car.

  He just nods and closes the door.

  Is he unable to talk?

  I wouldn’t put it past Nero to give me a driver with damaged vocal chords or a missing tongue.

  Since the partition to the front is raised, I don’t get a chance to test his ability to speak further. Instead, I explore my surroundings.

  The limo is impossibly fancier inside than it was outside.

  I eat a spoonful of black caviar, pour myself a glass of $100 per liter Vieille Bon Secours beer, then watch the big-screen TV as I relax on the super-comfy loveseat that turns out to be a full-featured massage chair.

  A girl can get used to this kind of commuting.

  We stop sooner than I’d expected. We must’ve been driving faster than it seemed.

  The big guy opens the door and even offers me his hand.

  Deciding to ignore the hand, I climb out and say thanks—but he doesn’t talk back.

  Approaching the building, I’m shocked to see that the place looks completely repaired.

  My usual key opens the new door without a problem, and the elevator works just as well as it did before I crashed into it.

  Pondering Nero’s power over repairmen and subcontractors, I make my way to the apartment.

  The image that greets me when I enter makes me want to rub my eyes in disbelief.

  The cat and the chinchilla are sleeping snuggled together in the hallway—like the proverbial lion lying with the lamb.

  I wonder which of them is the lion, though: Lucifur, being the cat, or Fluffster, being the one that can rip you into little pieces?

  Tiptoeing over the odd pair, I walk into the living room.

  Noises from Felix’s room make me curious, so I gently knock.

  “Come in,” Felix says.

  A computer chip crunches under my foot as I step in.

  “Dude,” I say. “What the hell?”

  The room looks like Intel’s biggest factory exploded into a random collection of transistors, cables, and other assorted hardware.

  Felix puts down his soldering iron and looks at me with a smile.

  “Did you rob a RadioShack?” I ask. “Or was it the Apple Store?”

  “I smuggled some of this from Gomorrah,” Felix whispers conspiratorially. “I was visiting Ariel and—”

  “Ariel?” I shriek so forcefully that Felix cringes. “How is she doing?”

  “Hard to say. They’re using various methods to keep her comfortable, but the side effect is that it’s unclear how aware she is.”

  “I’d like to see her,” I say. “Can we go together next time?”

  “Sure,” Felix says. “I’ll be home early tomorrow, so we can go then.”

  “I’ll try to get home early too,” I say, then frown. “Nero is very strict about me putting in the eight hours, but I figure if I start the day extra early, I should make it.”

  Matching actions to words, I pull out my phone and set the alarm. A visit to Ariel aside, I don’t want to find out what happens if I don’t show up at the gym at exactly seven, as Nero demanded.

  “About Nero.” Felix looks down at the various computer parts littering the floor. “What happened after you hung up?”

  “Nothing,” I say, and suddenly develop my own fascination with the hardware Armageddon on the floor. “You’re pretty much up to speed as far as that’s concerned.”

  Felix is the last person I’d tell about seeing Nero naked, or about the kiss.

  “Oh.” He looks up. “It seemed there was more to it.”

  “Nope. Good night.”

  I escape before Felix asks anything more. Getting to my room, I prepare my cutest tank top. Then I choose a particularly nice pair of fishnet-stockings-inspired yoga pants from my closet—ones with holes on the sides that show a decent amount of skin.

  Will this be “sporty” enough? Hard to say without knowing what Nero has in mind for me tomorrow.

  Whatever it is, I have a feeling I won’t like it.

  Oh, and if Nero is just playing a joke on me with this outfit, my payback prank will be more devastating than the legendary fish brains I once left in a bully’s locker in high school.

  I know just the thing, too. I’ll buy a durian fruit in Chinatown and leave it to rot in some nook and cranny of Nero’s office. The stuff smells so bad that an Australian university once evacuated five hundred people when they mistook the pungent odor for a gas leak.

  Getting in bed, I smile as I imagine the expression on Nero’s face when he first notices the malodorous development.

  Does his super speed come with super smell? That would be even better.

  The evil thoughts lull me into sleep, but once in the arms of slumber, my dreams about Nero morph from vengeful into X-rated.

  Chapter Eleven

  My alarm blares.

  A furry creature whooshes under my blanket.

  “Fluffster?” I rub sleep from my eyes.

  Checking under the blanket, I see that it’s not Fluffster.

  Lucifur looks at me sternly, with eyes that seem to be saying, “This royal blanket is Our Majesty’s property. What is a peasant like you doing trespassing?”

  The door to the room creaks, followed by the pitter-patter of tiny feet on the floor.

  The cat hides her head under the blanket.

  Fluffster jumps onto the bed, squeaks, and jumps after Lucifur.

  Confused, I swiftly extricate myself from the whirlwind of furry activity under the blanket.

  “Fluffster, what the hell?” I say as I start putting on my athletic outfit.

  “We’re playing hide-and-seek, like you and me did back in the day,” he says in my mind. “If I don’t keep this beast busy, she’ll destroy every expensive piece of pottery in the house.”

  As though to punctuate his words, he rushes from under the blanket, with Lucifur literally on his bushy tail.

  “Sure,” I say under my breath when the excited hissing and squeals navigate into Ariel’s room. “You’re just doing it out of domovoi duty, not because you love hide-and-seek.”

  Fluffst
er doesn’t reply, so I finish dressing, then stumble into the kitchen and set up food for the two hide-and-seekers.

  Grabbing a quick sandwich to eat on the way, I head out.

  I’m not surprised to find the limo waiting for me. I wouldn’t even be that shocked if I found out it stood here all night.

  “Morning,” I say to the mute driver as he holds open the door for me.

  He nods and closes the door behind me.

  Ditching my sandwich, I attack the snack bar.

  The limo delivers me to the office just as I finish my feast.

  Wiping remnants of truffle oil from my lips, I exit my ride.

  A few former floormates give me strange looks when they see me climb out of a fancy limo, and a few more do the same when they notice my outfit.

  When I press the button for the gym floor, the elevator neighbors seem to nod in understanding. They must think I have a proper outfit stashed in a locker.

  It’s 6:59 a.m. when I arrive at the gym’s entrance.

  Nero is standing there, staring at his watch.

  Like me, he’s dressed in exercise clothes, and they look just as right on his muscular frame as his usual button-up shirts and dress pants. If I didn’t know he was in finance, I’d guess him to be either a swimmer or a gymnast… or maybe a martial arts champion. All in all, he looks way too nice to—

  “Cutting it a little close,” Nero says without looking up, dispelling the “nice” sentiment.

  How did he know it was me without looking up? Did he smell me?

  “Good morning to you too,” I reply evenly. “What’s on the agenda today?”

  Nero looks up from his phone and gives me a once-over from sneakers to ponytail.

  He steps toward me.

  I step back.

  His nostrils flare, and the limbal rings in his eyes do that widening thing.

  “You said to wear something sporty,” I say, fighting a strange panicked feeling.

  A man clears his throat behind Nero.

  My boss turns so fast he startles both me and the newcomer.

  The new guy has a Cognizant aura and looks like Po—the hero in the Kung Fu Panda franchise. Those Uncle Fester-like dark circles around his eyes further add to the impression, as does the rounded belly visible though his black-and-white tracksuit.

  “I’m ready when you are,” the new guy says, and he even sounds like he looks.