by Dima Zales
Having set the technological trap, I wait for another mystery call.
After two minutes of staring at my phone, I realize my mistake. If I watch it like this, it will never ring; Murphy’s/Chester’s Law will make sure of it.
So I do what I would’ve done if I were waiting for a tea kettle to boil: pretend I’m not interested in the phone at all.
I start my charade by cleaning up the kitchen some more, and then I move on to the bathroom.
I begin with the tub’s drain—which has a giant hairball in it, a mixture of Felix’s and my hair.
Felix sheds like a Beagle and will probably be bald by the time he’s forty. I lose a ladylike amount, all things considered. The interesting case is Ariel, who never seems to lose a single hair from her head (or elsewhere as far as I know).
Is this part of her super strength?
I throw the disgusting hairball into the garbage, wash my hands, and examine Ariel’s hairbrush.
Zero hair, as usual.
I used to think she had OCD about picking up her hair after every brushing session and shower, but that was before I knew about the Cognizant and her powers. Now I wonder.
On a whim, I go into Ariel’s room and check for hair on her pillow and other likely places.
Zilch.
Is this why her hair always looks like she’s stepped out of a shampoo commercial?
For a moment, I fantasize about swapping powers with Ariel. How awesome would it be to be super strong?
Resuming my tidying efforts, I take the garbage bags from the kitchen and the bathroom and walk out of the apartment to put them in the garbage disposal.
Great minds clearly think alike, because Rose is walking to the same destination. As usual, she’s dressed to the nines.
“Sasha.” She beams a warm smile at me. “How are you this morning?”
“Okay,” I say cautiously. “But I now have more crazy adventures I can share with you.”
“You still owe me the story of how you joined our ranks.” She stuffs her garbage bags into the chute, her nose crinkling in displeasure. “We should have lunch now that you’re not so busy with work.”
“Sure.” I send my own bags after hers. “Do you have a place in mind?”
“How about something at Le District? Lots of options there.” She holds her hands away from her body.
“Deal.” I close the garbage disposal. “When?”
“How about today at one?” she says and starts walking toward her apartment.
I fall into step next to her. “That works. Want to walk there together?”
“No.” She clasps her door handle clumsily with her left hand—probably because that hand didn’t touch the garbage disposal. “I’ll go for a stroll before that.”
She goes in and closes the door behind herself, so I don’t get the chance to offer to stroll together—which is probably for the best, as I need to do a bunch of things before lunch.
I get back to the apartment, wipe away some more dust in the most obvious places, and walk back into my room, yawning.
“Are you going to start your job search?” Fluffster, who’s sitting next to my laptop, taps it with his furry paw. “Rent and utility bills don’t pay themselves.”
My blood pressure instantly rises. “I guess I am starting a job search.” Opening the laptop, I mutter under my breath, “Furry slave driver.”
As I update my resume, I consider the direness of my finances. I have ninety thousand left from Nero’s unexpected bonus, plus some savings that preceded it. Anywhere but Manhattan, this kind of cash would last a while, but in this city, I have to worry—especially given the inevitable calls from Mom, pricey massacre cleanups courtesy of Pada, illegal gun purchases, and who knows what else.
Of course, if things get really dire, I could always pawn the expensive-looking necklace Nero gifted me for the Jubilee. Then again, the diamonds in it might not be real, and I don’t know what the centerpiece stone—the one Nero had magically turned into a polygraph during my Council encounter—would be worth. I also have a couple of very rare magic books that had cost my dad an arm and a leg, but if I were forced to sell them, I’d probably cry.
So, with a heavy heart, I tailor my resume for a position in the financial industry—the lesser evil.
I’d always pictured my next job being that of a full-time TV illusionist, but that dream is over. Instead, I get to find out if other places on Wall Street are going to be as bad as Nero’s fund—or worse.
My knowledge of the finance industry—or my psychic powers—tells me they might indeed be worse.
When I get to the job site, dozens of postings sound like a good fit with my education and experience. In fact, there are so many of them I soon tire of applying to them all.
“I’ll apply to more later,” I say out loud, in case my chinchilla is looking over my shoulder, ready to assume his monster form to make sure I have a better job search ethic.
Fluffster is nowhere in sight, however, so I reward myself for my job-search diligence by planning a good illusion to show Rose at lunch. It takes me a few minutes to come up with something rather devious, and I prepare what I’ll need, including an outfit. My spoiled-by-job-search mood noticeably lifts as I put the decks of cards into the pockets of the pants I’ll wear to lunch.
Picturing Rose’s expression, I inwardly smile.
Since I have time before lunch, I decide to re-watch the meditation part of the tape Darian sent me. If I could take conscious control of my powers, I might be more in control of my life in general.
I turn on the TV and un-pause the tape.
“In a nutshell, you need to learn a special type of meditation,” Darian says from the screen again. “Part of it is to teach you to clear your mind; another part is to have you believe in your powers without a shadow of doubt. This isn’t something I’d expect you to master anytime soon, and I wouldn’t even try it in your current sleep-deprived state. To start, you have to learn to breathe in and out to a count of five.”
I realize that I’m still not fully caught up on sleep, but curiosity overrides my fatigue and I try following the rest of the instructions.
“Sit in any position where your back is straight.” Darian contemplatively brushes his goatee. “It can be the stereotypical lotus pose or simply a chair”—he eerily looks from the screen at my chair—“or even the edge of your bed.” He looks from the screen at my bed. “The key is to sit with a good posture.”
I pause and experiment with different ways to sit. Settling on the lotus pose, I cross my legs, placing each foot on the opposite thigh, and make my spine as straight as possible.
My breathing grows slower as I un-pause again.
“Close your eyes and follow your breathing,” Darian says. “Pause the recording now and try.”
I do as he says, focusing on the air coming in and out of my lungs.
When a stray thought—like, say, an image of Nero’s piercing gaze—enters my mind, I just let it go and focus on my breath again.
Thanks to a few yoga classes and the breathing exercises Lucretia taught me, this part of the training isn’t as hard for me as it might be for some other New Yorker. Very soon, I feel as calm as a Hindu cow on Valium.
I un-pause the recording and close my eyes again, ready to attempt the next step of the training.
“This step is not needed every time,” Darian says. “Only in the beginning.” I peek through my eyelashes, and he actually winks at me on the screen—as though he knew I’d do that in that very moment. “I need you to firmly believe in your powers. Become that belief. Be a seer. Breathe it. Live it.”
“Easier said than done,” I mutter and pause the tape again.
Closing my eyes, I focus on the reality of being special.
I assault my natural skepticism with the best weapon—evidence. The truth is, I’ve had numerous visions that came true—too many to discount. I’ve also had countless intuitions that turned out to be valid, and, thanks to Nero’s evil machinations, I�
��ve even predicted the unpredictable forces of the market.
With each breath, I make myself dwell on this new reality, and if any doubt arises, I tackle it with more irrefutable evidence.
It takes a while, but a moment comes when I have no doubt about my abilities. I can now define myself as a seer first and as an illusionist at a distant second.
Feeling ready, I un-pause the video once again.
“Now you have to empty your mind completely. Turn it into a calm lake,” Darian says and gives some tips as to how. “Eventually, you will enter Headspace,” he continues, “which is the key to conscious prophecy.”
“How will I know if I succeeded?” I mutter under my breath.
“You’ll know when you’ve accomplished your goal, believe me,” Darian says from the screen. “I wish I could also give you detailed instructions for Headspace itself, but I can’t. When you’re actually in Headspace, you’ll understand why. All I can tell you is, don’t give up. While most seers take decades or longer to get to that level, you should be able to do it much sooner. With your natural ability and the boost you’ve gotten from the TV performance, you are more powerful than you can imagine.”
“Great,” I grumble, realizing I’m losing my hard-earned calmness. “Let me give this a try.”
I pause the tape again and follow my breathing, as per Darian’s instructions. Next, I perform what he called “the body scan”—where I have my awareness move from my feet to the middle of my forehead.
“Pretend you have a new eye there,” I recall him saying, so I do exactly that, picturing my face looking like one of the seer masks at the Rite—the ones with an eye on the forehead.
Nothing happens.
Not unless Headspace is the same as feeling extremely sleepy—because that’s the only result I get.
I sit in lotus pose for what feels like another hour, and my back starts to hurt.
I try to incorporate the back pain into my meditation somehow, but then my legs cramp up.
Soon, I tire of controlling my breathing and start dozing off, nearly falling onto my side.
“Maybe I need to try this again when I’ve had enough sleep,” I say to the paused screen. “Or maybe Headspace happens when you go to sleep?”
Darian has no answers for this, so I yawn and get out of the meditation pose.
“Maybe just a quick nap,” I say, stretching out on my bed.
I expect to have difficulty falling asleep with the light streaming from the window, but as soon as my eyes close, a wave of pleasant drowsiness drags me into unconsciousness.
My stomach makes a loud growl. So loud, in fact, that I wake up.
Lying in a lazy haze, I contemplate going back to sleep. It doesn’t seem likely to happen, though, so I open my eyes.
I’m in my room, and it’s midday.
That was a nice nap. I could get used to this perk of unemployment.
Getting up, I realize I didn’t get any dream visions as I slept. So I guess Headspace isn’t dream space, which in turn means I didn’t complete my meditation properly.
Oh, well.
I check the phone.
It’s 12:35 p.m., which means I’m late for my lunch with Rose.
Springing into action, I get ready and head out.
As I walk through the shops of Le District, I uncover a flaw in our plan. We didn’t agree on a specific restaurant, and there are many here.
To make matters worse, Rose doesn’t believe in cell phones, so I can’t just text her to find out where she is.
Figuring this is as good a time as any to rely on my intuition, I let my legs carry me where they want.
My seer powers are alive and kicking. It takes me but a minute to locate Rose. She’s standing in line at a place with the most heavenly smells, and I realize I could’ve just let my nose do the searching instead of my psychic mojo.
I examine the line she’s standing in and do a double take.
Rose isn’t alone.
Standing here, in the middle of all these people, is Vlad, Rose’s broody, much younger-looking vampire lover.
And, he’s the least broody I’ve ever seen him. The corners of his eyes are crinkled in a hint of a smile as he listens to something Rose is saying.
I approach Rose and give her a greeting hug.
When I pull back, Rose worriedly darts her gaze from me to Vlad. I extend my hand for Vlad to shake, and she visibly relaxes.
Note to self: don’t get too touchy with Rose’s significant other.
“I take it you can be out during the day?” I ask Vlad, letting go of his icy hand.
It then clicks that I’m referring to his nature in public. However, the Mandate doesn’t make me hurt, so perhaps the statement is too ambiguous to cause trouble.
“Don’t believe every rumor you hear,” Vlad says noncommittally. The earlier hint of a smile is gone, but he still sounds courteous.
“Clearly,” I say and look at Rose. “How was your stroll?”
“Most delightful.” She reaches over to clasp Vlad’s hand. “We’ll probably resume it after lunch.”
“Where do you guys want to sit?” I ask, looking at the people around us. “I was going to tell you something rather private.”
“We can get a table over there.” Rose points at the empty row of tables with inferior views but superior privacy. “Besides”—she squeezes Vlad’s hand—“I just heard some of the story.”
Of course.
Vlad was there when the Council interrogated me, so he knows quite a bit of what took place.
We make small talk for the rest of our wait in the line. Then Rose orders some savory crepes, I get myself a Croque Madame sandwich, and Vlad gets a coffee.
“Do vampires follow an exclusively liquid diet?” I whisper as soon as we get to the most distant table—out of earshot of non-supernatural ears.
“I’m not actually going to drink this.” Vlad places the coffee in front of Rose. “I just wanted to purchase something.”
“That’s very nice of you.” I hungrily cut up my sandwich, letting the soft egg yolk run all over my plate.
“You’re dilly-dallying,” Rose says. “Tell me your story.” She salts her crepe, earning a chiding look from Vlad. Is he worried about her blood pressure?
I’m salivating for my food, so I rattle out a short version of the events, from the TV performance with the first-ever vision to the zombie attacks that followed to the showdown with Beatrice and the two variations of my encounter with the Council—vision and real.
When I mention that Gaius threatened Ariel’s life to get me to stay quiet about his and Darian’s involvement in the TV performance, Vlad’s expression darkens.
Crap.
Vlad is Gaius’s boss—the head of the Enforcers—and Gaius admitted he wasn’t acting in official capacity when he helped Darian. He was doing it to get a vision.
Did I just mess up?
“You don’t think he’ll still do something to Ariel, do you?” I say uncertainly, looking at Rose for support.
“Vlad isn’t going to confront him. Right, dear?” Rose lays a calming hand on Vlad’s forearm.
Vlad’s mouth tightens. “Gaius is too ambitious for his own good.”
“If he tries something, you’ll put him in his place again,” Rose says soothingly. “If I give you a—”
“Let Sasha continue with her tale,” Vlad interrupts. “I won’t confront Gaius about this. Not yet, at least.”
I want to know what Rose was about to say when he interrupted her, but I can tell it would be rude to ask. So I finally bite into my sandwich. The combination of ham, melty cheese, and crunchy bread complements the sauce and the egg so perfectly that I vow to write the place a glowing review.
And maybe marry the chef, sight unseen.
“You wouldn’t have let the Council actually kill Sasha if the vote had gone according to her dream vision, would you?” Rose gives Vlad a stern look as I continue to stuff my face.
“I’m sure
Nero would’ve stopped the execution long before I would’ve had to interfere,” Vlad says, and the crease in his forehead returns to its natural gloomy position.
Is he right?
In my vision, Nero did step forward to say something, right after that vote. Maybe he was about to say, “Councilors, that is my cash cow you just voted to kill. That’s a no-go. She’s mine to torment, and anyone objecting will be ripped to shreds—”
“You take your Enforcer responsibilities far too seriously,” Rose tells Vlad before taking a large bite of her crepe.
I study Vlad curiously. “Why do you think Nero would’ve protected me?”
“He offered to be your Mentor.” Vlad’s dark eyes seem to suck in the light of the halogen lamps around us. “That was the first time he’d ever done that.”
“And probably the last,” I say, stabbing what’s left of my sandwich. “As I said, I quit his stupid Mentorship.”
Vlad gives Rose an unreadable look.
I use this opportunity to place another heavenly morsel into my mouth.
No one says anything as I chew. Is Nero’s Mentorship a taboo subject?
To break the awkward silence, I proceed with my story, filling in any gaps they might’ve had when it comes to what happened with the orcs. Then I finish by telling them about the late Harper.
Vlad’s face now resembles a tropical sky before a hurricane. “Gaius should’ve reported the club incident to me.” His voice is biting.
Rose is frowning too, but she lays a hand on his arm again, massaging the tense muscle gently. “It wasn’t Earth, dear. If he was going to report it to anyone, it would’ve been the Gomorrah authorities.”
His nostrils flare. “Fine. But we’re still going to have a talk one of these days.”
I swallow the last bits of my sandwich and attempt to diffuse the grim atmosphere. “So,” I say with forced brightness. “Vlad, you’re out during daytime. You couldn’t explain before. Can you do so now?”
Rose and Vlad exchange a quick glance, and she says, “His kind can be out during the day without any ill effects.” She smiles at him shyly. “They do, or did, hunt at night like many other predators, so that’s probably where the human legends stem from.”
