by Dima Zales
“Sure, that works.”
“Well, I’ve got to run,” she says apologetically, finishing changing. “But we have plans for tomorrow. Yay.”
She then turns into a whirlwind, reapplying makeup and grabbing her bag, and rushes out of the apartment before I can properly question her about her relationship with Gaius.
Fluffster is taking his dust bath when I reenter my room.
“Ariel was here,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says. “I can always feel it when people enter and leave the apartment.”
“I guess I’ll try meditating again. Do you want to watch?”
“That would be great.” He lies down on the floor in front of me. “Go for it.”
This time around, I sit in a chair, but otherwise follow Darian’s instructions as before.
Soon, my palms get warmer, so I redouble my efforts.
Lightning bolts explode in my vision, and I find myself in Headspace once more.
Chapter Twelve
I orient myself much faster this time, and float there, pseudo-staring at the impossible shapes all around me.
In my immediate proximity, most of the shapes are similar and look like a cloud of green, chilly, oatmeal-tasting cubes with more than six faces and more than twelve edges. They all emit music so foreboding it could be used as a horror movie score.
Ignoring the music, I try to touch one of these cubes.
I find that I can’t.
Whatever serves as my appendage here simply twitches in fear—metaphorically speaking. I guess I’m not ready to see a future that frightening.
I move forward and locate a swarm of warm, chick-yellow, marshmallow-tasting hybrids between a hexagon and a cylinder. They play a milder tune, though also frightening.
Picking one at random, I try to touch it—but I can’t budge again.
Deciding to be stubborn, I just float there, trying to touch the shape, over and over.
Each time, I’m on the cusp of succeeding. It’s like trying to remember something that’s just on the tip of your tongue.
Pulling my immaterial self together, I focus all my attention on overcoming the remaining reluctance.
Something seems to tear, and the touch finally connects with my target.
Just like the last time, I spiral into the vision.
I’m in my room, sitting in a chair and overwhelmed with familiar dread.
The phone rings.
The call would be private, but thanks to the app I installed, I recognize the number.
It’s Baba Yaga’s restaurant bothering me again.
How did they get the number to my new phone?
I let the call go to voicemail and note the time of day—3:21 p.m.
When the voicemail dings, I bring it up and listen.
“Sasha,” says Koschei in his corpse-like voice. “As part of the bargain you made, you are to appear in front of Baba Yaga tonight, at ten.”
I pull the phone away from my ear, the dread intensifying into panic.
There’s no way I’m going to Brighton Beach today—
Snapping out of the vison, I look at Fluffster.
“That was amazing,” he says in my mind. “I saw lightning go from your hands into your eyes. It was extremely brief and easy to miss, but I caught it—”
I ignore the rest of his excited babbling and do my best to orient myself in reality.
My ragged breaths hurt my chest after all that slow breathing.
Diving for my phone, I check the time.
It’s 3:12 p.m.
In nine minutes, the phone will ring, and Koschei will leave that voicemail.
My mind racing, I open a browser on my phone.
I find a recording of the famous “this number has been disconnected” message that comes on when you call a truly disconnected number. Hands shaking, I quickly make it my voicemail.
It’s 3:20 p.m.
My finger ready, I count down the seconds until 3:21.
The phone rings, and I instantly swipe “No” to send it to voicemail.
Then I wait.
If Koschei sees through my illusion, he’ll wait for the “disconnected number” message to finish, hear the regular voicemail beep, and leave a voicemail as per the vision. But if I fooled him, he should give up long before the voicemail beep.
As I wait, I again wonder how Baba Yaga and her minions got my new number. Only Felix and Ariel have it. Well, and Gaius because Ariel used his phone to call me, but that’s still a very small number of people.
Does Baba Yaga have a technomancer like Felix on her payroll? Or is there some other kind of Cognizant who can divine this sort of thing? If it’s the latter, they might be useful when it comes to Nero’s password.
After a minute, I exhale a relieved breath.
There’s no voicemail.
I’ll have to keep my phone off as much as possible, so that if he tries again, it goes right into voicemail without me having to react like a ninja.
Fluffster is looking at me with a mixture of worry and confusion, so I explain to him what I saw in my vision.
“Whatever Baba Yaga wants, it better be a small favor,” Fluffster says when I finish. “I still haven’t recovered new memories—and not for lack of trying.”
“I have a feeling it’s not a small favor at all. But this reminds me.” I grab my laptop. “I need to research Rasputin some more.”
“You do?” Fluffster’s reply sounds rather disapproving in my mind. “What about your job search?”
“You’re worse than my mother,” I mutter but nevertheless go to my inbox.
Heartbeat speeding up, I stare at my email. “This is getting ridiculous.”
Fluffster scurries over and looks at the screen with me.
There’s a “sorry, position was filled” reply from the Federal Reserve, as well as from the government jobs I applied to. The out-of-state companies have also sent me the canned reply.
Most ridiculous of all is that I have an email from both Cirque du Soleil and the upstate laboratory. Instead of saying, “Hey, you can’t be a contortionist snake milker,” they both just inform me that the positions have been filled, like everyone else.
I stand up, fists clenched. “Nero is just showing off at this point.”
If he were near me, I’d punch him in the smug face that I can so vividly picture.
“What does this mean?” Fluffster asks.
I explain, pacing back and forth, and Fluffster looks as miffed as a chinchilla can. “If he keeps doing that, we’ll end up living in a cardboard box in the park.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I growl. “The bastard owns this building, so even if I magically made money, he could opt to not renew our next lease and hello, box in the park.”
“You should invite him over,” Fluffster says menacingly. “I don’t care how powerful he is outside. Here, I’d teach him some manners.”
The idea of Nero in my bedroom sends my thoughts in a completely inappropriate direction, and my face flames uncontrollably.
To cover for my misfiring hormones and neurons, I sit back in front of my computer and log into my bank account to see how desperate the situation really is.
In shock, I gape at the numbers.
Money has been added to my checking account.
It’s a familiar amount, but I double check it, just in case.
“That bastard.” I jump to my feet again. “He paid me. Just like nothing has changed.”
Fluffster twitches his bunny-like ear. “What are you talking about?”
“Nero,” I explain grimly. “He refuses to admit that I quit. And now I’ve received my usual paycheck for last week and this week. The week after I quit.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Fluffster stands up on his hind paws. “It’s free money.”
“No, it’s not,” I say with such viciousness that the domovoi moves away from me.
Teeth clenched, I yank on some clothes, put the deck of cards with Fe
lix’s gizmo in my pocket, and storm out of the apartment.
It’s time Nero and I had some words.
Again.
Chapter Thirteen
“Felix, we’re back on,” I hiss into my phone as I stride into my not-so-former work building.
“I still don’t have the password,” he says. “You said you’d try getting a vision about it, remember?”
“I remember promising to see if you’re alive in the future. If you don’t help me, you won’t be.” I use my old ID card, and it works. Of course it does. “We’ll just have to expedite the whole thing.”
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea,” Felix says frantically. “Why don’t we—”
“I’m entering the elevator,” I lie. I’m actually only waiting for one. “Get ready. Everything’s going to go down like the last time.”
I hang up as Felix tries to say something else.
Just as on my cab ride here, the opposite of meditation is swirling in my head. I’m boiling with anger at Nero and rehearse insults I can throw in his face. I fantasize about slapping him—for real this time.
On some level, I know my reaction is disproportional to his crime—which, after all, is giving me money.
It’s just that it’s the last straw.
And the principle of the thing.
Who the hell does he think he is?
The elevator doors finally open.
I storm in and face Venessa, mentally daring her to give me crap this time around.
“He isn’t there,” she says, her face unreadable. “He’s in Europe for a few days.”
“Bullshit,” I exclaim, then look.
Nero’s office walls are made of glass, and he doesn’t seem to be inside.
I dart in anyway, ignoring Venessa on my tail.
Nope.
He’s really not here.
Storming back into the elevator, I try to calm my overworked nerves.
When I exit the elevator, I call Felix again.
“You got your wish. We’re postponing the operation.”
“What happened?” There are annoying undertones of relief in his voice.
As I explain, I use four-letter words that make some of my not-so-former colleagues give me worried looks as I stomp through the lobby.
“It’s really for the best,” Felix says soothingly. “I think we need to get the password first, then try this madness again.”
“Fine.” I hail a cab. “Talk to you later.”
I’m much calmer by the time I get home, but when I try meditation again, I fail miserably.
I take a seat on the couch in front of the TV, but instead of turning the TV on, I just sit there, trying to figure out a way I could make money if I ever succeed at quitting my job.
Fluffster must sense my bad mood because he jumps into my lap and lets me pet his therapeutic fur.
My breathing evens out, and ideas begin to pour in.
Gambling is an obvious option. If someone were to let me into an underground poker game, I could not only use my seer powers but also the various magician moves that originated with card cheats in the first place.
“How about you come up with ways to make money that will leave your bones, fingers, and toes intact?” Fluffster suggests when I share my idea with him. “You can play poker online, for example, or bid on horse races.”
“You’re right.” I smile, getting into the spirit of this. “People make money predicting election results—something I’m good at. There are also things like fantasy football…”
“Sure.” Fluffster snuggles into my hand. “But, and please don’t yell, why don’t you just keep Nero’s money? If you don’t like him, isn’t taking his money a punishment of a sort?”
“I don’t think I can explain it,” I tell him. “I don’t know if I understand it myself.”
To prevent Fluffster from pressing the issue, I turn on the TV and watch a few movies—only to find out that I’ve gotten even better at foreseeing every plot twist and ending. Afterward, I contribute some predictions for the Good Judgement Project, and then Felix gets home.
We eat dinner, and then I reread my favorite books on card magic until I go to bed.
“Wake up, you lazy butt,” someone shouts through a giant loudspeaker. “Gun fun awaits.”
I peer through one eyelid.
Ariel is jumping from foot to foot next to my bed.
I really need to put a lock on my door.
“Finally,” she says in an annoyingly cheerful tone. “Now get up and let’s go.”
She cruelly opens my curtains and runs away, slamming the door so hard that any remaining hope of getting back to sleep is shattered.
I crawl from under my warm blankie and check the time.
It’s nine-thirty.
Last week, I’d think myself lucky to be able to sleep in this late. How had I gotten into unemployment mode so easily?
I get ready, and Ariel greets me with a sandwich by the front door.
“Let’s get a head start.” She thrusts the food into my hands. “You can eat this on the way.”
She’s brimming with excitement.
Too much excitement.
As we make our way down, I carefully ask her, “How are you feeling? You seem to be in a good mood.”
“I feel great.” Her grin could power a small village. “But you have to tell me what’s been happening to you. Fluffster mentioned some craziness.”
I give her the latest update and try to turn the conversation back to her, but she skillfully dodges my questions until we get into the car, and once we do, she goes into her official “silent driving” mode.
We drive through a familiar sketchy part of New Jersey and park next to the house of horrors where Ariel got me the last illegal gun.
“I want something smaller this time around,” I say as she unbuckles her seatbelt. “I don’t have any orcs after me, so I figure the caliber doesn’t matter as much.”
“How about a Glock 19?” Ariel says and launches into a sales pitch so thorough I suspect the good folks at Glock might be paying her commission.
“I have one here,” she says in conclusion and reaches over, opening her glove compartment to take out a beige-colored gun. “Check it out.”
I gingerly hold the weapon in my hand. It has some plastic parts and feels almost like a toy gun—especially in that color.
“Can you get me a black one?” I ask after a moment of consideration. “So that it looks more like a real gun?”
“Don’t insult Precious,” Ariel says in her best imitation of Gollum’s voice as she snatches the gun from my hands and holds it lovingly to her chest.
“I’m sorry, Precious,” I deadpan to the gun. To Ariel, I say, “I kind of pictured myself with another revolver.”
“This will be easier to conceal,” Ariel says. “It’s more—”
“I trust you,” I say quickly, willing to forego the Russian Roulette effect if that saves me from another gun lecture.
Ariel puts her Precious back into the glove compartment and heads into the asbestos-infected rat palace she uses as a gun shop.
Just like the last time, I lock the car doors.
As I wait, I practice meditative breathing.
My hands are starting to feel warm when Ariel comes back.
Either she was gone for a while, or I’m getting better at this meditation stuff.
“Keep this in the glove compartment for now,” she says and hands me a black version of her Precious. “Once we get to the range, we’ll rent you one just like it, and they’ll teach you how to handle it.”
After the gun-range guy finishes explaining how to use a Glock 19, I decide that I prefer it to my deceased revolver.
My warm fuzzies toward the Glock intensify once I fire a few rounds into my target. The recoil is much milder, it’s lighter, and it just feels more at home in my hands.
Also, having more rounds is convenient; with the revolver, I had to reload a lot more often.
> Half an hour later, I’m certain this is a better gun for me.
What’s really great is that my marksmanship scores improve with each new target they put up. Though, of course, it will probably take me years to get close to Ariel’s insane hit rate.
“This was so much fun,” Ariel says as we walk back to our car. “Do you want to go to the gym?”
My muscles are slightly sore from my earlier workouts but refusing to go with her is like taking candy away from a gym-junkie baby, so I can’t help but agree.
Besides, if I do some yoga, it will go a long way in facilitating the Headspace practice I’d like to do later today.
We get home, change, and jog to the gym.
As usual, a workout with Ariel is like a Special Forces boot camp. By the end, I’m completely out of breath, and sore in places where a proper lady shouldn’t even have muscles.
Ariel then joins me for yoga, and despite it being her first time ever, she’s ten times better at it—a feat I attribute to her superpowers rather than my sloth.
“Should we stop somewhere for lunch?” Ariel offers after we pamper ourselves with some post-workout spa treatments. “Or would you rather eat at home?”
“How about Cuban?” I suggest. “There’s a great place on the way.”
As we exit the gym and turn onto the secluded side street where the Cuban place is located, a familiar feeling grips me.
Dread.
Strong dread.
Given that my phone is at home, whatever my powers are alerting me to isn’t a phone call.
“Something is about to go down,” I whisper to Ariel, frantically scanning the garbage-filled street. “But I don’t know what it is.”
Ariel visibly tenses. “Shit. My gun is in the car.”
“I left mine at home.” My heart rate continues to spike.
Ariel looks around, as alert as a predatory bird.
I look back.
In a blur, a black van with tinted windows makes a sharp turn onto our little street, its tires leaving burn marks on the pavement.
