by Dima Zales
With a roar of the huge engine, it screeches to a stop in front of us.
We jump back.
The van’s doors open.
Like a pride of lions, huge, grim-faced men stream out of the car toward us.
Chapter Fourteen
There are four of them, and each one has the kind of features that look great on mugshots. No Mandate aura—could mean they’re human.
All are wearing suits except for the one approaching us the fastest.
He’s also the biggest—so huge he could pass for an orc. With that wifebeater shirt and jeans, he must’ve been the only one to get the memo about casual Friday. I also notice tattoos of military-style epaulettes on his shoulders.
What is he? An admiral?
He reaches into the back of his pants.
His suited allies reach into the insides of their jackets.
Ariel launches into motion, punching the admiral in the chest.
He flies into a suited guy behind him, taking him along for the ride. They slam into the van with a hard thud and slide to the ground in a spooning position.
Damn.
Ariel has clearly been eating her spinach.
As she chops at the gun hand of the other suited guy, I suck in a breath and leap at the closest goon.
The guy already has his gun out when I slam my shoulder into his stomach with all my might—as though trying to impress an NFL scout.
The exploding pain reminds me to let my poor shoulder fully heal before I do that again.
The guy’s gun clatters to the pavement, but he recovers quickly and grabs me by my hair, like we’re in a cat fight.
I kick the gun away, and while he’s distracted, my foot continues its arc toward his groin.
My sneaker connects with something soft, and my opponent grunts, jerking my hair so hard that stars dance in front of my eyes.
When my vision clears, I see Ariel grabbing my attacker’s hair-pulling arm.
Something crunches and cracks.
The guy howls and lets me go.
Heart pounding, I spin around.
The admiral is a few feet from us, raising a gun.
“Kick,” Ariel orders, grabbing me by my forearms.
“Wait,” I want to say, but she starts swinging me—human lasso style.
I understand her insane plan. As soon as my sneakers are near the target, I execute a move I learned in the kickboxing class.
My foot crashes into the admiral’s wrist.
His gun clanks against the pavement.
Ariel slows down the swing, dropping me behind her, and leaps for the growling admiral.
He swings his massive fist at her head, but she expertly sidesteps it.
He punches with his other arm, but Ariel blocks his hit, then unleashes a devastating uppercut that lands square on the admiral’s chin.
He flies up, then performs a sack-of-potatoes impersonation as his back slams into the sidewalk.
Not trusting him to remain unconscious, Ariel kicks him in the head. She then repeats the precautionary measure with every one of the four before rummaging in the last one’s pockets.
“No ID,” she says when she finishes, and walks up to the next guy.
Deciding to speed this up, I also check the unconscious admiral for his ID, but the only thing in his pockets is what looks like a black knife handle.
I examine the object. It’s a very fancy toy—an out-the-front extending automatic knife with double action. I test it out by automatically extending the blade, then retracting it.
Without giving it much thought, I slide the handle into my pocket.
This isn’t stealing.
I’m basically confiscating it.
“Nothing on any of them,” Ariel says.
“Same here,” I tell her.
She shakes her head, then walks up to the van and looks around the empty street as I stand there, trying to catch my breath.
Sliding her palms under the side of the car, she assumes a deadlift position and strains all her muscles.
No.
She’s not doing what I think she’s doing.
Even with her powers, she can’t be strong enough. Right?
Wrong.
The van lifts off the ground and flips onto its side.
“So they can’t follow us,” Ariel explains—clearly misunderstanding the incredulous expression on my face.
She then picks up each of the guns, and I half expect her to beat her earlier feat of strength by bending the weapons into pretzels. But no, she takes the wussy route and removes the clips, pocketing the bullets.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say when my roommate examines the battlefield for more items to add to her to-do list.
“Are you okay?” She frowns, looking me over.
“Fine.” I brush my damp palms over my T-shirt, like I take down guys twice my size all the time. “Let’s scram before someone else tries to assault us.”
Ariel hurries out of the alley, and I follow.
When we get to a busier street, we slow our half-jog to a socially acceptable speed walk, mimicking New Yorkers who are late—an extremely common sight.
We get home in five minutes without another unwanted encounter.
I turn both locks on the door, and slide the security chain into place—a first for me.
“What was that about? Have you ever seen those men before?” I ask, collapsing onto the living room couch.
“No.” Ariel doesn’t have the courtesy to even pretend to be winded after all that exercise. “I hoped you might know who they are.”
Fluffster scurries into the room and looks at each of us. “Is everything all right?”
Between calming breaths, I tell him what just happened.
“You should’ve brought one home.” Fluffster’s rodent eyes gleam menacingly—reminding me of the urban myths about giant rats and alligators in the New York subways. “I would’ve asked them some pointed questions.”
“Given recent history, we can safely assume they were after me.” I wipe the sweat from my forehead. “Maybe Chester sent them, or Baba Yaga. Or maybe this was another ‘lesson’ from Nero.”
“You did get into two fights with Chester’s daughter.” Ariel paces to the TV and back. “Not that he liked you to begin with.”
“She started it.” Realizing I just quoted my kindergarten self, I say in a calmer tone, “You might have a point, though.”
Fluffster stands on his hind legs and looks at me piercingly. “Regardless of who’s behind the attack, we need to take precautions.”
“I agree.” Ariel sits on the edge of the couch next to me. “We’re lucky you’re unemployed. You can stay home under Fluffster’s protection and only leave with my supervision.”
“As in, I’m under house arrest?” I exaggerate my grumpiness. I’m in no mood to go anywhere anyway, but I also know how quickly I get cooped up.
“You’re obviously free to go get killed.” Ariel rolls her eyes. “We just like having you around.”
“Fine.” I recline the couch and lean back. “I won’t venture out needlessly. Or if I do, I’ll take a gun.”
“And me.” Ariel sits back.
“And you,” I agree. “Assuming you’re around.”
“I’ll be around,” she says. “Just tell me where you want to go and when.”
“There’s another Orientation lesson this Sunday. I’m going to that.”
“No problem.” Ariel gives me a determined look. “I’ll take you.”
“I’d also like to do yoga again tomorrow,” I say.
“I’d love to—”
The doorbell rings.
We all exchange glances.
“I’m not expecting anyone,” Fluffster says in my mind, his tone so deadpan you’d think he entertains tons of visitors.
“I doubt it’s your friend the guinea pig.” I jackknife to my feet, go to my room, and get my new gun.
Ariel must’ve had the same idea because when I return, s
he also has a gun in her hand—a different one than in her car.
Taking the lead, she unlocks the door and opens it as far as the security chain allows.
“Hello,” says a hypnotic voice through the small gap. “Paranoid much?”
Ariel breathes out an audible sigh of relief and removes the chain.
When she opens the door, I put a name to the voice.
Gaius, Ariel’s vampire “friend,” is standing on our doorstep.
His pretty, pale face twists into a smug smile as he takes us in.
If the guns bother him, he doesn’t show it.
Fluffster steps in front of me, his tail waving aggressively from side to side.
Gaius’s smile falters when he notices the rodent-shaped domovoi. His arctic-sky eyes stare into mine, then turn to Ariel. “The young of this age have no manners, do they?” He looks at Fluffster for a reaction, but finds none. “Is no one going to invite me in?”
Ariel looks at me apologetically and mouths, “I’ve got to go.”
“Wait—”
Before I can finish my thought, she slinks out of the apartment and closes the door behind herself.
I look at Fluffster, and he shrugs his furry shoulders.
I walk over to the door and put my ear to the keyhole, but I can’t hear anything.
Peeping though the grimy peephole, I see that neither Ariel nor Gaius is by the door anymore, so I push it open and catch a glimpse of the two of them entering the elevator.
“She left with him.” I close the door. “Just like that.”
“Maybe you should’ve invited him in,” Fluffster replies with a definite undercurrent of malice. “We could’ve learned more about their relationship.”
“Maybe I should’ve.” I lock the door but skip the chain. “Gaius was helping Darian the first time we met, so maybe he knows where Darian is.”
“Assuming you want to find the coward,” Fluffster says. “Can’t you ask Ariel to query Gaius about this when she gets back?”
“I doubt she’d like being a go-between, but I might try,” I say and head to the bathroom.
To relax and wash off the sweat from the combination of running and stress, I draw myself a bath—which does wonders for my smarting shoulder.
My skin all pruney, I locate Fluffster, and we both eat a nice lunch.
Next, I attempt to access Headspace.
I know that the remnants of adrenaline will be an obstacle to meditation, but that’s why I want to give this a shot right now. For my powers to be useful, I need to be able to apply them in stressful situations.
The breathing portion of Darian’s instructions takes me four times as long as the last time, but eventually, lightning streams from my palms into my eyes, and I again find myself in Headspace.
I’m floating among the shapes. The ones nearest me are room-temperature, magenta-colored, mango-tasting hybrids between a pentagonal prism and a cone. Each is playing a frightening symphony that would make good Halloween music.
I try to touch the closest one.
It doesn’t work.
I will my metaphysical appendage to touch the shape with all my being, but I might as well wish myself to defy gravity and float to the sky in the real world.
If I had a lip, I’d bite it in frustration.
Why is this not working?
Could it be that some visions are not meant to be seen?
Or am I not powerful enough? Experienced enough?
Or could it be that these shapes have nothing to do with me, and my powers are protecting me from having a possibly scary but completely useless to me vision?
Maybe this vision was of a surgery of a little baby in Belarus—an event that would be nearly impossible for me to change from the United States.
What I need is to talk to Darian or some other seer about this, but that will have to wait until I’m outside Headspace. For now, I need to practice using my power by seeking out accessible visions.
That reminds me.
Felix requested some predictions earlier. He wanted me to figure out what Nero’s password is, and/or whether Nero will kill him for the hack in some distant future.
I focus on these two concepts as much as I can and float forward, soon finding myself among a new set of shapes.
Liquid-hydrogen-cold, black, BBQ-tasting ellipsoids with impossible angles, these shapes play a music that’s much calmer than the earlier shapes, but still with an undertone of danger.
My memory is clearly working better each time I enter Headspace because I recall one more point Felix made earlier.
He suggested that the size of the shape determines the time duration of the vision.
Deciding to kill a few extra birds with a single test, I zoom in a few times. If Felix’s theory is right, my vision should be nice and short.
These molecule ellipsoids are slightly less cold, and sound even calmer, so when I reach to touch the one nearest me, the vision starts instantly.
I’m staring at a folder with two strange words written on it.
There’s a noise behind me—
The vision is over in less than a second.
I try to keep the odd writing I just saw in my mind as I scramble to get a pen and paper.
The first pen I grab is out of ink, so I go into the drawer where I keep my magic props and get a permanent marker. Then I can’t find paper and have to take a birthday card I got from Dad.
I’m ready to write; only now I’m having doubts about what I saw.
The first word started with an uppercase ‘C’ and had two ‘a’s with a weird letter between them that looked like a flattened ‘w.’
I write it as well as I can and rack my brain for the second word.
I think there was an uppercase ‘Y,’ followed by ‘p,’ then a ‘6,’ then an ‘a,’ and then an upper case ‘H’ but written in a small font for some reason. I write what I recall on the card.
Cawa Yp6aH.
This can certainly be Nero’s password—a theory supported by the fact that one of my goals in Headspace was to determine this very thing.
I debate texting a picture of this to Felix, but stop myself.
It can wait until Felix gets home. If Nero is somehow monitoring Felix’s phone, I don’t want him knowing that I already got his password.
Meanwhile, maybe I can do the Headspace thing again?
I get into the meditation position and focus.
An hour passes.
Two.
Three.
I’m calmer than I’ve ever been, yet the lightning doesn’t show up on my palms.
After I struggle with it for a while longer, I give up.
Visions must be limited to one a day—something Darian didn’t mention. Or maybe it’s different for every seer, and this is my personal limit. Alternatively, maybe I need more practice before I can enter Headspace twice in a day.
Musing about the limits of my power, I go into the kitchen and eat dinner. When I’m heading back to my room, Felix enters the apartment.
“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” I say instead of a hello, and while he changes his shoes and makes himself a sandwich, I tell him about all the fun he’s missed.
“Can you show me the password?” he asks, attacking his food.
I go to my room and get the birthday card.
When I show it to Felix, he raises his unibrow.
“This isn’t a password,” he says. “At least, it might not be.”
“Oh? What do you think it says, then?”
“It says you.” He points the remainder of the sandwich at me. “It’s your name, written with a Cyrillic alphabet—most likely Russian.”
“It is?” I look at the paper again, expecting to see the iconic ‘R’ facing the wrong way.
“Yes,” he says. “That ‘C’ is an S, followed by an ‘a’ that’s similar in both languages. Then that’s a single letter for the “sh” sound and another ‘a’—all making Sasha. The last name is like that too, where the ‘Y’
is the ‘oo’ sound, ‘p’ is ‘r’, ‘6’ is a ‘b,’ ‘a’ is the same again, and that ‘H’ is an ‘n.’”
Under my scribbles he writes his version: “Cаша Урбан.”
“Yep.” I sink into a chair. “That looks exactly like what I saw in the vision, but why would Nero make that his password? Does he even speak Russian?”
“With a last name like Gorin, he could theoretically be Russian, but I agree. I don’t think this is Nero’s password.” Felix attacks the rest of his sandwich.
“But if it’s not Nero’s password, what is it?” I turn the card upside down, but it doesn’t make sense that way either.
“I’m afraid this might be proof that Baba Yaga will get to talk to you after all,” Felix mumbles over the food in his mouth. “She is definitely Russian, and she might’ve written your name on that paper. Maybe to force you into a binding contract or something like that.”
“Rose warned me not to sign anything for Baba Yaga, but I don’t recall a single scrap of paper in her office.” I massage my temples with circular motions, trying to think of an alternate explanation. “Why can’t it be something else?” I suggest desperately. “A good thing? Like, say, what if I’m going to find my Russian birth certificate?”
Felix wipes his hands on a paper towel. “The men who attacked you on the way to the gym were Russian, so they’re probably working for Baba Yaga.” He gets up.
“Wait.” I also stand. “How do you know they were Russian?”
“The guy you dubbed ‘the admiral.’” Felix walks to the living room. “Those epaulettes on his shoulders are something done for high-ranking criminals in Russian prisons. You saw what kind of people hang out at Baba Yaga’s establishment. You do the math.”
He plops into the recliner and reaches for the TV remote in a bout of husband-like behavior.
I stare at him in disbelief. “Are you seriously about to watch TV right now?”
Felix looks at the remote in his hand, then at me. “What do you want me to do? If I told you not to leave the house—the only way to prevent further Baba Yaga encounters—would you listen?”
“Maybe,” I lie. “Though you have to admit, becoming a hermit isn’t a solution.”
