by Dima Zales
Ignoring the hissing, I add water again and again, until I produce enough steam to run an ancient locomotive.
“That’s enough,” the guy says—again according to Yaroslav. “Now, spank me.”
Making my way through the thick fog by memory, I loom over the man and raise the birch-tree torture device in the way Yaroslav explained.
Flicking my wrist, I grab a bunch of hot air with the wet leaves and channel it at the hairy dude’s back as I give him a wet smack.
He grunts in pleasure.
The door opens.
I repeat my odd action again.
The hairy guy starts to moan inappropriately.
Maybe if I’m really strapped for money, I could moonlight as a high-end dominatrix.
The newcomer says something congratulatory in Russian.
I spank my victim a few more times.
My arm is getting tired and the extra layers of clothing conspire with the heat to make me sweat out what little moisture I had left in my body.
There goes my new career idea. Spanking people is hard.
Ignoring all discomfort, I keep on going.
My victim’s enjoyment is decidedly disturbing, especially for such a public place, but since it helps my cover, I don’t complain.
The door opens the third time, and the newcomer asks if he should add some vapor.
Everyone except me shouts approval.
As soon as the hissing ends and a cloud of thick steam permeates the room, I stuff the birch bunch under my armpit and run for the door.
Yaroslav’s power doesn’t fail.
Not a single banya enthusiast stops me.
I exit, drop the torture equipment into a bucket, and walk briskly to the end of the hallway as I check my phone.
It’s almost time.
I peek around the corner and see a guard’s disappearing back.
I sprint.
This part of the banya has cameras, but my robe and towel should make me blend in.
Hopefully.
This is the least certain part of the plan.
I walk swiftly for the prerequisite number of seconds and then duck into a special “cold room.”
The chilly air is pleasant, but I only get to spend a few seconds here before I resume my quest.
Leaving the cold room, I speed-walk for a couple of seconds, then duck into a Turkish-style sauna. It’s so full of steam that it’s hard to breathe in it. I wait the one and a half minutes as instructed, getting thirstier by the second. By the time I leave, I’m on the verge of licking the droplets of condensed water from the walls and the ceiling. I don’t, though. Because yuck.
Exiting the Turkish room, I sprint into the next corridor.
Now is the trickiest part of the whole escape.
At the end of this hallway is a set of doors that lead to the backyard of the place.
I exit.
The backyard is a nice touch. If I’d come to this banya as a customer, I’d enjoy chilling on one of the lounge chairs. The surrounding wooden fence creates decent privacy, and the fall air is pleasant after all that heat.
Two guards are here, smoking as predicted.
The smoke gets into my face as I inhale a lungful of fresh air, and I fight the urge to cough.
I’m supposed to go around the corner where they can’t see me without drawing any attention to myself.
Desperately trying not to cough, I walk past the guards, doing my best to stride with the confidence of someone who totally belongs here.
My mind too focused on the smoke, I trip on the nearby lounge chair.
Shit.
That will draw attention.
The guards say something to me in Russian.
I grunt in as deep a voice as I can manage and keep walking.
“Stoy!” one of the guards shouts.
That’s completely off the script.
Damn it. I was so close.
I sprint desperately for the fence.
There are shouts in Russian behind me.
I rip the towel from my head, sling it over the top of the splinter-filled wood fence, and pull myself up.
A gunshot rings out.
The fence next to my arm explodes into pieces.
I fall down on the other side and roll.
The bathrobe and my jacket slightly dampen the impact on my ribs, but I still lose all air from my lungs and want nothing more than to lie here for a few months.
Fighting the deadly impulse, I scramble to my feet, throw off the robe, and dash toward a nearby building, recognizing it as the one that Yaroslav had described to me.
I hear a thud of boots landing on the pavement behind me and more Russian shouts.
The guards must’ve cleared the fence.
Another gunshot rings out.
A window on the first floor of the building shatters into tiny shards.
Are they crazy?
What if that stray bullet had killed someone?
More importantly, don’t these guys realize my uterus is important to their employer? Baba Yaga’s creepy Sasha’s-baby idea wouldn’t work if the mother-to-be gets a bullet in her brain.
I run into the dingy building lobby and slam the 11F button on the intercom.
This was part of the original plan too, except I’m much too early—which means this might not work.
Another gunshot.
Someone is bound to call the cops.
The door opens.
Whoever lives in 11F is either really brave or is really desperate to get a UPS package. If I heard gunshots outside, I wouldn’t open the building door for a few years.
I run in and make a sharp right, letting the faint smell of garbage guide me.
My nose doesn’t fail.
It takes me a few seconds to locate the side entrance where the building’s superintendent dumps the waste from the whole building.
Jumping over the black bags, I keep following my nose, this time focusing on the fresh smell of the ocean.
Without looking back, I reach the boardwalk in two minutes.
There are large crowds here, so I do my best to lose myself among them.
Walking along with the leisurely strolling people, I spot the Coney Island rides in the distance.
Weaving my way through the crowd, I run for the park.
When I pass the Thunderbolt and the Astro Tower, I hide in the line in front of one of the food vendors. If I don’t take care of my dehydration, I might collapse, and at the moment, there are no guards anywhere.
Then again, that doesn’t mean they’re not lurking around.
As the line moves, I use my phone to summon myself a cab ride.
When it’s my turn, I buy two overpriced water bottles, open one with shaking fingers, and chug it down in one long, greedy swallow.
People around me eye me with amused expressions.
“Worth every penny,” I say to them as I leave.
As I navigate through the festive crowds, my phone tells me that my ride is already waiting for me near Nathan’s Hotdogs, so that’s where I go.
The Cyclone roller coaster creaks in the distance as I approach the street and locate my cab.
A wave of sudden dread overcomes me.
I gape at the other side of the wide street in front of me.
The two guards are looking at me menacingly from across the road.
Chapter Twenty
I sprint for the cab.
They leap into the traffic.
Would they dare shoot me in front of hundreds of witnesses?
They dodge cars as they run toward me.
To onlookers, it might seem like they want to steal my cab—a common sin in New York City.
I reach the cab, rip the door open, and dive inside.
There’s a glimmer of metal in one of my attacker’s hands.
“I’ll give you a hundred-dollar tip if you hit the gas right this second,” I tell the older woman behind the wheel. “And I’ll write you the most glowing review you’
ve ever gotten.”
I’m not sure if it’s the money or the promise of a great review that does it, but we rocket forward—nearly running over both guards in the process.
I duck so they can’t see me in the rearview window.
No one shoots at us.
Five blocks later, I sit up and look back.
No pursuit.
In another mile, I uncap my second water bottle and take a relieved swig from it.
Still no one behind us.
When we turn onto the highway, I allow myself to relax.
No one is following me.
I managed to escape.
Unless someone is waiting at my building entrance again.
My heart jumps.
I take out my phone and dial Ariel to ask her to escort me up.
Her voicemails answers, and a strange, unsettling feeling comes over me.
Shaking it off, I dial Felix next.
“Sasha,” he says, picking up on the first ring. “What the hell happened? I got home, and you weren’t here. There were police next to the building, and the neighbors said there was gunfire. I’ve been crazy worried, thought the worst happened.”
“The worst pretty much did happen,” I tell him. “Our old friend from Brighton Beach forced me to have a chat that almost led to an atrocity. I’m lucky to be alive.”
“Baba Yaga? What did she do?”
“I’m in a cab,” I say. “Let’s talk when I get home.” I hope Felix understands that the Mandate makes it very hard for me to explain anything in front of the driver.
“Of course. Anything I can do?”
“I need to be sure no one jumps me on the way to the apartment,” I say. “Is Ariel home?”
“She’s not. But I can walk down and get you.”
“You might not be enough. No offense.”
“None taken,” he says. “When are you arriving? I’ll find an excuse to get the police here. I could tell them there was another shot fired or something like that.”
I launch the GPS app on my phone and share the estimated arrival with Felix.
“I’ll be ready,” he says. “Though, have you considered getting in touch with Nero? He could—”
“No,” I say irritably. “What Nero needs to do is hire a security person for this building to make sure what happened to me can’t happen again. Ours is probably the only downtown building without a doorman or a guard.”
“In Nero’s defense, the lack of a doorman might be so that a human isn’t sticking his nose into Cognizant business,” Felix says. “Our building is teeming with our kind.”
“Are you actually defending Nero?” I squeeze the phone tighter.
Felix sighs. “Let me make the arrangements for your safe arrival.”
“Thanks,” I say and hang up a little too forcefully.
For the rest of the ride, I attempt to meditate, and though I don’t reach Headspace, I’m much calmer by the time I arrive.
I spot Felix talking to police officers as I leave the car.
He winks at me as I pass by them. Then he says something to the cops, and they follow me into the building.
I summon the elevator.
“Did you find any bullet casings?” I overhear Felix ask as I get into the elevator.
The doors slide closed, so I don’t hear the police reply.
I hope they find the bullet and link it to the admiral. Since he’s not Cognizant, the police can deal with him as they do with any human criminal—and I doubt Baba Yaga would help a mere lackey.
When the elevator arrives at our floor, I leave the safety of the car and run straight for our door.
Entering, I close the door behind me, and when I lay eyes on Fluffster, I finally breathe out in relief.
I’d dare anyone to try to kidnap me now.
My furry protector would annihilate them.
“Felix told me something happened.” Fluffster’s mental message brims with worry. “Something about Baba Yaga capturing you?”
“I’ll explain in a minute,” I say, heading to the kitchen. “When Felix gets back.”
I rummage through the freezer and get a pack of frozen peas. Then I take the ice tray and fill two glasses with water and ice.
“Did Ariel come home?” I ask. Putting the peas on the chair, I plop my still-aching tailbone onto the icepack as I gulp half a glass.
“No.” Fluffster tilts his head in an almost dog-like fashion when I nearly choke on an ice cube in my eagerness to rehydrate.
Huh. Ariel wasn’t just late to take me to Orientation. She never showed up at all.
That’s not like her.
Figuring I could use some pet therapy, I gesture for Fluffster to jump on my lap. He does, and I proceed to mindlessly stroke his fur.
We sit like that until the front door squeaks, and Felix walks into the kitchen.
“Spill,” he says.
“It happened when I entered the building,” I start and tell them both about my encounter with Baba Yaga.
“I wonder if she was telling the truth about needing a child seer. In some Russian fairytales—no doubt apocryphal—she spends all her time eating little kids,” Felix says when I’m done. “Also, those same fairytales often feature owing someone your firstborn, but not this directly.”
“You don’t say.” I gulp down more water. “There are no fairytales where the princess—and I want to be the princess—is bred like a cow?”
He blushes and shakes his head.
“I hate to say it, but I told you so,” Fluffster informs me. “Hopefully, now you will listen to me and give up the annoying habit of leaving the house.”
“Well, you win this time.” I pick up the second glass. “I’m staying in until I solve this issue.”
“Will you reach out to Nero?” Felix asks.
“No. Maybe.” I down the glass, then say, “If I do, it will be as a last resort. First, I’d like to talk to Rose and Vlad.” I take out my phone, pull up the calendar app, and locate Vlad’s nearest mid-day visit. “He’ll be visiting her in three days. I was going to ask about vampire relationships anyway, but now I’ll also talk to him about this. Maybe the Council or the Enforcers can help me.”
“I doubt it,” Felix says. “It’s as likely as world peace, or Baba Yaga growing a conscience—”
“If they can’t help me, then I’ll sit home until I master my powers.” I get up, put the half-melted peas back into the freezer, and pour myself another glass of water. “If I learn to do what the bannik did, I’ll be able to tell when it’s safe to go out and when it isn’t. I think my power can be used to become almost invisible to my enemies.”
“That’s not a bad plan,” Felix says. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?”
“Please,” I say gratefully. “Something with lots of electrolytes.”
Felix makes us both asparagus-and-ham-stuffed potatoes, and I wolf down dinner before giving in to my exhaustion and heading to bed.
The next two days I spend as a shut-in—mainly ordering groceries online, watching TV, and meditating.
Unfortunately, none of my meditation attempts lead to Headspace.
At least I’m getting better and better when it comes to the prerequisite clearing of my mind.
I also develop a technique that should come in handy when my powers do come back.
Every time I can remember, I check my phone’s clock, in an OCD-like fashion.
My thinking is this: if I do this religiously, when I eventually get visions where I have my body, I’ll always know what time it is—because that future self will check her phone.
I’ve gotten very good at this practice in as little as two days. There is a negative side effect, however.
Constantly checking the time has made the two days at home crawl by even slower.
On the third day, I sleep almost until noon, stumble into the kitchen, and check my phone’s clock as part of my new OCD-like practice. When I find none of Felix’s leftovers, I grudgingly prepare t
he pan for cooking and get some eggs from the fridge.
“Hello, sleepy head,” Fluffster mentally says as he walks in.
“Hey.” I look down at him. “Did Ariel come home last night?”
“No,” he replies worriedly. “Not once this week.”
Pursing my lips, I angrily crack an egg into the sizzling pan.
When Ariel does eventually show up, we’re going to have a talk.
Fluffster drills me about my futile job search as I eat, and when I’m almost done, the phone in Ariel’s room starts ringing.
I bolt up and nearly trip as I rush to the source of the noise.
Maybe Ariel has realized she’s left her phone here and has decided to get in touch with me by calling herself.
The anxiety hits me just as I grab the ringing device.
I know this number.
It’s Baba Yaga.
I reject the call, but the caller doesn’t leave a voicemail.
So, I’m still on Baba Yaga’s mind. No surprise there.
I take Ariel’s phone with me as I clean up the kitchen, then make my way back to my bedroom and dress in a more presentable outfit.
According to my calendar, today is the day Vlad is at Rose’s apartment, so that’s where I’m heading.
“Will you have your powers in the hallway?” I ask Fluffster as I take my gun and switch off the safety. “I’m worried someone is waiting for me to leave the apartment.”
“No,” he says. “I once almost got eaten by that hellish cat when I made the mistake of venturing out.”
“This will have to do, then.” I wave the gun. “I’ll also prop the door open, so if someone is there, I’ll shoot them and run back in.”
Matching actions to words, I grab a giant “Global Economics” textbook from my shelf to use as a door stopper.
“I’ll be here,” Fluffster says and makes himself comfortable by the entrance. “Also remember, if you scream, Vlad will probably hear you.”
I nod, then take a calming breath and exit the apartment.
Chapter Twenty-One
No one bothers me as I sprint to Rose’s apartment.
Ringing the bell, I hide the gun.
The door opens, revealing Rose’s smiling face.
