Prophecy of Magic (Sasha Urban Series Book 6)

by Dima Zales

  Wow.

  That’s an amazingly accurate hologram. Something like this would not be possible with Earth technology.

  Oh, and I can’t believe I’m seeing Itzel in a vision at all, since, being a gnome, she’s resistant to my powers.

  I guess it makes sense, though. It looks like only a gnome’s physical presence is immune to seer visions, but not a future where Nero talks to a gnome via a hologram, phone, or Skype.

  Interesting.

  This can be useful if I ever have to glimpse some gnome’s future. I could ask Felix to build a drone to spy on said gnome all the time and then see the future of someone looking at the drone’s footage. And voila—future of a gnome.

  “What do you two want?” Sounding panicked, Itzel looks back and forth between Nero and Kit. “There’s no way I’m joining you on any more adventures. There isn’t enough money—”

  “I need you as a technical consultant,” Nero says soothingly. “You’re the smartest gnome I’ve ever met.”

  Instantly calming, Itzel stands straighter, a faint blush warming her face.

  “Isn’t she the only gnome you’ve ever met?” Kit mouths to Nero conspiratorially.

  Ignoring it, Nero steps toward Itzel’s hologram and says, “I need technology for a world where it isn’t supposed to work.”

  “That sounds like a contradiction.” Itzel’s hologram steps back from him. “Can you be a little more specific?”

  “Right.” Nero stops his advance. “First of all, gunpowder doesn’t ignite. Secondly—”

  The vision ends on an interesting part yet again.

  Well, maybe.

  There’s a good chance Itzel was about to geek out of control.

  Either way, it was nice to see that she’s okay. I’ll have to visit her one of these days. I bet she’ll have a heart attack when she sees me. She’ll think I, too, came to recruit her for some misadventure.

  In any case, it sounds like a lot of interesting things are happening, and I need to get to Gomorrah soon.

  As if in reply to my thought, the alarm on my phone goes off.

  Finally.

  I leap to my feet and hurry to the door.

  When the time is exactly 10:31:11, I open the door and sprint for the stairs.

  Reaching the floor below mine, I stop running and walk softly instead.

  Eric is likely back at his post by now. The TV I left blaring in my apartment should make him believe I’m still there watching it. If not, I’ll get intercepted at any moment.

  I creep down one floor, then another.

  No one comes after me.

  When I reach the second floor, I stop.

  Eric mentioned guards surrounding the building, so I need a strategy.

  But first, reconnaissance.

  I convince myself I’m about to waltz out of the main entrance, then go into Headspace to see how that dubious plan would play out.

  Thalia and a guy I don’t know stare at me with varying degrees of incredulity when I exit.

  I bolt in the opposite direction—but run smack into yet another guy I don’t know, who grabs the back of my blazer with his sausage-like fingers.

  Before I can rip out of his grasp, Thalia is already there, and so is the other guy.

  It takes them a few moments to restrain me—but only because they’re trying not to hurt me.

  Next thing I know, I’m being carried kicking and screaming to my apartment—

  I’m back on the staircase.

  Well, that went about as well as I expected. How about the back entrance? The one the building’s super uses to take out the garbage?

  Determining to go that way, I go into Headspace to see how it plays out.

  A guy in a suit smoking a cigarette is facing away from the door when I open it.

  I guess this is a good start. It would be worse if he were staring right at me.

  Still, I see no way to pass by without him noticing me.

  If I were Jason Bourne, I’d knock this guy out with a karate chop to the back of his head, or lock his neck in a crook of my elbow until he loses consciousness. But since I’m not, I opt for a subtler spy-inspired tactic.

  Taking out a deck of cards from my pocket, I toss it to the right—aiming for the garbage can.

  The bang is even louder than I hoped, and when the guard looks right, I sprint left.

  But I only make it two feet before a big, tobacco-smelling hand grabs my hair, nearly scalping me in the process.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” the guard growls and painfully grips my shoulder, no doubt leaving a mark.

  So that was that.

  Not only is that guy good at his job, he’s also incredibly rude.

  Could I use his asshole behavior as blackmail? Given what Nero did to the orcs when I got a bruise, he would seriously mind this guy grabbing me like that.

  Then again, how can I blackmail someone when the bad thing he does is in the future? Also, this guy doesn’t seem smart enough to realize the consequences of his actions, and might not get the whole concept of cause and effect—which is very important for blackmail.

  Oh well. At least I learned there’s just one guard at that entrance, and I know where he’ll face when he needs a smoke.

  I use Headspace a few times in a row before I develop a plan that even the bannik might’ve been proud of.

  First, I take out my phone and summon a cab. Next, I navigate the stairs to the basement, picking up a heavy pipe on the way. Then I make my way to the exit, stopping at the door to check the status of my ride on the app.

  Just like I foresaw, the app tells me that my car is waiting outside. I message the driver that I’m almost there and that I’m going to tip well for a quick departure.

  To make sure it’s time, I inhale deeply at the keyhole.

  Yep. It smells like an ashtray. He’s smoking as per my visions.

  Squeezing the pipe so hard my knuckles turn white, I open the door.

  The guard has his back to me, as he’s supposed to.

  Suppressing a pang of guilt and channeling Jason Bourne, I smack the back of his head with the pipe.

  He drops the cigarette but is still conscious—as expected.

  So I smack him twice more—that’s how many strikes it took in my visions.

  Someone has a very thick skull.

  He collapses, unconscious, and I stomp on his cigarette to make sure the building doesn’t burn down.

  In the last of my visions, I checked the guy’s vitals and he was fine, so I don’t bother this time around.

  So far, so good. This next part, however, is uncharted territory, as my visions didn’t extend that far.

  Dragging in a breath, I sprint for the cab.

  As I hoped, the driver didn’t see what transpired. Not that it matters because I have a sob story about an abusive relationship, just in case.

  As we pull away, I pretend to drop my phone to the floor and look for it as we drive by where Thalia and the other guards are standing.

  A few blocks later, I “locate” my phone, turn on the selfie mode, and use the camera to look behind us without turning.

  No pursuit.

  Score.

  Gomorrah, here I come.

  Ariel and Rasputin are going to be psyched to see me, though I guess Nero not so much.

  Then something occurs to me: Felix might resent that I didn’t give him a chance to ditch work and go see Ariel.

  Well, that can easily be remedied.

  I dial Felix’s number, but he doesn’t pick up.

  I text him next, but no result either.

  What is it with people and radio silence today?

  As I ponder that, something about Felix’s unresponsiveness rubs my intuition the wrong way, and a wave of angst spreads through me.

  Crap.

  Is he in trouble?

  Quelling my sped-up breathing, I dive into Headspace as if it were a pool of icy water.

  Unsurprisingly, the shapes that stalk m
e here play a terrifying tune.

  Prepared to see a deadly future, I reach for the worst offender.

  Chapter Six

  I’m bodiless—an indicator that it’s not me but someone I care about who is in danger.

  A bunch of strange men stand on a gray Manhattan sidewalk. Each is wearing a kosovorotka, which is a white linen shirt with an off-center collar and red embroidery—traditional Russian clothing that I’ve learned about during my language lessons.

  The oldest of the gang sports a goatee and has matching traditional pants on, as well as lapti—shoes that are a close relative of straw baskets.

  The younger guys are less hardcore, as they have jeans and sneakers on under their kosovorotkas.

  “It’s here,” a guy with a hawkish nose says in Russian, pointing at a large gray building.

  “Are you certain?” the older guy asks. “I don’t mean to offend you, of course, but—”

  “It’s 120 West 24th Street,” the younger dude replies and flashes his smartphone screen at everyone. “Are you ever going to trust modern technology, sir?”

  According to the GPS app on the screen, they are indeed where the guy says they are.

  “What do you call this?” The older guy rolls his sleeve to reveal an ancient-looking wristwatch. “The rest of what you call modern technology is just a means to become scatterbrained.”

  When they don’t think he can see them, the rest of his crew roll their eyes. The hawk-nosed one walks into the building and everyone follows. When they get into the elevator, they press the button for the seventh floor. Once there, they walk to apartment 7J, and the older guy politely knocks.

  “Do you work for Mr. Preysler?” Felix asks from behind the door. “He didn’t mention anyone would be stopping by.”

  Of course, it’s Felix who’s in danger. Thinking of him was what caused my malaise.

  If I had a mouth, I’d urge Felix to run, but I can’t.

  “Sasha, would you please?” the older guy asks, confusing me until I see he’s looking expectantly at the hawk-nosed one with the phone.

  So this guy’s name is also Sasha? I know my name is more commonly used as an abbreviation for Alexander in Russia, but living in America, I’ve never encountered a male Sasha before.

  My namesake solemnly nods, pulls out lockpicks from his jeans, and makes short work of the door—proving we have more in common besides our names.

  “Whoever you are, I’ve called the police,” Felix yells from behind the door. “I’m also armed—”

  The door swings open and my namesake steps in, followed by the rest of the young dudes.

  Felix flees, and I hear some commotion inside.

  The older guy walks in leisurely and follows the trail of broken furniture.

  By the time he enters the office, his allies have Felix restrained in a large computer chair, with my namesake and a weaselly guy standing menacingly to the side.

  “This is most unfortunate,” the older guy says in accented English and shakes his head at the countless broken monitors on the floor. Then his gaze settles on Felix’s terrified expression. “There was no need for unpleasantness. We’re just here to ask you a few questions, that’s all.”

  “Who are you?” Felix asks in English, his voice shaking. Then the outfits must register, because he switches to Russian. “What are you?”

  “Call me Woland,” the older guy says. “That is Sasha”—he nods at my namesake—“and that’s Boris.” He points at the weaselly dude.

  “Sure,” Felix mumbles under his breath, his eyes darting from Woland to Sasha and then to Boris. “That explains everything. Thanks.”

  “Just give us the information we need. Please,” Woland says gently. “The alternative is a world of pain.”

  Felix shrinks in his chair. “What do you want to know?”

  “Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin,” Woland says. “Please tell us where we can find him.”

  My roommate visibly pales. “Rasputin? You mean like the mystic from history?”

  “I’d rather not play games,” Woland says tiredly. “I can practically smell that mraz’ on you.” Woland gets so far into Felix’s face, his goatee touches my friend’s cheek. “Please tell me where he is, or I’ll be forced to hand you over to Sasha and Boris.”

  “I’m sorry.” Felix’s voice quivers. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Be so kind and show him your power,” Woland says to his younger associates.

  Closing his eyes, my namesake touches Felix’s exposed wrist with a look of deep concentration on his face.

  “Each of us has an affinity with an organ in the body,” Woland says. “Sasha’s is the brain.” He looks at my namesake like a proud parent. “When he masters his power completely, he’ll be able to force you to say what we need. For now, though, we have to use a more indirect approach.” His tone turns almost apologetic. “Though pain is a complex neurological phenomenon, Sasha found a shortcut to it by overstimulating an area called the dorsal posterior insula. The effect is a magnification of the pain experience.”

  He nods at Boris, who grins nastily and flicks Felix’s forehead with a finger.

  Felix gasps as though he was struck with a baseball bat, his nostrils flaring and his eyes watering.

  He doesn’t scream, but I can tell he wants to.

  “Do we understand each other now?” Woland asks. “Please tell me what I’d like to know.”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” Felix gasps.

  Shaking his head in disappointment, Woland nods at Boris—who grins and slaps Felix across the cheek with an open palm.

  This time, Felix can’t suppress a scream.

  Actually, it sounds like the howl of a wounded animal.

  When the screaming stops, Felix’s breath is ragged and uneven, like he’s about to suffocate.

  Woland looks at all this disapprovingly, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes away one of the rivulets of sweat pouring down Felix’s face.

  “Please,” Woland says. “He wouldn’t suffer for you if the roles were reversed.”

  Gasping for air, Felix somehow still manages to shake his head.

  Boris looks at Woland eagerly, and the older man nods.

  Turning his hand into a fist, Boris punches Felix in the nose so hard there’s a sound of bone breaking.

  This time, Felix doesn’t even scream. Instead, his eyes roll back and his body convulses as though he’s having a seizure.

  Then his breathing halts.

  Boris looks at his boss in confusion, then back at Felix’s ashen face.

  Woland walks over to Felix and checks the pulse in his neck.

  “The heart has stopped,” he says, glaring at Boris disapprovingly. “You were supposed to slowly escalate the pain, not send him into shock.”

  “Well, you’re the heart expert,” Boris says defensively. “Can’t you do something?”

  “My specialty is stopping hearts, not starting them.” Woland removes his hand from Felix’s throat and makes as if he’s going to touch Boris with his index finger—causing Boris to pull away as though the finger were a poisonous snake. Lowering the finger like a gunslinger holstering a weapon, Woland says, “Sasha, can you spark some part of his brain to get him to snap out of this?”

  My namesake’s brows furrow; then he opens his eyes and shakes his head.

  “Let’s try to solve this as humans would,” Woland says. “Lay him down there.” He points at the floor.

  They follow his order, and when Felix is on his back, Woland forces Boris to compress Felix’s chest while my namesake blows air into Felix’s lungs.

  A couple of compressions—and likely broken ribs—later, Woland touches Felix’s neck again and looks pleased.

  “He’s going to live,” he says and looks at Boris with an expression that seems to imply, “And therefore, so will you.”

  “I’m going to take away the pain of his injuries as he comes to,” my namesake says. “The
n I can remove my aid or intensify the pain to resume the interrogation.”

  And on that sinister note, the vision cuts out.

  Chapter Seven

  “We have to change our destination,” I yell at the driver as soon as I find myself back in the cab. I rattle out the address from the vision and desperately try to think of what I can do to prevent the nightmare I just foresaw.

  To start, I call and text Felix again, but I still can’t reach him. He must have his phone turned off to focus on his work.

  Next, I show myself a vision of what happens if I call the police.

  Sadly, Felix’s fate remains unchanged—the cops simply don’t get to the scene in time.

  Maybe I can ask Eric and Thalia to help me?

  I leap into Headspace and learn that such a future isn’t great either. My guards waste time by locking me in the apartment, and by the time they get to Felix, it’s too late.

  Returning to Headspace, I try about a thousand variations of the Eric-and-Thalia option in case something I might say will convince them not to lock me up.

  Nope.

  I never manage to find the right words.

  Fine.

  Time to see what happens when I get there myself.

  It’s two against a dozen—what could possibly go wrong?

  Just as I start focusing on my next entry into Headspace, the cab jerks to a stop, giving me whiplash.

  Rubbing my neck, I look up to see the cause.

  Wow.

  We nearly ran over a blind man—at least I assume that’s why he has that special walking stick, the dark glasses, and (most tellingly) a giant canine wearing a guide-dog getup.

  Before I can recover from this first shock, the door next to me opens and a woman whooshes inside with supernatural speed.

  A very familiar woman.

  A woman I’m not ready to face—and probably never will be.

  My biological mother, Lilith.

  Chapter Eight

  Paralyzed, I stare at Lilith as she taps the driver on the shoulder.