Prophecy of Magic (Sasha Urban Series Book 6)

by Dima Zales

  Except Rasputin doesn’t have his seer mojo after helping Nero, so he won’t come.

  The big question is: would I tell them where Rasputin is once they begin torturing me? Then again, isn’t that up to me? Given this contract, Woland won’t be able to leverage my adoptive parents to make me talk, and I think I have a higher tolerance for pain than Felix does.

  “I bet she won’t come,” Boris whispers under his breath and gets a glare from Woland.

  When the clock turns 12:55, the vision terminates.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As soon as I return to reality, I frantically put the Brooklyn address from the contract into my phone.

  Crap.

  I’ll never make it in time with current traffic conditions.

  I tinker with the app to see if I can do so on foot. Nope. I’d be there even later.

  I look up from the phone. “Stop the car!”

  The driver looks at me like I’m insane, and with good reason—because of the traffic, we’re standing still already.

  Without wasting time on farewells or explanations, I jump out of the car and run through the sea of vehicles until I see a ray of hope parked illegally next to the Starbucks on the other side of the road, where the traffic is moving swiftly.

  It’s a Vespa—a pink clone of the one I used to own.

  I sprint for it and pray the owner doesn’t come out in the next few seconds.

  The first thing I did when I got my own Vespa was figure out how to hotwire it, so I could take measures to prevent someone else from doing so. Now I just have to hope the owner of this baby isn’t a handy magician-type like me.

  Nearly getting run over twice, I reach the scooter and furtively look around.

  No one seems to be looking my way, so I steady my shaking hands and try the quickest Vespa-nabbing method I’ve devised.

  If I knew I’d one day need to do this in a hurry, I would’ve practiced.

  A few anxiety-ridden seconds later, I’m on the Vespa and maxing out the gas.

  Even with all the adrenaline, I feel bad about this grand theft auto. If I survive, I’ll ask Felix to help me track down the owner and make amends.

  If I survive.

  For everyone’s sake, I better focus on that for now.

  A yellow cab whooshes by as I make a sharp and very illegal U-turn onto the traffic-jammed side of the road.

  Once there, I use my ride’s small stature to pass by the almost-parked cars in front of me, speeding up as I go.

  A minute later, I’m flying so fast that if someone were to open a door or stick a hand out the window, I’d be dead instantly, especially without a helmet.

  Clutching my phone, I check it to see if I’d make my destination now and find the GPS app doesn’t have an option for “scooter.” If I were in a car without traffic, I’d make it—but even at this breakneck speed, I’m driving noticeably slower than a car.

  If I were cycling—which is a little closer to a scooter—I’d be late.

  Also, do I even want to make it there on time? I’m basically rushing to get myself into Woland’s trap.

  The problem is, my time is too limited to come up with a better way to save my parents.

  Still, I ought to at least try something else.

  What if I do the obvious and dial 911? I can tell one operator that I’m staying at The Plaza hotel and heard gunshots coming from Dad’s room. I can then call back and tell another operator that I live at Mom’s address and heard two gunshots in her apartment.

  Thus determined, I jump into Headspace to see if calling the cops would change the fates of my parents.

  Nope.

  The police either don’t make it in time or get killed by the chorts when they do.

  Next, I contemplate sending the cops to Woland’s address.

  Again, a vision tells me that nothing changes—which isn’t surprising given what the contract said about showing up alone. He must’ve ordered my parents’ deaths once he saw the cops.

  Another desperate idea occurs to me, and I dial Felix.

  “Hey,” he says. “How are things going?”

  “Good,” I lie. “Listen, can you give the phone to the good-looking guy who was guarding our door this morning?”

  “You mean Eric?” Felix sounds amused.

  “Yep,” I pant. “Him.”

  “He wasn’t there when I came home,” Felix says.

  Damn it.

  Eric must be searching for me somewhere. I should’ve realized that. The hope was to recruit him to help with this mess. With his teleportation abilities, he could’ve taken Mom and Dad to safety—assuming I was able to talk him into it, that is.

  “What’s this about?” Felix asks.

  “Going into the tunnel,” I say and hiss into the phone. “Will call you back soon.”

  Felix doesn’t call back—which means he didn’t question the dodgy logic of me calling to talk to Eric right before going into the tunnel.

  Or he noticed and will make fun of me later.

  I sure hope he does as that would mean I have a “later.”

  In the distance, I see the end of the traffic. It seems the cause was an accident, where a minivan crashed into a truck.

  I whoosh by the broken car parts, clutching the handles harder. There are now cars on the road, moving cars that can ram into me.

  Glancing at the time on the phone, I cringe and squeeze all I can from the Vespa’s four-stroke engine.

  Giant-looking cars seem to zoom by me at death-on-impact speeds.

  Would Woland call off his chorts if I died in a fiery crash?

  No, I doubt it. Besides, how would he even learn of my demise?

  It’s looking like I only have one choice left.

  To let Woland have me.

  If only Nero were still on Earth—or Vlad, or Kit, or anyone. Almost every Cognizant I know is not available. Except maybe Chester—but he’s mad at me.

  Since I’m desperate, I risk my life to call Chester anyway. He doesn’t pick up.

  I guess there’s also Lucretia, my shrink, and Pada, the cleanup guy.

  Using a voice command, I call Pada first. A voicemail informs me that he’s on vacation.

  Great.

  Not even him.

  Not that I expected Pada to help in any case. Taking a side is probably bad for his job security. He only needs to wait and help Woland clean up my bloodied corpse after the torture.

  I call Lucretia next, but I get a voicemail telling me she’s with a client. I leave a message to call me back if she frees up soon but don’t place much hope on it. She wouldn’t make it from the city in time in any case. Also, the chorts didn’t have trouble killing Enforcers, so what chance does a newbie vampire like Lucretia have against them?

  What about the bannik, Lucretia’s boyfriend? Could he assist me somehow?

  Swerving into the slower lane, I focus extra hard to enter Headspace.

  When I find myself floating, I realize I’ve never done this while driving.

  Then I spot the horrific shapes that surround me on all sides.

  It doesn’t take a lot of brainpower to know what these would show me—my upcoming encounter with Woland.

  If I had a body, I’d pull away from the shapes as if they were covered in pus and boils. I’m afraid that if I witness that future, I might chicken out and let my parents die.

  Remembering my original goal, I reach out to the bannik, but to no avail.

  Well, the chance of him helping was slim, anyway.

  Since I’m here, I try summoning Rasputin next—though I’m not even sure I’d tell him the situation if he answered. He doesn’t answer in any case, sparing me any need to lie.

  I float and ponder if I should try one more thing. Finally, I decide to go for it.

  Reluctantly, I do my best to think of Nostradamus’s essence.

  Nothing happens.

  Maybe I didn’t get to know him well enough yet, or he’s not in Headspace.

  Or maybe he
’s just snubbing my summons.

  Glancing at the scary shapes once more, I touch my own representation, terminating the futile Headspace session.

  I come back to my senses—and see a Honda Civic mere inches away from my front tire. It must be slowing to turn onto the upcoming ramp.

  Desperately squeezing the handle bars, I veer into the middle lane without looking in the mirror.

  I don’t die, but my heart rate jumps sky high as a vicious honk reaches my ears.

  The guy I cut off speeds up and gesticulates obscenities at me as he passes by.

  That does it.

  For the rest of this crazy ride, I’m going to focus on the road.

  Thus determined, I empty my mind as much as I can and drive for all I’m worth until the GPS makes me turn off the highway.

  Whooshing onto the exit ramp, I continue through the regular streets at the same top speed I was going on the highway.

  If it weren’t for my seer-boosted driving intuition, I would’ve died at least four times, and likely taken a few pedestrians with me. On the bright side, it’s 12:54 when I park next to the warehouse that’s my destination.

  I sprint into the familiar room, pushing several chorts out of my way. “I’m here! Call it off. Now.”

  Woland’s aura shimmers. I guess it recognizes the contract he signed is now officially in effect.

  “Hurry, please,” Woland says and raises his phone to his ear, just as Boris does the same thing.

  “It’s off,” they both say when the other side picks up. “It worked. See you when you get here.”

  I gulp down some air and realize the contract said nothing about me trying to escape once I arrive here alone.

  With that, I bolt for the door, but the chorts I passed earlier form an impenetrable wall in front of me.

  Fine.

  This place has windows. Maybe I could—

  A fist connects with my chin, knocking me unconscious.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Waking up to throbbing pain emanating from the lower portion of my face, I moan in complaint.

  What did the cat do to me? Why?

  Then I hear someone walk over, and memory floods in.

  I’m not in my bed.

  I’ve been captured by the chorts.

  That moan was a huge miscalculation. It would’ve been much more advantageous to play dead.

  “Finally, you’re back,” Woland says from a few feet away. “That is fortunate. I’m eager to talk to you.”

  Without opening my eyes, I scan my body.

  Something is hanging on my neck, and my arms are trapped at my sides. If I had to guess, I’d say I’m duct-taped to a chair—which is bad. That’s one of the hardest bindings to defeat.

  “Please don’t pretend to still be unconscious.” Woland must be right in my face now, as I can smell the smoked fish on his breath. “I don’t want to start our conversation by forcing you to open your eyes.”

  “Fine.” I squint at him, then look down at the thing on my neck and find it to be a bib, like the ones they give you at seafood restaurants. How thoughtful. They don’t want all the blood they plan to spill to ruin my outfit. “Before we ‘talk’ about anything, I wanted to check if you know who my Mentor is?”

  I figure if I have to put up with Nero’s bossy ass, I might as well name-drop him in case that scares these assholes.

  “I know for a fact that Nero isn’t around to interfere with this meeting.” Woland looks me over. “How about you cooperate and make this easy on yourself?”

  “Sure,” I say, but instead of listening to his reply, I frantically try to come up with a strategy.

  Obviously, telling them Rasputin’s location is out of the question. But that doesn’t mean I have to bravely refuse to talk at all and just take my torture the way spies in movies do.

  What if I try something different? Like sending the chorts on a wild goose chase? I can refuse to talk at first for verisimilitude, then pretend to “break” and tell them Rasputin is somewhere very far. When they go to locate him, I’ll think of a way to escape. They might be pretty mad if they learn I lied—but what are they going to do, tie me to a chair and torture me?

  Something about this plan makes me uneasy, so I decide to use my powers to see what would happen if I went through with it. Now that I can’t chicken out of coming to this place, visions are an option again, especially if I don’t mind living through torture twice.

  Of course, I do mind, but in this case, the benefits might outweigh the costs.

  “Are you even listening to me?” Woland asks, sounding frustrated, but I ignore him and jump into Headspace.

  As soon as I find myself among the shapes, I start by trying to reach Rasputin, the bannik, and Nostradamus.

  Once again, none of them reply.

  Fine. Back to why I came here.

  I look at the four clouds of visions in my immediate vicinity: one deadly and three neutral in comparison.

  Crap.

  Maybe this is enough?

  I can already tell lying is a bad idea.

  But no.

  I must know for sure.

  Reaching for a representative of each shape, I prepare for unpleasant experiences.

  The pain is so unbearable that I have no doubt they’ll believe me if I pretend to “break” now.

  I’m on the verge of genuinely breaking.

  “Stop,” I rasp out. “I’ll tell you where he is.”

  “Please go ahead,” Woland says soothingly.

  “I don’t know the exact name of the world, but dragons live there,” I say through a parched throat. “There’s a silver Grand Canyon-like mountain ridge near the gates.” I spit up blood. “I can draw you a map.”

  What I don’t add is that this map will take them through hellish Otherlands with hungry gnomes, radiation, poisons, giant insects, and lots more fun.

  Woland sighs. “I have it on good authority that Rasputin is here, on Earth,” he says. All usual politeness gone from his voice, he adds, “Lie to me one more time, and I’ll stop your heart.”

  The chorts around me murmur as I wonder if he’s bluffing.

  He sure sounds sincere.

  Also, whoever his good authority is, they’re wrong—Rasputin isn’t on Earth right now.

  Crap.

  This means even if I broke and told them the truth, they wouldn’t believe me.

  Then again, that might be a good thing.

  “Now,” Woland says. “Please tell me where he really is—”

  I don’t hear the rest because the vision halts in that moment, and another begins.

  I feel on the verge of breaking for real again, which means I might as well fake it the second time here and now.

  “Stop,” I rasp through chapped lips, my voice hoarse from screaming. “This time, I really will tell you where he is. No more lies.”

  “Please go ahead,” Woland says soothingly. “Just remember, lie to me again and you die.”

  He must be bluffing.

  How is he going to find out where Rasputin is if I’m dead? I guess there’s Felix, but still. He must be bluffing.

  I hope he’s bluffing.

  “Queenstown, New Zealand.” I cough up more blood. “Rasputin is staying at the Four Seasons there.”

  I have no idea if there’s a Four Seasons there, but I sure hope so. I just named the farthest place I can think of, and the first famous hotel that popped into my head.

  Woland takes out his phone and swipes a few times.

  “You mean the Four Seasons Motel on Stanley Street?” he asks.

  “Right,” I say. “Room 7.”

  A motel? It must not be that Four Seasons, but hey, I’ll take any lucky breaks I can get.

  “Thank you,” he says. “You can relax now.”

  Turning away from me, he says to Boris and a few other chorts, “Stay and watch her. The rest of us will go deal with Rasputin.”

  The warehouse door opens, and a furious-looking Woland rushes
in, the rest of the chorts on his tail.

  What the hell? They were gone for much too short a time to go to New Zealand and back.

  Then I get it.

  They must’ve cheated and used the Otherlands as a shortcut—like Ariel and I did when we went to Vegas.

  Looks like I’m going to find out if Woland was bluffing.

  I swallow audibly, and he advances on me.

  “I told you what would happen if you lied to me again.” Grabbing my aching chin, Woland forces me to meet his gaze.

  Crap. Judging by the murder in his eyes, he wasn’t bluffing.

  “Wait,” I say frantically. “I can tell you where he is. For real.”

  “No.” Woland’s face is stone hard. “You’ve wasted enough of my time.”

  And with that, foul energy spreads from his hand into my chin and throughout my body.

  “Stop!” I want to yell, but I can’t get the word out because my breath is too ragged. I’m shaking and sweating, waves of nausea hitting me, one after another. It feels like a tower of elephants has perched on my chest, and my left arm goes numb as horrific pain explodes in my torso.

  My head spins sickeningly, black spots dancing in front of my vision, and with one last choked gasp, I die.

  I find myself in the same warehouse, but bodiless.

  The reason for the body loss is clear. That’s my freshly dead corpse in the chair.

  The visions showed me where the path of lying leads, and this is the finale.

  “It’s poetic justice,” Woland says to the dead me and removes his hand from her chin. “Rasputin took my daughter, and now I have taken his.” He straightens, looking lost in thought until Boris clears his throat.

  “Yes?” Woland looks at his minion.

  “What now?” Boris asks. “Should we—”

  I return to the reality of the chair and look around in confusion.

  “Help her focus,” Woland says to Boris.

  Grinning, Boris walks over and smacks my cheek with the back of his hand.

  The pain is sharp and stinging, but at least it’s not amplified by the recently departed Sasha-chort the way it was for Felix.