The Girl Who Sees

by Dima Zales

  Before he puts on his mask, I glimpse anxious confusion on his face.

  Did he not see this coming with his psychic powers? In my vision, Chester did say seers weren’t omniscient. Or is he afraid of Nero?

  Maybe both?

  Nobody asks for my preference, which is unfortunate. I’d much rather be Darian’s Mentee. I don’t need super powers to know that if Nero is my Mentor, I’m chained to my hedge fund job for good.

  Before I can debate the wisdom of speaking up, good behavior pledge or not, the Council members put on their masks and the organ music resumes.

  The Mentor part of the Rite seems to be over, and I’m stuck with Nero.

  How much worse can this get?

  The giant gestures toward the slab.

  I look at him, then at the cold stone, and mouth, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Get on,” he says, his voice reverberating in my belly. “Try to relax.”

  “Try to relax,” is what doctors, especially gynecologists, like to say right before they do something unspeakably unpleasant.

  Cursing under my breath, I lie down on the slab.

  The candles dim and from the bottom of the giant’s staff grows a large circle of magical energy—a red plasma-like thing that must be a distant relative of the gate Ariel and I entered at JFK.

  The candles go out completely.

  The giant rips my robe open.

  My chest heaves in shallow breaths, making my exposed breasts bounce up and down in the chilly air.

  I cover myself with my hands.

  Is there going to be an orgy after all? I hope not. My good behavior policy does have its limits—limits we’ve already passed with this public undressing.

  The giant man raises his staff ceremoniously in the air.

  I can’t help but notice how much the red glowing circle looks like an iron brand.

  Am I about to be branded like cattle?

  “Try to relax,” my foot. I move to skedaddle, ready to tell the Council to shove that thing someplace where it will have a better chance to shine, but the giant must see my intention and has a plan of his own.

  His movements too fast for someone of such huge size, he lowers the glowing staff onto my stomach before I can dodge it.

  I inhale so deeply I worry my lungs might burst.

  My skin doesn’t sizzle where the brand touches it, but if it did, the burning would’ve been preferable to the internal agony I’m experiencing.

  It feels like my very essence is being branded. Like something that makes me who I am is getting violently rearranged.

  I convulse spasmodically on the slab and scream out something inhuman. It’s as though someone recorded the wails of all the pigs ever slaughtered and is playing this recording through my vocal cords.

  As if in the distance, I hear the giant boom, “Her power might be too great for the Mandate to contain.”

  “There’s no choice,” someone says authoritatively, but I lose track of the rest of the conversation because, impossibly, the agony intensifies.

  An ocean of foam, Ensure-vomit, and blood spews out of my mouth, and there might be more embarrassing body fluids coming out of other places.

  The magical energy seeps into every one of my nerve endings, firing each one like a note in an infernal symphony. When this music of pain reaches a particularly unbearable crescendo, something inside me breaks.

  I feel as though I’m falling, plummeting through the slab, the crust of the Earth, the tar-like mantle, and the liquid iron, and then slamming into the solid inner core that’s as hot as the surface of the Sun.

  With another inhuman scream that tears through my throat like a shot of hydrofluoric acid, I black out.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I wake up with a scream on my lips.

  Opening my eyes, I’m relieved to find myself in my cozy bed, with no sacrificial slab in sight.

  According to my nightstand clock, it’s 9:37 a.m. The shades have kept the room dark enough to let me sleep well past sunrise.

  I throw off the blanket. Someone dressed me in my favorite poker-themed PJs. I lift the pajama top and examine my stomach. There’s no hideous burn where the brand touched me, which makes sense since I’ve never seen one on Ariel’s flesh, and she must’ve lived through the same horrific Rite.

  The door opens.

  “Speak of the devil,” I say, surprised my voice isn’t hoarse from all the screaming and vomiting during the Rite.

  “How are you feeling?” Ariel approaches and sits carefully on the edge of my bed.

  “Surprisingly well,” I say, mentally scanning my whole body and coming up with no problems to report. “They must’ve taken me to that healer again.”

  “They had to.” Ariel grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “It was so horrible. I didn’t think you’d make it.”

  I sit up and frown at her. “You said the Rite is something every Cognizant goes through.”

  “The nature of the Rite is to interweave the Mandate with your power,” she says, releasing my hand. “When you have more power, the process is harder.”

  “Oh, hey.” I slide my feet into the slippers someone left for me. “Now we can talk about all the Cognizant secrets without you bleeding.”

  “Well, yeah.” Ariel stands up and reaches over to pull open the blinds, letting warm sun rays into the room. “You’re now under the Mandate. Congrats. Now you too will bleed and/or die if you try to explain anything to someone not under the Mandate.”

  “I don’t know enough to explain anything to anyone anyway,” I say, stretching. “Speaking of which, what was that place we passed by on the way to Vegas? The one with purple sky and pink clouds?”

  “That’s one of the Otherlands,” she says over her shoulder, then turns back to face me. “Wait a minute. How did you see the sky with your blindfold on?”

  “Never mind that.” I hide my evil grin from her by tiding up my bed. “Is that where all the Cognizant are from? From one of these Otherlands?”

  “Yes,” Ariel says. “That’s what I’ve been taught.”

  “And where are the Otherlands?” I straighten my blanket. “Are they in some other galaxy? Or are they in a different universe altogether?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “A huge difference.” I walk to the closet and look for something warm. “Different universes can have different laws of physics.”

  “How do we know that the laws of physics aren’t different in distant parts of our own universe?” Ariel asks.

  “I’m not sure.” I take out my fuzziest sweater and put it on. “I just know that visiting another universe is cooler than another planet.”

  “The Otherlands are worlds parallel to this one, so I guess they exist in another dimension or universe—whichever way that’s supposed to work.”

  I turn around and start nodding, then freeze, my mouth falling open. For the first time today, I truly look at Ariel, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  A red, aura-like field surrounds my roommate, with a big, glowing design at the center. The design looks exactly like the brand I was marked with during the Rite—a memory that makes me shudder.

  I rub my eyes, but the visual artifact doesn’t go away. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it earlier.

  “What is that?” I wave my hand in the air around Ariel. “What is that glow around you?”

  “That’s the Mandate,” Ariel says. “This is how you can detect other people who are under it. How else are you supposed to know who’s one of us?”

  I shrug. “I never gave it much thought.”

  “That’s a first.” She winks at me. “This is like a new sense we all get after the Rite. You’ll get used to it in time. I’ve stopped noticing it now, unless I need it.”

  “A new sense,” I mutter under my breath and look around the room for Fluffster.

  “I already fed the little guy,” Ariel says, for some reason avoiding my gaze. “And gave him water. A
nd put his dust bath in Felix’s room. He’s enjoying himself there for the moment. You have a lot of new stuff to take in, and I didn’t want you distracted by anything before breakfast.”

  “Breakfast?” My stomach rumbles loudly.

  “I made oatmeal,” Ariel says, heading toward the kitchen.

  I follow her, salivating like a Pavlov’s dog.

  “Sit,” Ariel orders, and I gladly obey.

  “You have to run to work soon.” She ladles a cup of oatmeal into a bowl and sprinkles it with nuts and dried fruit. “Your new Mentor insisted you go back to your normal routine—and you don’t want to piss him off, trust me.”

  “Of course that slave driver wants me back at work,” I say, irritably swirling my spoon in the oatmeal. “I’m surprised he let me sleep in.”

  “You might want to cut the guy some slack.” Ariel serves herself double my amount of oatmeal and triple the nuts. “He’s hosting your Jubilee tonight, and he didn’t have to do that. It’s usually the family, not your Mentor, who foots that bill.”

  “My what?” My spoon hovers next to my mouth. “Please don’t tell me there are more ceremonies. I don’t think I can survive another Rite, even one with a perky name.”

  “No, silly, the Jubilee isn’t like that,” she says. “It’s fun. It’s where you’re formally recognized as a Cognizant by our society. Everyone you know comes to it, and there’s dancing, alcohol, food—”

  “So it’s some sort of a debutante ball?” I finally shovel some oatmeal into my mouth.

  “Guys do it too,” she says, blowing on a spoonful of her own oatmeal. “It’s more like a bar mitzvah.”

  “Where is this going to take place?” I ask through the food in my mouth. “And when will it happen?”

  “It’s at the ballroom at your fund,” Ariel says and beams excitedly. “It starts tonight, at six p.m.”

  So Nero is going to let me get off work early for this. He’s clearly pulling out all the stops.

  I focus on my food for a moment, digesting the information. I want to have a party as much as I want a leech on my forehead, but as long as it’s not another Rite, I’d rather mingle with a drink in my hands than research stocks. Plus, Ariel will have a blast. She’d enjoy a trip to the DMV if there were dancing involved.

  Remembering something unpleasant that I wanted to talk to her about, I swallow my spoonful and cautiously ask, “Do you think Gaius will be there?”

  “Any Cognizant who wants to attend will have that option,” she says, her face turning unreadable at the mention of Gaius.

  Subtlety failing, I go for a more direct approach. “Is something going on between the two of you?”

  “What would give you such an insane idea?” She adds more nuts to her oatmeal and looks at me so earnestly I almost wonder if I misread the situation.

  Almost.

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” I say after I lose our staring contest. “He threatened to kill you if I told the Council about his and Darian’s involvement in the TV performance.”

  “Ah.” She waves her hand dismissively, like death threats are a small nuisance—something along the lines of walking a chihuahua in the park without a leash. “That’s just BS politics. I’m actually surprised Gaius was working with Darian at all—and that Vlad approved it, assuming that he did.”

  “Giaus said he wants a favor from Darian—a vision, I think.” I go to the fridge, get a box of orange juice and two glasses, and bring them back to the table.

  “He must really want to know his future. I wouldn’t deal with a seer, even if I was about to be sent to Iraq again,” she says and nods in thanks for the OJ I pour for her. “No offense, of course.”

  “I don’t see myself as a seer, so none taken. But why don’t you want to deal with one?”

  “Because when you do, you can be certain you’ve become a pawn that the seer will use, and sacrifice, if needed.” Ariel guzzles down her juice. “Again, I’m sure you won’t be like that when you master your powers—or at least, you won’t be like that when it comes to me. Hopefully.”

  An unpleasant feeling forms in the pit of my stomach at the idea of being Darian’s pawn. It’s a glove that seems to fit pretty well, except for the part where he didn’t become my Mentor. Does that make me Nero’s pawn?

  “Is Nero a seer too?” I ask. “Everyone seems afraid of him for some reason.”

  Ariel chokes on her juice and coughs a few times before saying, “I’m not sure what he is; some Cognizant like to keep the specifics of their power secret. All everyone knows is that he’s dangerous and not someone you want to mess with. But if you ever find out what he is, please tell me. I’m dying of curiosity.”

  “What about you?” I ask, realizing this should’ve been my first question. “What kind of a Cognizant are you? What are your powers? Unless that’s a secret too?”

  “Oh, that.” Ariel swallows another small spoonful of her food. “I’m a pretty useless kind of Cognizant. All I have is strength and speed, nothing else.”

  “If you ask me, those are pretty useful powers. I’d gladly swap with you.” I add some more dried fruit to my bowl, figuring I deserve a little extra sweetness after last night’s ordeal. “So is your type of Cognizant a creature from legend, too? Like a werewolf?”

  “It’s a little embarrassing,” she says.

  I grin. “It can’t be more embarrassing than my lack of sex life—and I told you about that. And you mentioned it in front of Felix yesterday, by the way. So you owe me.”

  “Fine.” She shovels in a big spoonful of oatmeal and maliciously makes me wait until she’s done chewing it. “Have you ever heard of Heracles?”

  This time, I nearly choke on my juice. “You mean Hercules? As in, the Twelve Labours? As in, the Disney cartoon? As in, that movie with The Rock? As in—”

  “Yes, that one,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I was told my great-great-grandpa hated that the Romans renamed him. He was born Heracles, not Hercules. But yes, that was my ancestor.”

  Given my recent acceptance of the existence of necromancers and vampires, I’m not sure why this new shift in my paradigm is so jarring, but it is. There’s just something so odd about—

  “I’ve never told this to anyone,” Ariel says. “Promise you’ll keep it between us. If Felix teases me about my heritage, I might inadvertently twist off his head—and I’d never forgive myself if I did that.”

  “Sure.” I chuckle. “I’ll let Felix keep his head. What is he, by the way? Please say he’s a leprechaun and his family secretly founded the Lucky Charms cereal. Or maybe—”

  “Do you know how different Uzbekistan is from Ireland?” Ariel gestures with her spoon. “I can’t tell you the human myth equivalent for his type of Cognizant. He either doesn’t know or hasn’t shared that with me. What I do know is that his father can make sand and glass do his bidding, and Felix inherited a variation of that power.”

  “Let me guess,” I say with mock triumph. “He can command a glass dildo to—”

  “Gross.” Ariel covers her mouth with her hand. “Too many horrible images in my head now.”

  “But seriously.” I gather the remains of my oatmeal into my spoon. “What can he do?”

  “I don’t want to rob him of the pleasure of telling you all about it,” Ariel says mischievously. “In all the gloriously boring little details.”

  “Fine,” I say, finishing my food. “Be like that.”

  “I’ll trade you,” Ariel says. “Tell me how you did the TV prediction, and I’ll tell you what Felix’s power is.”

  “You’re not going to leave me alone about that one, I see. Fine. Given that I’ve lost my mentalism forever, I don’t see the harm in showing you how I did what I did. Be right back.”

  I grab my laptop from my room and come back.

  Sitting down at the table, I navigate to my email. I’m about to locate Darian’s email with the video when I notice that my inbox is overflowing with emails from every one of my acquaintance
s. Half are talking about my prediction, but the other half have more sinister-looking subject lines, linking to a YouTube video.

  I follow the link from one of the messages to a YouTube video titled “Fake Psychic Exposed.”

  Without turning the laptop toward Ariel, I play the first few seconds of the video.

  It’s the one I was about to show her. Only now it’s been seen by millions of people—people who think I’m a fraud.

  Ariel must see my face whiten, because she frowns and asks, “What’s wrong?”

  I turn the laptop so she can see, and press play.

  The video starts playing a security recording of what happened that Sunday afternoon, many hours before I came to the studio. Specifically, it shows me wearing a brown UPS uniform that’s still hidden in the back of my closet. In the video, I pretend to have a package for Kacie’s assistant, the guy who will later swear he never took his eyes off the envelope I mailed to the studio weeks in advance. Of course, as soon as they let me through, I swap my mailed-in prediction for the envelope in my hands—and the security camera zooms in on my face when I’m doing the dirty work, getting a great mugshot.

  The comments under this video are brutal, and I quit reading them for fear of throwing the laptop at the wall—something I really feel like doing.

  Ariel’s disappointment is palpable. “So you just bought the Sunday paper, copied the earthquake headline—which could’ve been any other headline—put it in an envelope that looks the same as the one you mailed to the studio before, and then pretended to be UPS and swapped the original ‘prediction.’”

  I sigh. “This is why I don’t explain these things. Wasn’t it much more fun to wonder how it was done?”

  “I guess so,” Ariel says and types something into the YouTube search bar. “That’s odd,” she says after a moment. “I can’t find your original performance.”

  I slide the laptop toward me and look for the video in question, but I also find nothing.

  “The Council must not want me to get any more power from people thinking I’m legitimate,” I say, my own disappointment hitting me hard. “Darian must’ve been the one to post the debunking video.”