by Zales, Dima
“Okay, Mom,” I say and head out of the kitchen.
When I enter my room, Fluffster greets me by the door, and I begin my usual pet-feeding routine.
As he eats, I get my phone out of the wet clothes. To my surprise, it’s still functional—the waterproof feature really does work. I stick my phone on the charger but silence it to make sure I get uninterrupted sleep tonight.
“I really like this hay,” Fluffster says in my mind, and I realize that in my adrenaline slump, I forgot he can communicate with me.
“It’s organic,” I tell him. “No pesticides for you.”
“Is organic a lot more expensive than regular?” Fluffster’s mental voice sounds unduly concerned. “I doubt I’d be able to taste the difference and—”
“I’m going to keep getting you the organic hay,” I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “If I eat organic, why shouldn’t you?”
“You probably can’t tell the difference either,” Fluffster grumbles. He must then notice the bruises as I change into my nightie because he asks, “Are you hurt?”
After some prompting, I tell my chinchilla what happened. If anyone wanted to gather evidence of my mental instability, a recording of this conversation would probably make a strong case for locking me up in a padded room.
“You should stay home from now on,” he says when I’m done. “This is what happens when you go outside.”
“Your solution is as practical as Ariel’s,” I tell him. He puffs up his tail proudly, so I have to clarify, “By which I mean they are both not practical.”
We argue for a few minutes, and he eventually gives up—probably because he knows I can take away his almonds and dust bath if he pisses me off.
“Can I snuggle with you?” he asks when I finally get into bed.
“Of course.” I read online that chinchillas don’t like to be smothered this way, but I guess this doesn’t apply to him—which is a dream come true for me. “Anytime.”
Tucking my warm and heavenly soft domovoi against my chest like a teddy bear, I drift off to sleep.
Chapter Six
I wake up.
I didn’t get any vision dreams again. Have I lost them for good?
My head and ribs feel much better, and by the time I get to the kitchen and gobble down a couple of Felix’s blueberry banana pancakes, I feel almost as good as on an average Friday morning.
I even put on a dress for work—to appease Felix’s conservative parents, whom I’m meeting for lunch today.
“I don’t think it was Chester who pushed you into the water,” Felix says after I share my adventures with him. “It just doesn’t seem like his style.”
“Then what do you think is going on?” Ariel is eating a pancake with her hands today, like a cavewoman.
“No idea.” He scratches the top of his head. “I can try to see if any security cameras recorded the incident, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
We brainstorm theories for the rest of the meal, but nothing we can think of explains the mystery on the pier.
Excusing myself, I feed Fluffster, put on a pair of ballet flats to match my dress, and head out.
“Remember, we have lunch later today,” Felix reminds me as I’m closing the front door behind me.
“See you there,” I say and rush to work.
* * *
When I get to my desk, two emails from Nero await me.
In the first one, he waxes ecstatic at my good decisions last night, so I seem to have done a bit better than a blindfolded monkey—my luck must still hold.
In the second email, Nero asks me to research another boatload of stocks before lunch—some fifty percent more than yesterday morning.
I research most of the stocks as well as I can, but for the ones that fall into the second half of the alphabet (about a quarter of them), I decide to cheat and make my recommendations based on pure instinct—without any data but the name of the company.
My hope is that even if Nero loses some money on this smaller subset of stocks, he’ll lessen my insane workload instead of firing me.
Finishing my write-up ten minutes before the deadline, I look for something to do before leaving for lunch.
A business card Nero gave me yesterday catches my eye.
With everything that’s happened, I completely forgot about “Orientation,” whatever it is. I even forgot to ask my roommates about it.
Picking up my phone, I dial the number on the card.
“Dr. Hekima speaking,” says a deep, melodic voice that sounds like it could easily narrate nature documentaries. “How can I help you?”
“Hi. My name is Sasha.” I lock my computer. “Sasha Urban.”
“Ah,” Dr. Hekima says excitedly. “You’re the new student I was told to expect.”
“A student?” I swivel in my chair. “So is Orientation some form of schooling for the C—”
“This isn’t a phone conversation,” Dr. Hekima says, and for the first time, I detect a mild accent in his speech—maybe South African? “Can you come see me during my office hours this Saturday?”
“Of course,” I say. “Where and at what time?”
“Would two p.m. work for you?” he asks and gives me the address—which, unfortunately, is in Queens.
“That works,” I say after a moment of hesitation.
“We’re just above the very first train station in Queens,” he says. “If you take the M—”
“I’m sure I’ll find it. Looking forward to speaking with you, Dr. Hekima.”
“Likewise,” he says and hangs up.
I look at the clock on my phone and jump to my feet.
If I don’t run now, I’ll be late for lunch with Felix’s family.
* * *
I’ve been to Brighton Beach three times before this. Once to swim and stroll the boardwalk, once when Felix convinced Ariel and me to try “the best caviar and vodka in the world,” and another time as I was passing by on my way to the theme park at Coney Island. Known as Little Odessa, this neighborhood has the largest population of Russian immigrants in the Western Hemisphere.
I scan the storefronts that all have Cyrillic writing on them. If Fluffster really did belong to my biological parents, then they probably spoke Russian—meaning that if I hadn’t been left at the airport, I’d be able to read all these signs.
I stop next to a building covered by the renovation scaffolding that’s so common in New York, and pull out my phone. I’m a couple of minutes early, and according to the GPS, the restaurant is two blocks away.
Suddenly, a feeling of intense alarm overcomes me.
Without knowing why, I jump to the side.
A brick smashes into the pavement where I stood only a moment ago.
Chapter Seven
The feeling of danger doesn’t go away.
I instinctively jump back, nearly tripping over the brick’s carcass.
A bucket with paint lands where I stood, splattering all over the pavement to create a modern art painting.
What the hell?
I force my stunned brain to work and make my body move toward the building.
As soon as I take a step, a wrench smacks into the paint blotch; then more instruments follow in a deadly metallic hail.
I look up as I start running. On the side of the scaffolding is one of those rope elevators that window cleaners and construction workers use, only this one is slanted toward the ground. Clearly, the hazardous materials slid from there.
I bet they’re breaking a million regulations by using that thing without fencing off the work area. Is Brighton Beach exempt from NYC laws?
Furious, I rush into the building and run up to the floor parallel to the source of the accident. I’m determined to give someone a piece of my mind.
An enormous man lumbers toward me, and I slow down, wondering if running in was the best idea after all.
According to modern science, most Europeans and Asians have approximately two percent of Neanderthal DNA. Thi
s guy seems to have gotten at least fifty times that. He has a short, sloping forehead, deep-set eyes, and a skull so huge that the yellow construction helmet looks like a Jewish yarmulke on the tip of his head.
“How can I help you?” he roars in a bass that almost rivals Nero’s, minus any sexy undertones.
Not that I notice Nero’s sexy undertones.
I call on every ounce of my anger to give me courage. “I nearly got killed by that.” I point at the loose rope elevator.
He looks where I’m pointing, then back at me.
“That couldn’t have happened,” he says, as though he didn’t just stare at the tilted equipment. “We’re extremely safety conscious.”
“What do you mean it couldn’t have happened? It happened,” I say, outraged, and notice something else about the guy. He looks to have a heavy layer of foundation on. Maybe he’s gender fluid? Alternatively, he could be covering up horrible scars.
“Impossible,” he says, and as he opens his mouth, I see his bottom teeth. They’re so prominent they look like filed-down tusks.
Pushing that weird observation aside, I focus on the issue at hand. “It’s right there, with all the junk missing,” I say, jabbing at the elevator in frustration. “I didn’t try to kill myself.”
“I’ll have to investigate this,” he says and flashes me the top of his teeth—a jagged mess that would give any orthodontist nightmares. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention.”
His eyes gleam malevolently as he says this last part, and I suddenly recall my lunch plans.
“You’re welcome,” I say, carefully backing away. “We wouldn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
He bobs his head, and the yellow helmet almost flies at my face.
I back up into the stairway and run down as fast as my legs can carry me. Something about the guy just felt wrong, especially toward the end of our chat.
To my relief, the rest of my walk to the restaurant is uneventful.
I slink inside and look around. There’s a definite Middle Eastern look to everything, which I guess makes sense for Uzbek food. The smells of fried onion and fresh bread make my stomach growl.
Felix waves at me from a large table to my right, where he’s sitting by himself.
“Take a seat,” he says as I approach. “My parents just let me know they got out of the train. Sorry about this. Mom is always late.”
“It’s fine.” I wonder which seat says “Not Girlfriend” to his folks, and plop into a chair that’s two over from Felix’s right. “I almost got killed a second ago.”
“What?” He nearly drops the menu in shock. “When? How?”
“A brick to the head,” I say and proceed to tell him what happened.
His frown deepens as I speak, his fingers nervously fiddling with the menu. “Maybe I was wrong this morning,” he says when I’m done. “Maybe it is Chester behind this. If I understand his power correctly, if he wants you harmed, he can increase the probability that accidents happen when he’s near you.”
Lovely. “I’ll have to talk to Nero, won’t I?”
“Definitely,” Felix says, his gaze shifting from me to the door.
I sigh and decide to focus on something more cheerful. “Did you ever have Orientation?” I ask when Felix looks back at me.
“Sure,” he says. “We all did.”
“What does it entail?” My stomach growls again as I smell something doughy and fried.
Felix grins. “Is Nero sending you to Orientation?” At my glare, he starts laughing and explains, “It’s like Sunday school for the Cognizant. You learn some basics about our kind there…”
“So what’s so funny?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, though I’m beginning to get a clue.
“Nothing. It’s just something we do as teens, that’s all. You’ll probably be the oldest student there.” He laughs again, shaking his head.
I recall Gaius talking about his job as a Herald, and how he lets Cognizant younglings know who and what they are. Orientation must follow that.
“Please don’t tell me I’m going back to high school.” I look at Felix with only partially feigned horror. “I barely survived the first time.”
“It’s just one day a week,” he says reassuringly, then glances at the entrance. “They’re here.”
I study the newcomers.
Taken separately, it’s not immediately obvious that these people are Felix’s biological relatives, let alone parents. His dad is predominantly of Russian heritage—he looks like a tanned white guy, with Slavic facial features. His large beer belly, in particular, is a stark contrast to Felix’s slenderness. However, the biggest difference lies in the way his dad looks at me and other female customers—like we’re sex objects, not people.
Felix’s mom, on the other hand, doesn’t look European at all. Her features are a strong blend of Middle Eastern and Asian characteristics, her face much rounder than Felix’s.
“Kotek,” she says, and from prior experience, I know this means “kitten” in Russian—something I’ll tease Felix about later.
Felix’s family is among the five percent of Uzbek people who speak Russian instead of (or in the case of his mom, in addition to) Uzbek. This is why they live near the Russian-dominated Brighton and why Felix speaks such good Russian himself but almost no Uzbek.
I feel a pang of jealousy as I watch his parents hug and kiss their son on each cheek in the Russian style. My mom and dad are a lot more reserved when it comes to displays of affection.
“Sashen’ka,” Felix’s mom says, using one of the many Russian diminutive versions of my name—which itself is a diminutive for Alexandra. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Hello, Ms. Fokin,” I say, getting up to shake the woman’s hand.
“Please.” She grabs my arm in an Aikido-like maneuver, but instead of flying to the ground, I end up in a big hug, my face nearly buried in her ample bosom. She then kisses my cheeks, no doubt leaving thick lipstick prints that match the ones on Felix’s face. “I asked you before. Call me Zamira.”
Smiling sheepishly, I extricate myself. “Right. Sorry, Zamira.”
“And call me Ruslan,” Felix’s dad says and steps closer, as though to pull me into a hug as well. To my relief, Zamira gives him a narrow-eyed stare that causes him to downgrade his hug to a business-like handshake.
His hand is calloused and damp, so I let it go quicker than etiquette probably dictates.
Everyone takes a seat and opens their menus.
I scan the unfamiliar words, but before I have a chance to decipher them, I get swamped with suggestions of Uzbek delicacies I “must try.”
For the first course (you “must” have at least three courses at this place), I choose a soup called lagmon—after Felix and his dad both assure me there’s no horse meat in it. (Because horse meat is part of traditional Uzbek cuisine. And hey, at least it’s not kitten livers.) For the appetizer/second course, I settle on steamed dumplings called manti, and for the main course, I go with a type of pilaf called plov. A lepyoshka—a yummy tandoor-style bread—will accompany all of this.
Our waiter is a tall, good-looking man who seems to be Russian rather than authentically Uzbek.
He notices me staring and winks at me.
Zamira gives him the narrow-eyed stare she gave her husband, and I cringe. Why would she mind me getting male attention? Unless Felix is right, and she still thinks we’re together despite his denials.
Felix’s dad gives our order in rapid-fire Russian, and the waiter hurries away to escape Zamira’s glare.
“Sasha and I are on our lunch break from work,” Felix says after making sure the waiter is out of earshot. “So perhaps we start with the business at hand?”
Without giving his parents a chance to agree (because they probably would disagree), Felix launches into the explanation about Fluffster.
“That’s interesting,” Ruslan says after his son is finished. “I can tell you right away that the domovoi isn’t Felix’s.
My grandfather did have one, but that domovoi lives with my father in Russia.”
The waiter brings our drinks, and we pause the conversation. Felix, Zamira, and I get teas in a bowl instead of a cup. Ruslan opted for something stronger—an alcoholic drink called bozo. When I start snickering, Felix assures me that the fizzy concoction is made from boiled and fermented millet, and that no clowns, especially ones named Bozo, were harmed in the making of this drink.
“So.” Felix sips the tea from his bowl and puts it down. “We know that the domovoi isn’t mine, nor is he left from one of the neighbors. He must be Sasha’s.”
“True.” Ruslan puts down his bozo. “But that doesn’t mean he’d lived with her biological parents.” Facing me, he asks, “What nationality are your adoptive parents? Are they Cognizant?”
“No, they’re just American,” I say, ashamed I never inquired much about this subject. “Felix and Ariel met my mom, and she had no Mandate aura. I haven’t seen my dad since the Rite, but I’m pretty sure he’s not a Cognizant either. In any case, I’m going to meet up with him soon and verify for certain.”
“Aren’t all Americans immigrants from somewhere?” Zamira says sagely. “At least if you dig back a few generations.”
“Yes, and by the second generation, they often forget their heritage.” Ruslan gives Felix a piercing glare that seems to say, “Make sure your offspring doesn’t do this—assuming anyone would want to have kids with you after you couldn’t keep two perfectly good wives.”
The waiter brings the soups and the lepyoshka bread, so I hold my reply until he’s gone.
“I can ask my parents if they have Russian roots.” I rip myself a piece of bread and examine my soup. It has thick noodles and fatty chunks of beef and lamb, and is garnished with leeks and dill.
“If they do have Russian blood, ask them if they had pets,” Ruslan says, blowing on his tushpera soup.
“Speaking of which”—Zamira holds her spoon next to her mouth—“did you have any pets growing up?”
