by Zales, Dima
“Hello,” I say. “Would it be possible for me to speak with the owner of your establishment?”
“I’ll put your call through to the manager,” the girl says with a thick accent. “Please hold.”
“Dobriy vecher,” a male voice says a second later. It sounds like dried bones being pulverized by a giant mortar and pestle.
“Hi,” I say warily. “I wanted to speak to the owner. Is she around?”
“And you are?” the man asks, his English better than the hostess’s.
“My name is Sasha. You probably don’t know me, but—”
“You came snooping around earlier today?” he asks. “Touched one of the chicken legs?”
“Um, yeah…”
“You’re Sasha Urban, right? A new member of our illustrious community?”
Is this restaurant a front for the KGB or something? How the hell does he know I came earlier? Or have my full name for that matter? “That’s me,” I say carefully. “Is there a community newsletter I’m not aware of?”
“We make it our business to be well informed at the Izbushka,” he says proudly.
“All right.” I try not to sound as uneasy as I feel. “May I speak to Ms. Yaga?”
A spine-chilling noise comes out of the phone, and it takes me a few moments to realize the guy is laughing. “She never speaks on the phone to anyone, but she will speak with you face to face.”
“That would probably work even better,” I say, wishing I believed that myself. “Can you set up a meeting for me, please?”
“Be here on Monday at eleven p.m.,” he says imperiously. “Do not be early. Do not be late. Ask for me, and I’ll take you to her.”
“And you are?” I put down my tray next to the register and hand my credit card to the cashier.
“Where are my manners?” the voice on the phone mockingly says. “I’m Koschei. Think of me as the manager of this establishment.”
“Okay, Mr. Koschei,” I say. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
The manager cackles like an evil villain again—something about English honorifics seems to amuse this dude. Finally, he gets his laughter under control and says, “I will see you soon, Ms. Sasha.”
I hang up and wipe my sweaty palms on my dress before grabbing my tray and heading to the office.
The rest of the day passes in a haze. By the time I finish my crazy workload, I’m completely drained. My neck is sore, my eyes ache, and I bet I could sleep for twenty hours straight.
Turning off my monitor for the weekend, I slip off my high-heeled office shoes, put on a pair of ballet flats, and head out.
On a typical Friday, I’d ride my Vespa, but since it died an honorable death, my options are the subway or a cab.
All the yellow cabs that pass by are busy, and when I pull out my phone, I see that the ride-hailing apps are in surge mode, which means I’d have to wait longer and pay through the nose. Given that the subway is a mere block away, I schlep there.
I doze during most of the ride but wake up in time to exit at my station.
Walking under the street lights, I make a depressing assessment of my life. Part of the reason I wanted to quit Nero’s fund and become an illusionist was in the hopes that I’d be able to see the light of day—literally. Now that my magic career is poof and gone, the extra workload he keeps giving me makes me—
My gloomy thoughts are interrupted by a nearby pedestrian and his dog.
The dog is a mahogany monstrosity of the Neapolitan mastiff breed. A massive creature, it looks to be at least a hundred and fifty pounds and stands almost three feet tall.
As someone who got assaulted by a pug when I was eight, I get understandably uneasy. Seeing dogs like that awakes in me the same emotions that our primitive ancestors must’ve felt at the sight of a lion—though, granted, ancient humans might’ve been slightly calmer if they’d seen a leashed lion walked by another person.
But no matter how scary the dog is, it’s the owner who gets my attention. He’s so huge and muscular from the back that his dog looks like a Chihuahua in comparison. What is up with all these giant people? Did someone add steroids into the water supply?
Then I recall the half-formed theory that flitted through my mind when I saw the woman who almost hit me with the car.
Walking faster, I reach into my bag and palm my phone in such a way that the big guy won’t see it when I get in front of him.
I speed up, and when the dog stops to relieve his bladder, I get ahead of the pair.
Without looking back, I sneak a picture with my phone camera and slow my gait.
In my peripheral vision, I see the big dude and his dog pass by me, so I crouch to pretend to tie my nonexistent shoelaces.
When they’re a few feet ahead, I exhale the breath I’ve been holding and check the secret picture I just snapped.
As I feared, this man also has that Neanderthal look. In fact, his percentage of that DNA might be even greater than that of the guy from the construction site and the woman from the accident.
I stand up, turn around, and briskly walk away from the massive man and his dog.
Twice today, I saw people that fit a specific genotype, and twice I almost got killed in an accident.
Coincidence? Unlikely.
And now I just saw yet another person who could be the big brother of the other two. Plus, when I was drowning, I saw someone extremely big through the water.
So, for whatever reason, a group of people who look this way is out to get me. Perhaps I should be ashamed of this sort of Neanderthal stereotyping, but I find it hard to believe this guy isn’t somehow connected to the previous people with that build.
I’m likely on the cusp of yet another “accident.”
My heart slams against my chest as I pick up my pace. Hopefully, to Chester or any other onlookers, I appear to be just in a hurry, like every other New Yorker.
I’m a few blocks away from my building, and though I’m taking a roundabout way to get there, I should be home in a few minutes at this pace.
When I get to the corner, before turning, I glance back at the suspicious man and his canine accomplice.
The pair is more than half a block away from me at this point, which is good, but the owner is staring right at me, which is very bad.
The giant looks both pissed and disappointed.
I don’t think he’d realized I’d walked away until now.
To my utter horror, he shouts something to his dog and releases the leash.
The folds of the dog’s smooshed face seem to twist into an evil grin as the massive creature charges at me.
Chapter Nine
I turn on my heel and sprint toward my building.
In less than a moment, I get into the full-on flight portion of the famous fight-or-flight response. My heart is pounding and I can practically taste the cortisol and adrenaline in my rapidly drying mouth.
This is exactly how those primitive people must’ve felt when chased by that hypothetical lion.
As my feet pound the pavement, I think of Netflix. They recently had a documentary about K9 training, where people with fat suits took vicious bites on arms, legs, and buttocks.
I’d give anything for one of those fat suits right about now.
The beast behind me half barks, half growls.
I dare not look over my shoulder, but the sound seemed closer than half a block away, which means the dog is gaining on me.
Pouring all my willpower into my leaden leg muscles, I run with all my might.
The street in front of me morphs into a dark tunnel.
The flexing of my legs and the hammering of my heart are like an app I’m running in the background, as is the rapid tempo of my shallow breathing.
The growling bark repeats, much closer this time.
I turn a sharp corner and finally see my building—which spurs me on.
My lungs scream for oxygen and my legs feel like they’re leaking lactic acid through my skin, but I struggle to overrule the
ir bitchiness with my iron will.
Shutting out the pain, I focus on my building—now only a few yards away.
The dog’s claws scrape audibly on the pavement behind me as I open the door to the lobby.
I’m nearly through when massive jaws clamp down on the skirt of my dress, yanking me back.
With a yelp, I tighten my grip on the door and push forward, leaving a chunk of the material in the creature’s maw as I slam the door.
Keeping in mind the dog’s malevolent owner—as well as the fact that some dogs can open doors—I sprint to the staircase and zoom up to my floor.
Nearly getting my butt chewed off has done wonders for my aching leg muscles.
When I get into my hallway, I half expect either the Neanderthal or his dog to be waiting for me, but the hallway is empty.
Not taking any chances, I dash to my door and only allow myself to breathe a sigh of relief when I lock the door behind me.
The post-adrenaline crash hits me hard. All of a sudden, my legs liquefy, and I lean against the wall before sliding down to sit on the floor.
This position is how Ariel and Fluffster find me when they come out of Ariel’s bedroom a few seconds later.
“What is wrong with her?” Fluffster asks Ariel in a group mental message that also rings in my head.
“Sasha?” Ariel crouches in front of me. “What’s wrong?”
I lick my dry lips. “I just did some very thorough cardio—just as you always say I should.”
“She’s in shock,” Fluffster mentally says to us both, and when I look at his furry face, I could swear the domovoi manages to twist his rodent features into a very human-looking expression of concern.
I pull myself together with effort. “I’ll be fine.” Kicking off my ballet flats, I start massaging my burning calves. “A dog chased me, that’s all.”
I proceed to walk them through my whole day, and as I do, they both get more and more upset.
“I told you not to leave the house,” Fluffster projects sternly in my mind when I finish the tale.
“And I told you to take me everywhere you go,” Ariel says just as harshly out loud.
“I’m not going to be a prisoner in my house.” I slide my legs out to stretch my aching hamstrings. “Nor is it feasible for me to take a chaperone everywhere.”
“Can you at least let me escort you when I’m free?” Ariel says with a pleading look.
I smile at her. “Of course. I’m also going to get a gun first thing tomorrow.” I look at Fluffster. How much can a paranormal chinchilla with recurring amnesia know about weapons? Just in case, I decide to explain. “Fluffster, guns are these things that can—”
“I know what guns do,” the domovoi snaps. “I’ve seen Ariel clean hers, and more importantly, I have YouTube.”
“Good to hear. Now I could use some water.” I gather my feet toward me, rising into a crouch, and extend my hand toward Ariel. She stands up and helps me get to my feet.
I limp into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water, and grab a box of cereal for some much-needed sugar.
Ariel and Fluffster, who followed me in, watch me plop into a chair like a ninety-year-old.
“So.” Ariel walks up to the coffee maker and pours in some fresh beans. “I’m escorting you to see this Baba Yaga.”
“I’m going too,” Fluffster says, though he sounds less confident than Ariel.
“Fine.” I open the cereal box, stuff some carbs into my mouth, and chase them down with water. “I might actually need you there anyway,” I tell Fluffster, “That is, assuming you want your memory recovered.”
“Not if that puts you in danger.” Fluffster jumps first on my lap, then on the table. “I don’t know if my memories are worth it.”
“I won’t be in danger if Ariel tags along.” I put a small pile of cereal in front of Fluffster. “And if you regain your memories, I might learn who my biological parents are—and that’s worth it to me.”
Fluffster crunches on his snack in lieu of a response, and I turn my attention to Ariel, noticing for the first time how well dressed she is.
With those high heels and tight dress, she could’ve jumped off the cover of some fashion magazine.
“Are you going somewhere?” I ask, examining her impeccable makeup and the tiny purse over her shoulder.
She shoots me a guilty look as she pours herself coffee. “There’s a party. Medical school people you don’t know.”
Ariel isn’t as bad of a liar as Felix, but I’m certain she’s making up a story on the fly. “Party with your ‘friend’ Gaius?” I ask slyly.
“A party.” She sits down and hides her eyes by blowing on her coffee.
“Aren’t we going to a party tomorrow?” I ask, unable to leave it alone.
“Tomorrow we’re clubbing.” She looks up from her cup, the corners of her mouth twisting in a grin. “I can’t wait for you to see Earth Club and—”
“Isn’t that too much partying? Even for you?” Grabbing another handful of sugary oats, I stuff it into my mouth and prepare to hear more of Ariel’s backpedaling and denials.
“A package came in the mail for you.” She stands up and grabs a yellow parcel from the top of the fridge. “It’s from Darian.” She emphasizes the name, matching my earlier sly tone. “I bet it’s that Jubilee gift he promised you.”
I snatch the gift from her hands and spend a breath staring at Darian’s name on the “from” section of the address label before realizing I’ve never seen a change in topic executed so artfully. I decide to let it slide and study the address further.
To my disappointment, Darian put the address of the TV studio where he pretended to work instead of his real address.
There goes my half-baked idea to go stalking his residence in order to receive some real seer training.
Nearly bursting with curiosity, I rip the package apart.
Deflated, I stare at its contents.
The black object inside could only be one thing, but it makes no sense for it to be there.
“His gift is a VHS tape?” I look at Ariel for an explanation, but my friend simply shrugs.
“Movies used to be recorded on these things, but they went out of use before I got you,” I explain to Fluffster as I show him the black plastic gizmo. “Hollywood stopped selling these over a decade ago.”
Fluffster nods sagely. Clearly, he hasn’t seen a VHS documentary on YouTube.
Ariel stops blowing on her coffee long enough to give me an uncertain look. “Maybe Felix has a player you can stick that in?”
“Sure,” I say. “He keeps it right next to his abacus and dial-up modem.”
“No need for sarcasm.” Ariel takes out her phone and types something into it. “His room is chock full of computer junk.”
“Top-of-the-line computer hardware isn’t the same as an ancient VCR player,” I say. “It’s fine, though—I bet I can get what I need online.”
“Shouldn’t you check with Felix before buying something unnecessary?” Fluffster says, his mental voice grumpy. “This household is barely functioning as is.”
“What gave you that idea?” I grab some cereal from the box in my hands and move as though to place it in front of him but stop at the last moment. “Did you hack into my bank account or something?”
“I made an educated guess,” Fluffster says, his eyes never leaving my hand.
Feeling guilty for using his favorite snack as implied blackmail, I put the cereal next to the chinchilla and give him a quick chin rub.
Ariel’s phone makes a loud ding. She looks at it and sighs. “Felix doesn’t own a VCR.”
I bet Felix told her something a lot snarkier than “I don’t have one,” but I don’t rub it in. “Then that settles it,” I say. “I’ll have to spare the fifty bucks or whatever.”
Fluffster looks unhappy, but Ariel expertly changes the subject yet again. “Let me see that picture of the guy with the dog.”
I pull up the image on my phone and turn
the screen toward Ariel.
She grabs it from my hands, her eyes narrowing as she carefully examines the guy. “This looks like an orc,” she says, frowning. “Only he’s wearing makeup.”
“An orc?” I look at Fluffster for moral support, but my pet domovoi looks completely calm as he chews his version of junk food. “As in, Lord of the Rings and World of Warcraft orc?”
Given that my new paradigm includes vampires and the walking dead, an orc doesn’t seem as out there as it should.
“Yes, an orc.” Ariel gulps her coffee, looking smug. “Orcs are these big brutes that live in some Otherlands. Like their fictional brethren, they have a greenish tint to their skin—which explains the heavy makeup someone slobbered on this specimen. I thought they weren’t allowed to come to our world, but I guess someone still brought in a few.” She frowns. “That means whoever’s behind this is influential. Very influential.”
“Or in other words, this is more evidence against Chester.” I finish the rest of my water to compensate for the sudden dryness in my mouth.
“Exactly,” Ariel says. “You’ve got to be very careful if you ever come across another one of these creatures. Orcs are incredibly strong—as you can probably tell by their size. They also have notoriously bad tempers, immunity to—”
“Will a gun take one down?” I place my glass on the table a little too firmly.
“Oh yeah,” Ariel says. She clearly likes where my mind is going. “Looks like getting you that gun isn’t optional anymore.”
“Not that it was optional in any case,” I mutter under my breath and get up. “I better get some sleep so you can get to your secret date.”
“To a party,” Ariel says defensively and also stands.
“Don’t forget to turn off the lights,” Fluffster says when I pick him up and follow Ariel out of the kitchen. “Your last utility bill was outrageous.”
Given that he can’t see me when I hold him by his sides, I allow myself the luxury of rolling my eyes. Do all domovoi worry about household finances this much, or are we just lucky?
I do, however, turn off the lights.
When I get to my room, I open my laptop and stalk a few VCR listings on eBay. I find an auction that’s ending in a second and bid forty-six dollars. My bid wins, so I instantly pay and opt to expedite the shipping when prompted. I don’t mention the shipping upgrade to Fluffster, however, lest he chastise me for another “unnecessary” expense.
