Misfortune Teller

by Dima Zales

  My eyes threaten to pop out of their sockets. If I’d had something to drink, I’d think I was on hallucinogens. Though I’ve adjusted my worldview a lot in the past few days, whatever equilibrium I’ve gained is now shattered into tiny, pixie-sized shards.

  And to think I once had trouble believing in vampires.

  Speaking of vampires, this place must be particularly popular with them—at least I assume that’s who all the pale people in black outfits with indoor sunglasses are. Also, interestingly, most of the maybe-vampires are accompanied by dance partners dressed in skintight black leather outfits that look suspiciously like the one Ariel is wearing.

  When I recover enough to look up, I see that the top floor is a big pool where people and dolphins swim together. On second look, I also spot what could only be mermaids—as in, people with fins and tails. And hey, why not?

  “Those are weredolphins and merfolk,” Ariel screams into my ear after she follows my gaze. “Want to go swim with them?”

  “I think I’ll stick to dancing for the time being,” I yell back.

  Ariel gives me a thumbs up, rhythmically shaking her hips to the music.

  Her enthusiasm is so contagious it breaks through my worldview crisis, and I also start moving to the beat.

  The music style is impossible to pinpoint. It’s being played by instruments I’ve never heard before. Some sort of synthesizers, perhaps?

  For all I know, it could be sirens singing.

  I lose sight of Ariel for a second, and as I seek her out, something catches my attention.

  I stand there, unblinking.

  Darian is dancing a few feet away from me—and he is dancing with me.

  Well, obviously he isn’t dancing with me, but someone who looks exactly like me, only dressed in a different outfit.

  I force my frozen limbs to move so I can confront the strange duo, but before I can reach them, they start making out.

  I stop right next to them.

  They’re oblivious to my presence, and I can’t help but notice the blissful expression on Darian’s face and how the other “me” matches the real me in every little detail I can think of—except maybe the enthusiasm with which she’s kissing him.

  She’s practically sucking on his tonsils.

  “What the hell is going on?” I shout at the would-be-lovers. “Is this some kind of a sick joke?”

  Darian visibly jolts and opens his eyes, his gaze falling on his partner, then on me.

  He jumps back as if scalded, all blood leaving his face.

  The other me winks and instantly turns into Councilor Kit—the shapeshifting woman who clearly gets a kick out of kissing people under false pretenses.

  “Sasha…” Darian takes a step toward me, his British accent thickening. “I had no idea. I mean, I knew you’d be here—I saw it in a vision—but I didn’t realize she’d—”

  I glare at him. “You thought I’d kiss you? You saw that in a vision?”

  He looks from me to Kit again, his face the very definition of confusion. “I—”

  “I should go,” Kit says.

  “No,” both Darian and I say in unison.

  “You better have a good explanation for this.” I turn my glare on Kit.

  She pouts. “I just want my own pet seer. Is that so wrong?”

  Darian’s hands tighten at his sides, but Kit turns herself into a fierce giant, and whatever Darian was about to say or do dies on his lips.

  “You enjoy the club,” Kit says in the giant’s booming voice, then turns back into herself and walks off, leaving behind a faint scent of cherry blossoms.

  I stare at Darian.

  He seems lost for words—clearly an unusual state of affairs for him.

  A hand appears on my shoulder. “Is everything okay?” Ariel asks.

  “Yes,” I lie. “I was just leaving.”

  “Sasha, wait,” Darian says, but I ignore him, eager to escape the uncomfortable situation.

  Ariel drags me onto the dance floor, and we merge into the mob of dancing bodies. Between the music throbbing through my bones and the strobe lights hitting my eyes, I can’t gather my thoughts enough to analyze the incident in more than surface detail.

  Kit pulled the same trick on Darian that she did on me, proving that the seer isn’t all-knowing.

  And that he apparently wants to kiss me.

  Okay then.

  Moving on.

  We dance for a bit before I realize that Ariel is slowly shepherding us through the crowd toward the back of the club, where the bar is.

  “I’m thirsty,” she tells me, and I nod, wiping a trickle of sweat from my forehead.

  I could use a drink myself.

  There goes my post-Jubilee oath to never touch alcohol again.

  The patrons around the bar are as diverse as those on the dance floor, with only a few human-looking specimens among them.

  One very fine specimen stares at me with a smile and a sensual gleam in his dreamy amber eyes. He’s as gorgeous as he is not my type. With those perfect, borderline-pretty features and highlighted, shampoo-commercial-shiny locks falling over his forehead, he reminds me of Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic or whatever boy-band member teenagers currently squeal over. I usually prefer my men more masculine—if I’d wanted this kind of beauty, I’d proposition Ariel. Yet something about the stranger is enthralling. And—though this has to be some sort of olfactory illusion—I think I can smell him, and it’s the yummiest scent ever—

  I notice Ariel’s enthusiastic expression transforming into a scowl.

  Unpeeling my eyes from the sexy stranger, I follow her gaze.

  There, chilling on a blue-marble barstool is Chester—the former Councilor who hired Beatrice to kill me.

  He must notice us looking, because his mouth curves in a satyr-like smile. He raises his martini glass to us with one hand and waves with the other—as though we were besties.

  Ariel stalks toward him, her tight outfit showing the tension in her back muscles.

  I follow her, my own jaw clenched, even as I steal another quick look at the interesting stranger—who catches me looking and shoots me another magnetic smile.

  The glass dance floor turns into blue marble (perhaps to mark off the bar), and when I cross that threshold, the volume of the music drops about a hundred decibels. It’s now possible to hear the murmur of the bar patrons, and even the clanking of glasses against the stone bar.

  If it weren’t for Chester, I’d break my promise not to ask questions and quiz Ariel about how this apparent break in acoustical physics works, but as is, I just try to keep up.

  “You,” Ariel says so loudly that some of the other bar patrons look her way.

  “Me,” Chester says with a smirk. “And you’re you, and she”—he points at me—“is she, and they”—he points at the dance floor—“are they, and—”

  “This isn’t the time for your trickster clowning,” Ariel says with a terrifyingly steely undertone. “You tried to kill Sasha.”

  Chester takes a sip of his ruby-colored drink as he looks at me. “Is she always so many steps behind? That mess with Beatrice is ancient history now. Time to move on.”

  “I’m talking about something a lot more recent, and you know it.” Ariel’s hand goes into her hair, and with a swift yank, she pulls something out, letting the thick mass cascade down her back.

  Not only does she look like Xena the Warrior Princess now, but she’s also holding a long, needle-like weapon.

  “Chances are good that your awl would miss my vital organs,” Chester says with a confident sneer. “As you must know, the odds are ever in my favor.”

  “Did you just butcher a quote from The Hunger Games?” I ask Chester. To Ariel, I whisper, “You should reply with, ‘do you feel lucky, punk?’”

  Ariel gives us both a narrowed-eyed stare, then grits out, “I can stab you until your luck runs out.”

  “And then what?” He gives us a devilish smile. “Being a blood whore for one of t
he Enforcers doesn’t make you above the law.”

  I can see Ariel is about to leap at him, so I put a calming hand on her shoulder, all the while wondering if the derogatory term he just used refers to Ariel’s odd relationship with Gaius.

  “As you’re surely aware,” I say as condescendingly as I can, “there’s been a series of unfortunate events in my life as of late. Bad luck is your modus operandi. As is hiring goons. So, you can see how this looks.”

  Ariel’s shoulder relaxes slightly under my hand. “Sasha has informed Nero about her mishaps,” she tells Chester. “Do you really think he’d let you live if she were to come to harm?”

  Chester’s smirk disappears. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “This.” I take out my phone and show him the image of the orc. “You forgot one of your minions?”

  “That’s an orc.” Chester puts down his drink and reaches for my phone. Not trusting him, I snatch the device away.

  “That orc set a dog on me,” I say, nearly shuddering at the memory. “The beast almost ate me.”

  Chester reaches for his drink, then stops himself. “I couldn’t care less how this might look to you,” he says with a serious expression that looks unnatural on his face. “But I haven’t dealt with an orc in years.”

  “Orcs,” I say. “Plural. There have been numerous attempts on my life.”

  He closes his eyes and massages his temples, then opens his eyes. “Do you think I’m really this stupid? I hire Beatrice to kill you.” He extends his hand and folds his right pinky. “I get caught doing so, and”—he folds his ring finger—“you get protection under the Mandate—meaning whoever kills you will also die if busted.” He folds his index finger. “So in a move of ultimate stupidity, I bring orcs to Earth—which is another violation punishable by death, by the way—and then ask them to kill you?” He folds his thumb, which leaves only his middle finger sticking out at us. “Finally,” he says, “as a cherry on top, my orcs repeatedly bungle the murder attempts?” He folds the middle finger.

  “Beatrice failed.” I still smell something yummy, and my eyes can’t help darting toward the amber-eyed stranger. He, however, now seems absorbed in his drink and isn’t looking my way. I force myself to turn back to Chester, saying, “This follows an established pattern.”

  “With Darian’s meddling, no doubt,” Chester says dismissively. “Seer powers annul those of beings like me—which is why I wanted to prevent another seer from being formally inducted into New York’s Cognizant community.” He looks at me earnestly—or as earnestly as his sneaky eyes are capable of. “That whole mess wasn’t personal,” he continues. “So now that you are part of the community, I’ll just put up with your existence.”

  “I’m sure Nero has nothing to do with your sudden goodwill toward Sasha. You’re just being a good Cognizant citizen and playing nice out of the kindness of your heart,” Ariel says, and I’m shocked at how harsh she sounds—she must still be sore about that “blood whore” reference.

  “So what if Nero is a variable in my decision?” Chester picks up his drink. “I don’t have beef with him.” He takes a sip of the pink liquid. “When it was Darian who wanted her so much”—he looks at me—“that made things a bit more special for me. But it’s all water under the bridge now.”

  “You don’t expect us to believe this crap,” I say. In my peripheral vision, I spot the yummy-scented stranger thoroughly studying my face. “You lost your seat on the Council because of me,” I continue, returning my full attention to Chester. “You expect me to believe you’ve forgiven and forgotten?”

  “I blame Darian for that too, not his temporary pawns,” he says, his mouth tightening. “He and I do have a score to settle, but you are not on my list—unless this conversation drags on much longer, that is.”

  I look at Ariel.

  She appears uncertain.

  What he says has enough logic in it to sound “truthy”—but then again, all the best lies do.

  “I hired Beatrice because your death had to be swift,” Chester says. “Now that it’s too late to prevent you from getting protection, my revenge wouldn’t be so direct, or impulsive. I could, just for example, drastically increase your risk of breast cancer or—”

  He stops talking because he finds Ariel’s weapon at his throat.

  I blink repeatedly. I didn’t see my friend move—though, granted, I might’ve gotten distracted by a whiff of the yummy smell from the amber-eyed stranger.

  “Of course, I wouldn’t actually do something so gauche as giving anyone cancer.” Chester sips the drink as though he doesn’t notice the needle poking his voice box. “As I said, water under the bridge.”

  “Ariel?” says a familiar hypnotic voice. “Are you having fun without me?”

  Turning, I recognize Gaius. With his sunshades raised to his forehead, I can see his arctic-sky eyes zero in on Ariel like self-guided missiles.

  Removing the threat from Chester’s neck, Ariel puts her hair back up. The awl vanishes so smoothly I’m tempted to ask her how she did it, so I can add the move to my repertoire of sleights.

  “It was great chatting with you ladies.” Chester puts some unfamiliar-looking bills on the counter and stands up, muttering, “And I use that term loosely.”

  He saunters away, with Ariel staring at him like she’d like to spear his back with her awl (and throw some daggers for good measure).

  “Why didn’t you come find me on the ninth level?” Gaius asks Ariel. His smooth voice doesn’t match his possessive expression as he looks over Ariel’s outfit. “Are you avoiding me?”

  “We just got here,” she says quickly. “I was going to have a drink with Sasha and come find you as I show her the club.”

  “Would you mind if I borrowed Ariel from you for a short while?” Gaius looks at me. “You might enjoy exploring without a babysitter.”

  “That’s fine.” I try to sneak a peek at the yummy stranger, but he catches me looking and winks again. I turn to Ariel. “Don’t worry about me. Go spend time with your boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend?” Gaius rubs his chin, eyeing Ariel contemplatively.

  My friend gives me a full-on evil eye. “Don’t you dare leave this place without me.”

  “I pinky swear,” I say and cross my heart.

  “Here.” Gaius slams more of the same strange currency on the bar and waves at the bartender. “Sasha’s next drink is on me.”

  Taking Ariel by the elbow, he leads her away.

  For all of Ariel’s protestations, they are clearly more than friends. Which kind of makes sense. After all, she’s obsessed with Batman—and with his black cape and an affinity for bats, Batman is quite vampire-like.

  The barkeep picks up Chester’s unfinished drink and wipes the bar in front of me with a cloth of questionable cleanliness.

  “What would you like?” he asks, and I notice him blinking sideways with an amphibian-like milky nictitating membrane—a transparent third eyelid he must use to moisten his eyes.

  “I’ll have the same.” I gesture at Chester’s unfinished drink in his hand.

  “You sure?” He eyes me with a mixture of incredulity and respect.

  I search for Ariel and Gaius, but they’ve disappeared in the crowd. “Yes,” I say to the bartender. “I might as well get the party started.”

  “Suit yourself.” He walks away and mixes the drink in a series of swift movements that remind me of frog hops.

  I smell the yummy stranger’s scent again and wonder if I could—or should—approach the guy. Ariel has no problem coming up to men, but then again, she doesn’t need to worry about rejection, as anyone with a pulse is bound to find her irresistible.

  Come to think of it, maybe some without a pulse too. I’ll have to find out if Cognizant vampires have one.

  The bartender slams the drink on the bar in front of me, and I decide that some liquid courage might be just the thing I need.

  I pick up the glass and take a big gulp—and i
nstantly regret it.

  The liquid sears through my tongue like hot magma, with the heat radiating into my stomach and every pain center of my brain.

  Did I just drink pure pepper spray?

  In panic, I gasp for air.

  My eyes are watering, and I want to scream.

  If I had a river in front of me, I’d probably drink it dry.

  “You should’ve warned her about Chimera’s Fire,” says a new voice from somewhere. More sternly, the newcomer adds, “Give me a shot of Gargoyle’s Milk. Now.”

  TNT keeps exploding in my mouth, and I’m hyperventilating by the time a shot is thrust into my hand.

  “This should help,” says the new voice—a voice accompanied by a delicious aroma that I can detect even in my sorry condition.

  I desperately down the shot—and soothing relief spreads through me.

  Taking a few shuddering breaths, I wipe the tears from my eyes and look at my knight in shining armor.

  I should’ve guessed who it was based on the boy-band soprano and the unmistakable scent.

  The dreamy stranger finally got tired of playing ping pong with our eyes.

  “Was that even alcohol?” I croak out and push the remnants of the drink as far away from me as I can. A few droplets slosh on the bar, and I half expect the surface to sizzle.

  How did Chester not die from sipping on this atrocity throughout our conversation? More importantly, was the bastard drinking the vile concoction just so I would have the bad luck of ordering it after him?

  “There’s capsaicin in Chimera’s Fire,” the bartender says.

  Well, that explains a bunch. Capsaicin is what makes peppers burn, and that horrid drink was probably capsaicin in its purest form.

  “Yes,” my rescuer says, frowning at the bartender. “And that’s why you should always warn people.”

  “Don’t blame me,” the bartender says. “She seemed so sure of herself that I—”

  I ignore the rest of what he says as I grab a napkin, turn away from my rescuer, and wipe away errant drool and the remnants of tears.

  Of course.

  Murphy’s Law states that the day I meet a hot stranger at a bar, I get a drink so hot that my mascara raccoonifies. Or should I call it “Chester’s Law” going forward?