Paranormal Misdirection

by Dima Zales

  The magician in me is impressed with the scope of Lilith’s deception. She’s no god. She’s just a vampire like Vlad and a trickster like Chester, yet she was able to convince a whole Otherland of her divinity.

  Then again, as a magician, I might be able to pull off the same feat even without my seer powers—provided I weren’t the pillar of morality and ethics that I am. It would especially be easy in a less technologically advanced society like this.

  As we approach the clouds, I daydream of performing fake miracles of all sorts to convince everyone of my godhood: from making tigers teleport from place to place to cutting people in half and then proving they’re fine.

  Yep. If I ripped off David Copperfield and Criss Angel’s repertoires and threw in some real prognostications, I’d be worshiped as a goddess in no time.

  But alas, as fun as that would be, I wouldn’t do such a thing. Probably because, unfortunately, I’m not a sociopath.

  I’m jolted back into the reality of the flight when we hit a patch of turbulence—though this could’ve also been caused by one of the bird’s bodily functions… hopefully a sneeze.

  There are some clouds around us, but they have gaps that allow me to see into the far distance. I spot more floating islands, a red-tinged ocean crisscrossed by large wooden ships, and a huge city that looks like how I’ve always pictured Camelot.

  When we get higher, the clouds become less see-through, forcing me to focus my attention of our immediate surroundings.

  There are dozens of people flying on the birds. Some of them are soldiers with their rocs wearing armor, and some are monks with less fanciful rides.

  “What would be the collective noun for a group of roc birds?” Felix asks. “A brood?”

  “That’s for chickens,” Itzel says. “I think it should be called a colony, like penguins, or a gaggle, like geese.”

  “A group of quail is called a bevy,” Ariel chimes in. “Don’t ask me how I know that.”

  “How about a murder, like crows?” I suggest. “Or a siege, like herons? Wouldn’t that be more apropos given the rocs’ fierce looks?”

  “If we’re just showing off, a group of finches is called a charm,” Itzel rattles out. “While a bunch of pheasants is a nye.” She inhales and adds, “A group of hawks is a cast, snipes a wisp, owls a parliament, swallows a flight, and—”

  “Please stop,” Felix says. “Let’s just pretend that rocs are not social birds and never flock together; thus no one has bothered to name a group of them anything beyond ‘a bunch of rocs.’”

  Since we’re already landing, I resist the urge to point out that we’re about to step on a different ‘bunch of rocks.’

  When the monks yank us off the birds’ backs, we recall our uncertain fate, and the banter ceases.

  The captors lead us through the castle, and the weirdness and opulence of the décor takes everyone’s breath away.

  First, we’re shepherded into a botanical-gardens-sized display of what looks like carnivorous plants.

  The next hall is clearly meant to serve as a zoo. It’s full of predatory creatures: some from Earth, some mentioned by Hekima, and most I’ve never seen before.

  An art gallery is next, with paintings, frescoes, and statues depicting bloody battles and sacrifices.

  “What is she a god of? War? Blood? Death?” Felix asks when we enter the next room—one with such a huge selection of mummified remains of people and creatures that the folks at The Bodies exhibit might kill and mummify themselves out of jealousy.

  “Let’s just hope she hates all Cognizant equally,” Ariel grumbles. “If she has a necromancer on staff, I give up right here and now.”

  I have to agree. If we’d fought Beatrice in this room, we’d have lost for sure.

  The monks stop next to massive floor-to-ceiling doors made out of some reddish metal.

  Two cardinals—each a seeming clone of the other—are standing on each side. They wave the monks away. Then, with maximum pompousness, they open the doors and gesture for us to go in.

  Screams of either pain or extreme ecstasy emanate from within.

  Mentally psyching myself to face a bloodthirsty goddess, I walk in.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Like most of the castle, this movie-theater-sized room has walls of red stone that look like they’re sweating blood. I guess if it were a king’s castle, this would be the throne room. To me, however, it looks like Christian Grey’s Red Room of Pain on major steroids—thanks to all the whips, canes, chains, and crosses with naked people attached to them.

  Beautiful naked people.

  Equally beautiful are the few men and women who are using the various implements on each other. Same goes for the vast majority who are on their knees, prayer style. Some are wearing skimpy clothes and some nothing at all. As one, their eyes turn to us, and that is when I see her.

  That is, assuming that’s a woman. My eyes perceive a being of such beauty that the sight overloads my brain with both pleasure and pain.

  The word “divine” swirls through my mind, and I have difficulty gazing upon her without giving in to the desire to fall to my knees like the rest of the scantily clad worshippers.

  If I were to take all the emotions I’d experienced when staring at a moving painting or a gorgeous animal or a postcard-like view of nature and cram them into one moment, that might approximate what the being before me is making me feel.

  “How?” Felix whispers in awestruck fascination. “Is she actually a goddess?”

  No one answers. We watch as a tall man walks up to Lilith, kneels, and tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck.

  She bends over and rips into his neck, and somehow, even this brutal act has an otherworldly beauty to it.

  The guy moans loudly in pleasure, then collapses on the floor.

  “The addict in me doesn’t perceive her as a vampire,” Ariel says, her voice distant. “Usually, I’d already be thinking about my fix.”

  I make a mental note to keep Ariel as far away from the pseudo goddess’s blood as possible.

  Lilith finally looks in our direction—and begins to float off the ground.

  I wish I didn’t have my wrists bound or the visor down—because I need to rub my eyes.

  “Are you also seeing what I’m seeing?” Ariel sounds as overwhelmed as I feel.

  “If you mean seeing something that looks like an angel fly, then yes,” Felix answers in a choked voice.

  “No, more like a fertility goddess,” Ariel says. “Or a—”

  I tune them out, unable to tear my eyes from the majestic being in flight.

  There are no wires that I can see, nor any other methodology to explain her gravity-defying feat. If I’m right about the lack of wires, the magician in me will be extremely disappointed with this turn of events. That would be like finding out that the Wizard of Oz was actually a wizard and not the man behind the curtain.

  “She’s just a powerful vampire,” Itzel says without due awe in her voice. “They can all do glamour; hers is just more potent.”

  “So she’s not flying?” I ask, remembering that gnomes are immune to things like glamour. “We’re just seeing that?”

  “No, she is flying,” Itzel says. “Some of the oldest and most powerful of the vamps can gain that power, and this one has power in spades.” Itzel looks up at the approaching creature. “She just doesn’t look like an angel or a goddess, or whatever it is you’re seeing. All I see is a typical-for-her-kind paleness, pitch-black hair, and symmetrical face. Her only distinctive feature is a tattoo on her right temple. The one that looks like a parenthesis sitting on top of a plus sign. She must be really into mathematics.”

  A parenthesis sitting on top of a plus sign? That sounds like the beginnings of an emoji.

  I strain to see what Itzel is talking about but fail utterly. All I make out is a vague outline radiating sacredness—for lack of a better term.

  Lilith starts to speak, and the sounds she produces do to my ears wh
at her looks are doing to my eyes. I don’t want her to ever stop talking. It’s like heavenly harps playing all of my favorite music.

  The urge to fall to my knees and worship intensifies. I stiffen my leg muscles and remind myself that this is just glamour.

  “She demands to know what and who we are,” Itzel informs us.

  “Let me come up with a good tale,” I say, wishing I actually had a plan. Still, when it comes to bamboozling a god, I have the best chance out of the four of us. “To start, tell her we’re all gnomes, not just you.”

  Itzel says something, and the heavenly sound repeats.

  “She said she’s familiar with my kind and is glad our hands are tied behind our backs,” Itzel says. “She also demands to know if I speak other languages because, and I quote, ‘We don’t want to pollute the divine tongue with your heretical ravings.’”

  “See if she can speak Russian or English,” I suggest. “She lived on Earth at some point, so there’s a chance of that.”

  Itzel translates.

  “I speak both,” Lilith replies in strangely accented English, and the power of her divine voice impacts me even more now that I can understand what she’s saying. “But I will speak thusly as that minimizes the odds we might be overheard and understood.”

  My pulse jumps with excitement.

  She’s concerned about being overheard and understood by someone who speaks Russian. Could it be that she’s worried about my father glimpsing this exchange in a vision? Then again, isn’t she a probability manipulator and thus able to shield herself from seer visions? Unless she figures we, as gnomes, will mess with her power? But that cuts both ways and would make Rasputin’s vision just as impossible—but perhaps she only knows about gnome effects on her power, not on the others?

  “I think she wants to speak another language so that her worshippers don’t understand our conversation,” Felix says. “Oh, and tell her that her English is great.”

  Itzel does as Felix suggests before I can remind her that I’m the one who’s supposed to be doing the talking—using Itzel as my mouthpiece, that is, since she’s the only one of us with an external speaker.

  “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, gnome,” Lilith says. “Explain why you have come before I smite you.”

  “Tell her the four of us were born with exceptionally bad respiratory problems, even for gnome kind,” I say quickly. “Tell her it’s so bad that if we were to take off these suits, we’d suffocate in seconds.” I pantomime grasping my throat. “Then say that we’re on a quest through the Otherlands to find a world with enough oxygen to allow us to thrive without these clunky suits.”

  Itzel relays my words pretty well. She might yet make a good liar.

  While she’s doing that, I rack my brain for a name to give Lilith. I don’t want to reveal my real identity given my connection to Rasputin, who may be Lilith’s prisoner. I’m tempted to say Criss Angel, but that sounds too masculine and my suit has some curves. Maybe if I reverse it?

  “Does Angel Criss sound like a girl’s name?” I ask my friends. Then it hits me, and before they reply, I grin and say, “Never mind. I got it. I shall be Angelina. As in, Angelina Jolie.”

  “Then I’ll be Brad Pitt,” Felix says.

  “You wish.” Ariel chuckles. “You’re more of a Billy Bob Thornton—assuming we entertain your fantasy of being a unit with Sasha, which is going to be hard to believe even in these suits.”

  “Let him be Brad,” I say generously. “Besides, with that visor, I doubt anyone would question me dating him. Probably.”

  “In that case, I’m Jennifer Aniston,” Ariel says. “She has Greek heritage after all. We can all pretend we’re Brad’s gnome harem.”

  “I think gnomes are monogamous,” Felix says.

  “I’m sure Ariel was kidding about the harem thing,” I say. “And even if not, Itzel, please only relay what I say.”

  “Speaking of, we still need a name for Itzel,” Ariel says.

  “Gwyneth Paltrow,” Felix suggests.

  When Ariel and I chuckle, he defensively says, “She and Brad dated after the movie Seven, so I thought it would be thematically appropriate.”

  “Fine,” I say, making a mental note to tease him about his encyclopedic knowledge of celebrity hookups. “Itzel, please introduce us when you’re done. Just don’t give her the last names in case she’s actually been to Earth in recent decades, or she might catch on.”

  Itzel finally wraps up her explanation.

  “How tragic,” Lilith says, though she doesn’t sound the least bit sympathetic.

  “Yes,” Itzel replies. “It is. This is Angelina, by the way.” She points at me. “That is Brad.” She points at Felix. “This is Jennifer”—she points at Ariel—“and I’m Gwyneth, the leader of this expedition.”

  “More like the only one with an external speaker,” Felix grumbles softly.

  “So, Gwyneth,” Lilith says, seemingly tasting the name. “Did Tartarus send you?”

  “Who?” Itzel asks, and I recall hearing that name during Orientation the other week. I quickly explain it to the others, and Felix confirms he’s heard about him too.

  Like me, he was horrified by what was left of the world Tartarus last ruled.

  “I’ve never heard of Tartarus until today,” Itzel says to Lilith. “No one sent us.”

  “Is that so?” Lilith says. “Now, tell me, would you truly die if we took you out of those gnome contraptions?”

  “And quickly,” Itzel replies before I can coach her on what to say. “So please don’t.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean for you to die quickly.” Despite the words still sounding like beautiful music, I detect an undertone of malice that sends a shiver down my spine. “Though I suspect that you are telling the truth, I can’t let you go without making sure of it. You might be spies from Tartarus or one of my other enemies.” She floats closer to us. “I’m certain my torturers can devise a form of questioning that will leave your garb intact.”

  We all back away—and bump straight into a group of swordsmen, who seem to have appeared out of nowhere. Upon a command from Lilith, they start herding us out of the room.

  “I will have you back here for dinner in the near future,” Lilith says to our backs. “It has been a while since I’ve tasted gnome blood.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  We’re mute with horror as the swordsmen drag us somewhere, with everyone processing the Hannibal Lecter-worthy threat Lilith has delivered.

  “Do your best to remember the path to wherever they take us,” I tell everyone, mostly to keep their minds off the upcoming torture and exsanguination.

  They mumble in agreement and continue to sulk—which is reasonable.

  A few minutes later, Ariel slides between me and Felix, and I see her straining with her bindings.

  As a magician, I’m an expert at knowing what a group of people can or cannot see; in our parlance, it’s called being aware of the angles. My sleight of hand and other secret maneuvers are usually angle proof—but Ariel’s current efforts are far from it.

  I cover her angles by stepping over to the right and adjusting my gait just so.

  The guards remain oblivious to Ariel’s efforts.

  “Crap,” she says in frustration, stopping the struggle. “I can’t rip this stupid rope apart.”

  “Even if you freed yourself, they have swords at our backs,” Itzel says.

  “So what are we supposed to do? Go passively to our doom?” She looks at the nearest guard, then the one at his side. “I think I’ll charge them with my hands tied behind my back. If I headbutt that one and slam my shoulder into—”

  “You’ll get chopped into pieces by the rest,” Itzel says.

  “That might still be a better fate than what Lilith has in store for us,” Ariel retorts.

  “How about we postpone suicidal missions for when we’re really desperate?” I chime in.

  “You don’t think this is desperate?” Felix and Ariel say almos
t in unison.

  “Let’s just say we don’t know all the variables yet,” I say. “For example, let’s say they use fewer guards when they take one of us to be tortured. That might give Ariel a better chance of surviving after that headbutting and shoulder charging.”

  “Oh,” Ariel says disappointedly. “I thought you’d had a vision or something.”

  “She can’t get a vision because of Itzel,” Felix says accusingly.

  “That’s not true,” Itzel says defensively. “I should only impact Sasha’s efforts to see a future that involves me.”

  “And you’re with us, so all our futures involve you. Maybe we should get rid of you,” Felix says. “How about you charge the guards and get killed for the good of the group?”

  Itzel steps as far away from Felix as our current predicament allows. “My nature is not stopping Sasha from seeing a future where they torture you, Ariel, or her own self, assuming I’m not there when the torturer does it,” she says flatly.

  “Yeah, as tempting as it is for me to experience torture in a vision, I’m going to take a rain check,” I say, suppressing a shudder. “But Itzel makes a good point. I haven’t had the time to think more creatively about my visions. Maybe I could look at the future of whoever will be guarding our cell or something like that. Maybe he cheats on his wife, and I could use that as blackmail. Or he worships a god other than Lilith, and we could use that.”

  I wish I could be as optimistic as I make myself sound to my friends.

  “Fine,” Ariel says. “I won’t attack anyone right now, but I have a feeling I’ll regret this when I’m inside some spike-filled iron maiden torture device.”

  “They wouldn’t use that,” Felix says. “It would break the integrity of the suit. Something like the rack would work better. If they go slowly, the suit shouldn’t rip at the joints—though our actual joints might—”