by Dima Zales
Vlad howls, like a wounded lion. Moving supernaturally fast, he rushes to the stage—and passes through the illusion of Rose as though she were made of smoke.
Neither she nor the hidden-by-illusion Hekima are Vlad’s destinations, it seems. Instead, he beelines for the coffin.
Opening the lid, he stares inside as everyone recovers their breathing.
Bending down, he lifts his mask and gives Rose a farewell kiss.
The ever-growing lump in my throat makes it difficult to breathe, and my mascara is but a distant memory with all the tears.
A hand squeezes my shoulder. Despite the nondescript mask, I know this is Nero, and I welcome his reassuring touch.
Closing the casket, Vlad jumps off the stage and heads for the broken doors.
I guess he’s had enough of the funeral, and I can’t blame him.
When he reaches the exit, he hesitantly stops, then turns and stares blankly at the stage.
Then his shoulders slump, and he sits down on the floor.
Following some intuition, I also plop down.
Nero and the other people next to me do the same, and soon, the whole room is sitting.
The illusion of Rose seems pleased at the sight of the sitting Cognizant. She walks to the middle of the stage and says, “If I could do everything over again, I’d chose only you.” Her blue eyes are bright and intense as she stares at Vlad. “What about you?” she asks. “Would you have rather have not loved me?”
All heads turn to Vlad.
“If you could turn back the clock,” Rose continues, “would you choose someone who wouldn’t one day have to write this speech?”
Vlad shakes his head so violently I’m surprised his mask stays on.
I turn back to Rose and catch her smiling beatifically. “So there we have it,” she says. “Councilor Albina, it’s time for me to rejoin nature.”
She steps to the side as a white-robed person stands up and walks onto the stage.
She (I assume) is wearing a mask that looks like the childhood drawing of a sun, with sunrays spreading in every direction.
Walking deliberately, the figure stops next to the coffin and points at it with both hands.
White energy streaks from her hands into the coffin, and as soon as the connection is made, the coffin and its contents seem to dissolve in a blinding flash.
Her work done, the Councilor slinks off the stage.
“Thank you so much,” Rose says, and the illusion of her evaporates in the same way as the coffin did, leaving behind just Hekima holding a sheet of paper.
“It’s time for some of us to say a few words,” he says and locks eyes with me. “Sasha, please come up to the stage.”
My heart plummets, and I can’t move a muscle.
The crowd around me starts to murmur menacingly.
Nero squeezes my shoulder again, but that little bit of reassurance isn’t enough to offset the terrifying reality of what’s about to happen.
There are hundreds of people here, and I have to speak in front of them.
Chapter Seventeen
“I can take your place,” Nero whispers in my ear, his warm breath wafting over my neck.
I numbly shake my head and shock myself by slowly getting to my feet.
That’s right. I’ve done this successfully once before, when I faced the Council.
I didn’t faint then, and I shouldn’t faint now.
Ignoring the thunderous beating of my heart, I drag myself to the stage.
The crowd below me seems to have multiplied a thousand-fold.
I look at Hekima to see if he’s messing with me, but he just has a kindly expression on his face.
I look back at the crowd.
Have these masks always looked so sinister?
“You can do this,” Hekima murmurs as he walks past me to get off the stage. “I know you can.”
In the fourth row, I spot a pale woman lifting her fanged mask.
It’s Lucretia. She sucks air into her cheeks, then makes exaggeratedly pouty lips to let the air out.
Is she having a fit?
No. She’s pantomiming breathing.
I inhale a deep breath and slowly let it out—just like Lucretia taught me after I fainted on a stage such as this.
“This is for Rose,” I remind myself with the next breath. “Just pretend this is a big magic show, and they’re the audience.”
My back straightens.
“Thank you for coming to this Farewell Rite,” I say, impressed at how well my voice carries through the room. “I don’t know anyone more deserving of this honor than Rose.”
Some of the masked people nod approvingly, and I continue. “You may know her as a powerful witch, but she was so much more than that.” As I proceed to describe Rose’s kindness and generosity, I marvel at the rehearsed words spewing out of my mouth.
I’m actually doing it. I’m delivering the eulogy without fainting.
Wow.
If I can speak in public while sleep-deprived, overwhelmed with grief, and worried about a rocket flying into the room at any moment, I can probably cross fear of public speaking from my list of phobias.
I deliver the rest of the speech without a hitch, ending with a breathless, “So you see, Rose was not just a friend. She was family.”
A few people start to clap, and the rest of the crowd joins them.
Hekima comes back to the stage to announce the next speaker as I return to the spot next to Nero and gratefully slump into a sitting position on the floor.
“Great job,” Nero whispers, leaning in. “I’m proud of you.”
If he says more, I don’t hear it.
The post-adrenaline slump combines with the sleep deprivation to hit me like a truck.
“At least I didn’t do it on stage,” I manage to think to myself before I collapse like a fainting goat.
Chapter Eighteen
I wake up from the most inappropriate dream about Nero. I was nude on the desk in my new office, and he was covering me in oil while talking about the stock market and—
Wait a second, what’s with the loud noise? Is it the roar of motors?
Opening my eyes, I frantically look around.
I’m strapped to a seat next to Nero with giant headphones over my head.
Of course.
I’m inside Nero’s helicopter.
Is he trying to Fifty Shades impress me again?
Looking at my boss, I press the prerequisite button on the headset and ask, “What happened? How did I get here?”
“You passed out,” Nero says without turning away from the breathtaking view of the New York Harbor below us. “Isis was nearby, so I asked her to give you a restful sleep.”
I examine myself.
Okay, so I feel better, but something about what he’s saying bothers me.
“How did I get into this thing?” I ask, nailing the bad suspicion on the head. “Did you carry me out in front of all the funeral attendees?”
I also wonder if his carrying me was how I got the sexy dream, but I don’t voice that question.
“Would you rather I have dragged you by your feet, like a sack?” Nero turns my way for a second, and I can see a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I can do that next time, if you insist.”
“Where are my friends?” I look behind us and find no one. “Are they still at the funeral?”
“Thalia is driving them back.” He fiddles with the gizmo I believe is called “the collective”—one of the primary controls in charge of lift.
“That’s good.” I can’t help sneaking a peek at the Statue of Liberty in the distance. “They’re probably safer riding without me.”
Nero grunts something, but without pressing the button so I can overhear.
“How did your conversation with Lola go?” I ask. “Was she—”
“She said she’d only met you for the first time today.” Nero adjusts the stick in front of his seat. “So there goes that theory.”
“An
y other leads?” I look at the only nearby patch of land on Staten Island and spot a tiny black van in the distance.
I could swear a tiny person is sticking out of that van, holding something.
I gasp as a wave of dread slams into me.
With a shaking finger, I press the speak button as Nero says, “No leads yet, but—”
“Swerve!” I shout, grabbing for the controls.
I have to hand it to my boss.
Without asking why or how, he jerks on the controls before I can get to them.
The helicopter lurches to the side.
A bazooka rocket whooshes by the front window.
This is it, what my vision had warned me about. And it’s much worse than what I originally feared—getting hit while riding in a limo.
Another wave of anxiety hits me just as Nero violently yanks on the controls again.
My gaze snaps to the side window—and I see another rocket flying right at us.
Chapter Nineteen
“Another one!” I shout at Nero, though he’s already reacting, and every piece of monitoring equipment around us is going berserk.
We swerve, but not in time.
The rocket explodes with a sound of tearing metal, and our craft spins out of control.
Chapter Twenty
“We’re going down,” Nero growls as we zigzag through the sky.
I look at the spinning world and the ever-nearing water below and try to swallow my heart back into my chest.
Nero unbuckles his safety harness.
The roar of the propellers turns unhealthy—the main or the tail rotor must be damaged.
Nero rips off my headset and unstraps me as though I were a doll.
“Are you planning to jump?” I shout over the roar. “Won’t we be in danger of hitting the tail rotor?”
He doesn’t reply. He must not have heard me over the nightmarish cacophony.
I pray to the helicopter gods that the tail rotor is the source of that horrible noise—or that I have my jumping-out-of-the-helicopter facts wrong.
Nero opens the door.
The harbor below us seems to be approaching so fast, you’d think we were riding a rocket toward it.
Then Nero pushes me out.
Without a parachute.
Chapter Twenty-One
As I freefall, I scream like I haven’t done since the time I went hoarse after accidentally swallowing a spider.
His face inhumanly calm, Nero glides after me like an expert skydiver.
Before I can blink, he has me in a tight hug.
I brave a look down over his shoulder and wish I hadn’t. The harbor water is a high-rise building away.
I look back up and wish I hadn’t done that either. Another rocket hits what’s left of the poor helicopter square on—and it explodes into shards of metal and glass.
“Brace yourself,” Nero shouts just as his back hits the water.
The impact knocks all my breath out of my lungs, and I see bright flashes of light.
Then the cold water surrounds me, and my consciousness slips away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I come to my senses as Nero pulls away from giving me mouth to mouth.
At least I hope that’s what he was doing—until today he never seemed like the “sneak a kiss from a half-dead woman” type.
No. It must’ve been mouth to mouth. My lungs burn as though I breathed in salty water—and I probably did.
Still, though I’m cold and wet, I feel surprisingly alive for someone who just skydived without a parachute.
Did Nero’s embrace protect me? What about him? That impact would’ve hurt anyone—
“Isis is on her way,” Nero tells me soothingly.
I recover enough to notice the concern on his face, and warm fuzzy-wuzzies banish some of my discomfort.
Turning my head, I look around.
We’re on the pier—the very one where I nearly drowned not so long ago.
Hey, one more drowning, and the next one is free.
I try to sit up, and Nero loops his powerful arm under my shoulders, helping me.
“I think I’m okay,” I say when he carefully pulls away and I manage to remain upright. “Nothing hurts much.”
Nero frowns at me skeptically. “You might be in shock. Something could be broken, and you wouldn’t know it.”
Shrugging, I glance at the water. There are pieces of the helicopter floating everywhere.
“Are you okay?” I ask, turning back to look at him.
It’s dawning on me that Nero has saved me. Again.
He was willing to break his back against the water for me.
“I’ll be fine,” he says dismissively, standing up. “The fall wasn’t as bad as it probably seemed with all that adrenaline coursing through your system.”
Riiight. A normal person would’ve totally survived that—and there’s a nice bridge I’m putting up for sale.
Whatever type of Cognizant Nero is, he must be extremely resilient.
Putting aside the mystery that is my boss, I resume looking around and spot people in Battery Park staring at the helicopter remains.
This is less than ideal. A few of the gawkers are even taking pictures.
“This will be impossible to hush up completely,” Nero says, following my gaze. “It will be a high-profile case, but maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe the humans will help us figure out who’s behind this.”
Taking out his phone, he swipes at the screen for a few moments. The thing must be waterproof, I realize as he pockets the device and lifts me with his signature bridal carry.
I debate whether I should act indignant as he walks, but I decide against it. I’m secretly enjoying the closeness and the warmth spreading through my body. Instead, when Nero shows no sign of slowing after a minute, I ask, “Where are we going?”
“That car.” He nods at a silver Toyota Camry that’s pulling up to the curb.
Lengthening his strides, Nero reaches the car with record speed.
“Is she drunk?” the driver asks when Nero puts me inside. “If she pukes—”
Nero takes out a wad of wet cash from his pocket and hands it to the frowning dude. “Get us to the address quickly, and I’ll double that.”
The driver looks at the cash in confusion.
“Waste any more time, and I’ll throw you out of this car and drive it myself,” Nero growls.
The driver wisely decides to do as the scary man asks, and we rip forward, nearly driving over a couple of pedestrians.
The AC in the car makes me shiver, and Nero loops his arm around me again, pulling me close to his incredibly warm body. Does he have a furnace pumping under his skin?
“Turn off the AC,” he barks at the driver, and the man immediately complies.
My shivering abates, only to be replaced by an equally unsettling sensation—the kind that makes it difficult to even out my breathing.
“Any pain?” Nero murmurs, gazing down at me. “I have morphine at my place if you need it before Isis gets there.”
“No.” I reluctantly scooch away. “I’m doing better. Neither Isis nor drugs should be necessary.”
“You’re sure?” He looks me up and down, a frown creasing his hard features.
“Positive,” I say, wanting to slap myself for being tempted to kiss that worried-looking mouth for some unholy reason.
When we park next to Nero’s building, my boss tosses more money at our driver, then picks me up—of course—and carries me to his penthouse.
As he enters the elevator, I realize I’ve recovered enough to really notice the proximity of his muscular body.
Must not dwell on that.
In an effort to banish inappropriate thoughts, I take in a deep breath as we exit the elevator.
Nope, that made it worse. I can almost taste the hint of delicious spice in his cologne.
He carries me into the kitchen and carefully lowers me into a chair, his movements so gentle you’d think I’m bre
akable.
I get a case of déjà vu as he then makes me a salad and potatoes with mushrooms—just like he did the last time I was here and distraught.
He even makes me drink tea again—chamomile with lemon balm.
As I start devouring the food, he leaves for a second—no doubt to set up the hot tub again.
By the time he comes back, I’ve put down my fork, and my belly feels like it might explode.
“You sure you don’t want some pain medicine?” His eyes seem to peer into my brain, their limbal rings out of control.
“I’m fine,” I say—and I am. My current discomfort has nothing to do with the fall from the helicopter and everything to do with the man pampering me. “No drugs necessary.”
“Suit yourself. Now let’s get you out of those wet clothes.” He reaches for me.
Vivid images of Nero stripping my clothes sneak into my mind, but that’s not why he’s reaching for me.
Actually, the real reason is almost as bad.
He picks me up yet again and carries me into that spa-like master bathroom.
I was right.
He’s set up candles and drawn a bath for me, just like the last time.
The images in my head evolve from stripping my clothes to stripping off both our clothes, and progress to us naked in the tub—
Nero carefully lowers me to my feet. When I remain standing, he points at the huge pile of towels and says, “Use those when you’re done.”
He then walks over to a linen closet and riffles through it for a few seconds. “Also put these on.” He drapes a bunch of clothes on the back of the tub.
I check it all out.
It’s yoga pants and a sports bra that look about my size. Actually, who am I kidding? I bet they’ll fit me perfectly—Nero has a history of knowing my measurements.