Prophecy of Magic

by Dima Zales

  “Or I end this now,” the guy says and whooshes into motion.

  Nero dodges the claw-like hand that strikes at his chest. My boss either expected treachery or he’s just that fast.

  “I should thank you,” Nero growls, his fist flying at his opponent’s face. “Without you, their general, your army will be that much easier to defeat.”

  The glint in the general’s eyes is eerily snake-like as he ducks. “And without you, yours will simply leave.”

  Nero’s hands move too fast to track, but his opponent blocks each strike—then goes on an offensive that’s also too fast to follow. I can tell, however, that he doesn’t land a single strike.

  A dragon roars in the distance and starts flying in the direction of the combatants. The rest of the dragons follow.

  On the side of Nero’s army, a dragon appears as if from nowhere—a green one who must be Kit.

  Roaring, Kit launches into the air, and the rest of Nero’s army takes that as their marching orders and begins to advance.

  “So you planned for this,” the general says almost respectfully.

  “Hopefully better than you,” Nero says and finally lands a powerful blow, striking the guy’s jaw.

  The general staggers—which is when Nero rakes a gash on his chest with his claw-like hand.

  The general steps back, glows, and turns into a giant blue dragon.

  Nero turns as well, roaring something that sounds suspiciously like, “Now!”

  Whatever Nero’s plan is, I hope it accounts for the dragons that are soon going to join the general.

  A bunch of scrawny-looking soldiers in Nero’s army begin to glow. With the sound of clothing ripping apart, a brood—or whatever the term is—of cockatrices shows up where the people used to be.

  The strange creatures take flight, swooping over the rest of Nero’s army and grabbing some of the 300 dudes into their talons.

  The strongmen look different now than when Nero recruited them; they’re wearing heavy armor and intricate harnesses that have clearly been designed for cockatrice claws. In their hands, they’re clutching fierce-looking lances with tips that remind me of gleaming pink diamonds.

  As Kit leads this makeshift air squadron, I realize she has a rider on her back.

  It’s Vlad.

  Or put another way, Vlad is riding Kit.

  I bet that was her idea.

  The general spews fire at Nero.

  As before, Nero seems undaunted by dragon breath—but it does distract him. The general uses that moment to slash at Nero’s face with his tail. The strike doesn’t leave a mark, but it must hurt, as Nero roars in pain.

  Recovering quickly, Nero strikes with his own tail.

  The general dodges the move and looks back.

  The dragons are closer now, but so are Kit and the cockatrices.

  Using the general’s distraction to his advantage, Nero spews flame at his opponent’s chest.

  The general is fast and almost dodges the attack, but the tip of his tail is hit by the fire and is instantly singed.

  He roars like a wounded T-rex.

  His allies pick up speed, their wings flapping so hard they seem to blur.

  Kit and the cockatrices match their pace, accelerating so fast I half-expect them all to lose their riders—but they don’t.

  Nero swipes at the general with his claw and misses.

  The general tries to bite Nero’s shoulder with his sword-like teeth, only to catch empty air instead.

  The enemy dragons are almost within striking distance, and so are Kit and her squadron.

  “Ready?” Vlad screams at Nero from Kit’s back.

  “Go,” Nero’s roar seems to reply.

  Kit flies over the general, while Nero dives down.

  The general starts to swoop for Nero like a falcon—which is when Vlad leaps from Kit’s back, and I notice the gate sword in his hand.

  As he flies through the air, Vlad activates the plasma blade, and when he passes the general’s head, he swipes in a wide arc. The lightsaber-like weapon enters the dragon’s skull with ease, cleaving the head into two halves.

  Vlad presses the button to hide the blade and lands on Nero’s back.

  I realize this maneuver is inspired by something I did the last time Nero fought a dragon, and I make a mental note to tease Nero for being such a copycat. I also realize that Vlad is now riding Nero—a naked Nero at that.

  That will be something else to bring up when I’m in a teasing mood.

  Seeing their dead leader plummet to the ground, the other dragons freeze in the air—but the attacking brood of cockatrices only get bolder and speed up.

  The strongmen dudes yell out a war cry as a screech emanates from the throats of the cockatrices—a sound that demons from hell would make if they tried to shout “cock-a-doodle-doo.”

  One of the larger cockatrices flies up to an enemy dragon, and a spear pierces the thick dragon hide near the shoulder.

  Score! The diamond-like stuff of the spear tips must be as strong as adamantium.

  The dragon roars in pain and swats at the spear, but then a dark magenta energy streams from the cockatrice’s wild eyes into the wound.

  The wounded dragon screeches and begins falling.

  The 300 crew yell something, no doubt urging their own cockatrices to take them close to the dragons.

  Then I notice Nero is flying above the dragons while Kit is diving down.

  Are they doing the same trick in reverse?

  They are.

  Leaping from Nero’s back, Vlad slays another dragon and lands on Kit.

  Meanwhile, the rest of the cockatrices fly up to the stunned dragons, and spears enter flesh while magenta death stares finish the job, over and over.

  Below us, the ground troops finally clash.

  Colton—the smallest of the giants—swings a nine-foot claymore, chopping up a small squadron of enemy troops, and the rest of the giants do even more damage.

  In the meantime, the centaurs rush at the enemy cavalry, each holding a lance taller than the spire on the Empire State building. Tumor-like muscles bulging, the leader centaur turns a dozen enemy riders into kebabs, and the rest of his squadron follows suit.

  The more human-looking of Nero’s allies assist the giants and the centaurs when they catch up. Isis shoots injured warriors with the healing arc of her magic, and during breaks in the action, a white-robed female dissolves the enemy soldiers with streaks of white energy that remind me of what Councilor Albina did at Rose’s funeral.

  It must be her, which means Nero definitely got some members of the New York Council involved.

  One man turns into a giant wolf that makes Nostradamus’s Marius look like a malnourished puppy. He rips into a wave of soldiers by himself, wreaking as much havoc as a dozen giants, while a guy who looks like an elf but without the signature ears goes full-on Orlando Bloom with his bow and arrows, turning dozens of soldiers into pin-cushions.

  The strangest is a woman who calls animals to herself like a Disney princess, only by using arcs of energy instead of singing. Once exotic-looking birds and other creatures join her, she sends them into the enemy troops, biting and tripping them up.

  But the most damage to the enemy army is done by their own dragons when they fall dead from the sky, crushing—

  I’m back in the car.

  My heart is hammering in my chest, and my stomach is tight with anxiety.

  At first, I’m sure I’m reacting to seeing Nero in trouble, but then I realize this feeling has something to do with the chorts.

  But what?

  Could they be following me?

  I look back. It’s just heavy downtown traffic and no obvious tail that I can see.

  Maybe Headspace can provide more answers?

  I focus and instantly end up there, with three clouds of visions around me—two that play frightening tunes and one very mundane.

  These three clouds must represent three different locations and events.


  With three ethereal wisps, I reach for a representative from each cloud and spiral into the visions.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Four chorts are walking down a corridor in an apartment building.

  A corridor that looks strangely familiar.

  I don’t think these four were in the room with Felix, but I’m not sure. I guess it was too much to hope that all of the chorts except Boris and Woland had perished.

  A pale man in a black suit is standing next to one of the farther doors, as if guarding that apartment.

  A man wearing sunglasses indoors.

  When they see him, the chorts stealthily creep forward.

  The guy they’re approaching—a vampire, judging by those sunglasses and his paleness—doesn’t react until they’re about forty feet away. Then he must hear or smell something because he turns sharply. “Who goes there?”

  The chorts freeze, but it’s too late.

  “Whoever you are, you should know you’re dealing with an Enforcer,” he says evenly, staring at them. “Leave now and live.”

  Definitely a vampire—one of Vlad’s.

  Since they’re busted, the chorts abandon all stealth and stand straighter, no sign of fear on their faces.

  The vampire reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun of a make I don’t recognize.

  A gun with a futuristic-looking silencer.

  Aiming it at the chorts, he says, “I won’t ask again.”

  “How about we let you walk away,” says a spikey-haired chort with a thick Russian accent. “Think of it as Enforcer to Enforcer courtesy.”

  Without lowering the gun, the vampire reaches into his pants’ pocket with his free hand and pulls out a cell phone.

  “Yeah, that’s not going to work,” the same chort says and pulls out some weird-looking gizmo. He waves it around. “We’re blocking cell reception and have cut the landlines in this building. So it’s just going to be you and the four of us. Ready to stand down now?”

  The vampire glances at his phone, no doubt to verify a lack of bars; then without any warning, he squeezes the trigger—producing a barely audible gunshot.

  The chorts go translucent.

  A bullet hole shows up in the chest of the spikey-haired one, yet there’s no blood or visible pain on his face.

  The vampire gapes at his still-standing opponent, then at the bullet hole in the wall at the far end of the corridor.

  Which is when I notice a large chort creeping up on the vampire from the other end of the hallway.

  He must’ve come from the staircase to the left of the apartment, using the first four chorts as misdirection.

  The vampire aims again.

  The newcomer chort silently pulls out what looks like a shashka—a type of single-edged saber used by the Cossacks.

  With an expert swing, he chops the vampire’s head off.

  The head drops to the floor, and the headless body follows.

  “Stick him into the garbage chute for now,” says the spikey-haired chort, and two of his brethren rush to execute the command.

  When the clean-up is complete, the chorts regroup in front of the door where the vampire was standing.

  A door I now recognize—except I hope with all my being that I’m wrong.

  There are other doors like this, aren’t there?

  In similar-looking corridors?

  It’s possible.

  The chorts take out black burglar masks and put them on, covering their faces.

  “What time is it?” the spikey-haired leader asks a thin, wiry chort who reminds me of Boris.

  “12:57,” the Boris-lookalike says.

  “We’re cutting it close,” the leader says. Gesturing at the door, he orders, “Do it now.”

  The thin one takes out lockpicks and goes to work. Though his technique leaves much to be desired, it gets the job done within minutes.

  Please let me be wrong.

  They enter.

  At the sight of the countless expensive tchotchkes, I can’t deny it anymore.

  This is my mom’s apartment—my adoptive mom’s, that is.

  If I had a heart in this state, it would sink through the floor.

  Maybe she’s not home? Maybe they’re here to steal something rather than hurt her?

  But of course, she is home. Why else was that vampire—who was no doubt working for Nero—guarding the apartment?

  The sounds of TV ring out from the living room, and the chorts creep into that room.

  Mom doesn’t even notice them. Her gaze is glued to The Real Housewives of New York.

  The spikey-haired chort sneaks up behind her and grabs her throat, squeezing it.

  Mom’s face turns ashen, and she starts flailing, a choked hiss escaping her lips instead of a shriek.

  “Time?” Mom’s assailant asks the thin chort.

  “It’s one already,” the thin guy replies.

  With an uncaring shrug, the spikey-haired chort squeezes harder—

  A different group of chorts are walking in another—this time, unfamiliar—corridor.

  Based on the swipe locks on the doors and the fancy décor, I can tell this is a hotel. When I glimpse Central Park from a hallway window, I even know which hotel this is—The Plaza.

  Dad’s favorite place to stay when he visits New York.

  Oh no. Please don’t let this be what I think.

  An Enforcer vampire is standing in front of one of the rooms, looking bored.

  The chorts follow the script from my other vision to a T—they use themselves as misdirection until a lanky chort sneaks up behind the vamp and uses a shashka for another beheading.

  The only difference is that instead of a garbage chute, they stash the body in an empty room.

  “What’s the time?” a round-faced chort asks.

  “12:58,” says the one who beheaded the vampire.

  The round-faced chort nods and presses a key card to the lock.

  The light on the device turns green.

  The chort cautiously opens the door—and faces Dad, who stares at the newcomer with bulging eyes.

  It’s as I feared.

  The chorts are killing my parents in a synchronized attack.

  “I’m going to call the police!” Dad waves his phone, stumbling back.

  “And how many bars do you have?” the round-faced chort asks with a Russian accent.

  Dad glances at the screen and pales.

  The chorts step into the room.

  Dad tosses his useless cellphone at the assailants and scrambles for the landline.

  The lanky blade-wielding chort dodges the projectile, then advances on Dad, as do the others.

  “No dial tone?” the round-faced chort asks mockingly when Dad lifts the phone to his ear with shaking hands. “We’ve made sure there would be no interruptions.”

  He nods at the lanky chort who has the shashka.

  No. Please, no.

  The weapon whooshes through the air, piercing Dad’s chest—

  A new vision starts.

  I’m bodiless, in a warehouse with Woland, Boris, a couple of chorts from Felix’s vision, and a few chorts I haven’t seen.

  They all look like they just sprinted across the entire length of New York City and are staring at a wall clock that shows 12:44.

  If this is the same day, which I see no reason to doubt, these bastards are just waiting for my parents to die.

  How do I stop this cursed vision so I can actually do something?

  Not that I actually have a clue what to do. Given my current location and the traffic, at best, I could try to reach one of my parents before 1:00, but definitely not both.

  Did I tempt fate when I told Mom I’d never choose Dad over her?

  Because I might have to make that awful choice, or else have them both die.

  “I think it’s time,” Woland says when the clock moves another minute. He walks over to a small table with a bottle of water, a thick roll of duct tape, and a folded piece of paper
on it.

  “Is this really going to work?” Boris looks at the paper, then at his boss.

  “She’s a seer,” Woland says and picks up the pen. “If she sees a vision of this, it will work.”

  “But they’re not her real parents,” Boris says. “Besides, she will then also see what would happen if she comes over here.” He looks pointedly at the duct tape.

  “Then as sad as it is, a couple of people will die in vain.” Woland shrugs. “A small price to pay for a chance to get Rasputin.”

  “And you think he’ll come to save her?” Boris rubs his temples, his weaselly face a mask of confusion. “Because he, too, can see the future?”

  “That, or she’ll tell us where to find him,” Woland says. “Either outcome works for me.”

  Boris winces. “This seer shit hurts my brain.”

  “Not a lot there to hurt,” Woland mutters under his breath and unfolds the paper. Louder, he adds, “Please, gentlemen, I need silence now.”

  The other chorts stop whispering among themselves as Woland clears his throat. Pointing at the paper, he says, “Dear Sasha. Please witness me signing this contract.”

  He stops and glances around as though looking for a ghost, then signs the paper at a dotted line. As he does that, his Mandate aura flickers, no doubt confirming the binding nature of what he just did.

  I scan the contract.

  If you ignore the legalese, it boils down to the following: If I, Alexandra (Sasha) Urban, arrive at the given Brooklyn address at or before 12:59 p.m., alone and without involving human or Cognizant authorities, he, Woland, solemnly pledges to call off his people and let my adoptive parents live. Furthermore, he would not hurt them ever again and would do everything in his power to make sure that no one working for him or the St. Petersburg Council would hurt them either.

  Woland looks at the clock, then at the door leading into the warehouse as I process what I just learned.

  Woland has devised a plan that is as evil as it is genius.

  He’s giving me a way to save both of my parents.

  All I have to do is sacrifice myself.

  Except I wouldn’t be sacrificing myself only. The chorts hope that Rasputin would come to save me, so I’d be putting him in harm’s way.