Reluctant Psychic

by Dima Zales

Given that it costs good money to keep a posting listed, why are so many companies advertising jobs that they’ve already filled? And how did so many companies fill their positions at the same time?

  More importantly, why are they so uncharacteristically responsive and vocal about it?

  An impossible explanation occurs to me. Could Nero have blacklisted me somehow? Could he have ordered other firms to tell me that the job is already filled if I apply?

  No.

  That’s very hard to believe.

  He is powerful in the financial sector, sure, but can anyone have this much pull?

  Gritting my teeth, I seek out some positions outside the financial industry. I find a gig as an entry-level quality assurance tester at a media company. It only requires the applicant to have a bachelor’s degree, so I apply to it. Next, I locate similar easy-to-qualify-for listings in the health industry, as well as with a few software companies.

  I don’t share what just happened with Fluffster, who’s happily munching on his hay. He already worries about our finances, and this could give him a heart attack.

  Instead, I sit there, staring blankly at the laptop screen.

  What would I do if my crazy hypothesis is true? What if Nero is really blacklisting me? Would I take one of those entry-level jobs I just applied to? Or, assuming I master my powers, could I use them to simply win the lottery instead?

  Would that break the spirit of the Mandate?

  Yes, I decide. Given my fifteen minutes of fame among the humans, winning the lottery might indeed be perceived as a public exercise of my powers—so that’s out.

  Making money doing what I love is out too; the Council explicitly forbade me from performing as an illusionist.

  I could try my hand at day trading. My powers should help there, for sure. However, on the off chance my intuition misleads me, I could lose whatever savings I do have. Not to mention, to successfully live off the daily stock fluctuations, you need quite a bit of capital to start with—something my measly savings don’t qualify for. Also, if I’m too good, I might get on the radar of the SEC, which would be bad enough on its own, but infinitely worse if it leads to trouble with the Council.

  I imagine an overly successful day trader might be a lot like a lottery winner in their eyes—a Cognizant who’s risking exposure of her powers.

  Oh, and on top of that, if I trade any of the stocks I researched for Nero—which is a lot of stocks—I might be breaking the no-personal-trading clause in the agreement I signed when I joined the fund.

  I dig in my emails and pull up the agreement. Yep, no trading of those stocks for me for at least a year, unless I’m willing to risk getting sued by Nero—and if he’s being enough of an asshole to blacklist me, he’d be more than glad to sue me too.

  Suddenly, I’m way more eager to execute my earlier plan. I’ll have to do a lot less acting now that I’m genuinely furious with Nero.

  The plan, however, is for tomorrow. Today, my best bet is to master my powers. If I could see the future with any predictability, there are bound to be ways I could capitalize on it—financially or otherwise.

  I shower, change into comfy clothes, and get into the meditation pose.

  To my annoyance, I find that clearing my mind when I’m mad at a smug, manipulative bastard is an exercise in futility.

  After a couple of hours, I give up and surf the internet for more info about Rasputin. Given what Rose and Vlad told me, it’s all probable BS, so when I come across the Disney movie Anastasia, I watch a few clips featuring Rasputin as the villain.

  The cartoon is as likely to be true as what’s on Wikipedia.

  Frustrated, I decide to go to bed extra early.

  The earlier I get up tomorrow, the earlier I can storm into Nero’s fund.

  Chapter Eight

  Entering my former office building, I walk through the long, sleek lobby to the security guard, explain that I no longer work at the place, and request a guest pass to “see HR about turning in my old phone.”

  I figure if I tell him that my actual plan is to storm into the chief’s office, he’d not-so-respectfully send me away.

  “You don’t need a pass,” the guard tells me after he examines my driver’s license as though to see if it’s a forgery. “Your ID wasn’t deactivated. You can just go right ahead.”

  I verify his words by getting through the ID-activated turnstiles without trouble.

  That’s odd.

  Is Nero in denial about my resignation?

  If so, I’m about to disabuse him of that notion.

  “Sasha,” a familiar female voice says as a gentle hand touches my shoulder.

  I turn to see Lucretia, the fund psychologist and one of the few people I might actually miss when I burn all bridges to this place.

  “Hello.” I smile at her.

  “Is something wrong?” Lucretia asks. Leaning in so that her lips nearly touch my ear, she whispers, “I sense a huge tumult of conflicting emotions in you. Is everything okay?”

  That’s right. I recently learned that besides being a pre-vamp, Lucretia is also an empath—a rare combination of different Cognizant powers.

  “Come ride the elevator with me,” I say, and she nods.

  We let a group of people grab the next elevator, then jump into an empty one. As soon as the doors close, I say, “Nero left me no choice but to quit this place.”

  I then press the stop button and give her a brief version of events, one that assumes she’ll break doctor/patient privilege and report everything I say to Nero (or that he has listening devices in the elevator).

  She listens with a vaguely disbelieving frown. “There’s more to Nero than this,” she says when I finish. “I can’t break his confidence, of course, but when he talks to me, I can sense his emotions, and I doubt he’s as ruthless as you say. Especially toward you.”

  I cross my arms in front of my chest. “Are you actually defending him?”

  “No. That wasn’t my intent.” Her large blue eyes gaze at the floor. “I just sense your own emotions toward Nero and—”

  “This conversation seems to be going nowhere quick,” I say and stab the stop button to release it. “I better go.”

  “I’m sorry if I overstepped.” Looking genuinely apologetic, Lucretia tucks a long strand of black hair behind her ear. “Just know that you can be my patient regardless of your employment status at this firm.”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling slightly bad that my anger at Nero made me snap at the woman. “I don’t think I can afford you—but I’m happy to be your friend, if that’s free.”

  She smiles. “Sure. Call me if you need anything.” She hands me her card and exits the elevator on the next floor.

  I program her number into my new phone, set it to vibrate, and spend the rest of the ride up calming my nerves—unsuccessfully.

  By the time I stomp up to Venessa—my least favorite peon in Nero’s army of assistants—my heart wants to jump out of my rib cage.

  “Yes?” Venessa drawls, her beady eyes staring at me as though I could be here for any reason except to see Nero.

  “I’m expected,” I lie and ignore the woman’s outraged protests as I stride by.

  I hide the action of palming the FELLATIO device by my angry march into Nero’s office. Entering, I try to slam the door behind me, only to find that the stupid thing is automated to close with barely a puff of air.

  Nero’s fancy desk is in the standing position, and for a second, I almost lose my nerve as I see him there.

  He doesn’t usually wear suits, but he has one on today. It must be an insanely expensive bespoke creation by the best Italian designers, because it hugs his muscled frame like spandex, making me gape at him in dumb fascination.

  I better snap out it.

  So what if he’s wearing a suit? That’s great for the plan. Suit jacket pockets are much better for my purposes than pant pockets.

  Nero doesn’t show any sign that he’s aware of me. Either he’s laser focused
on what he’s doing, or he’s just messing with me.

  I pointedly clear my throat.

  He still doesn’t look away from the screen.

  “Nero. Don’t pretend you can’t see me.”

  He looks up from behind the screen and lifts one dark eyebrow. “That didn’t take long.” He comes around the desk and spreads his arms, as though offering me a hug. “Welcome back.”

  The smug expression on that symmetrical face infuriates me—and that too is actually good for the plan.

  “Here comes the suicidal part,” I think to myself and stride toward him.

  Chapter Nine

  It takes me a couple of seconds to close the distance between us.

  When he’s within arm’s length, I stop my advance and gulp in a calming breath, inhaling his clean, woodsy scent with just the faintest hint of lime. Being this close to him reminds me of the time I danced with Kit in Nero’s disguise—and that kiss she tricked me into.

  His blue-gray eyes stare down at me mockingly, making me recall the plan.

  “How dare you?” I hiss, and without further ado, I slap his chest with my right hand—just as my left one surreptitiously delivers the device into his pocket.

  For a moment, he looks confused, so I capitalize on that, slapping his chest with both hands this time. In part, it’s because I’m genuinely angry, but mostly so that he has the illusion of both my palms being in view at all times.

  With a movement too fast to register, Nero catches my wrists in a vise-like grip, pinning my palms against his chest. I attempt to pull away, but it’s like trying to escape a cement wall.

  Our eyes lock.

  Is he about to kiss me?

  Or is he about to bite my head off?

  Both seem equally likely in the moment.

  “You’re hurting my wrists.” I make another futile attempt to pull away. Even through the layers of his suit jacket and shirt, my palms can feel the powerful beating of his heart.

  Or is that my own pulse echoing in my hands?

  As I keep staring into those blue-gray depths, a quote from Nietzsche pops into my head: “…if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”

  Nero’s grip loosens.

  Circulation returns to my fingers.

  Now it feels more like he’s caressing my wrists—his strong, calloused palms hot on my sensitized skin.

  “Let go.” I put all my frustration into my words.

  In reply, he stares at me so intently that I have to look away, aimlessly gazing around the room.

  His painting catches my eye again. It’s the surreal landscape one, with the silver Grand Canyon-like mountain ridge under unfamiliar star formations, with seven differently shaded moons and an aurora borealis.

  To my surprise, he releases my wrists.

  I make the mistake of looking back at him—and it feels as though he captures my gaze in his.

  Why do I always feel like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake when we lock eyes like this?

  I take a step back and gather my scattered wits.

  “How dare you,” I repeat with renewed fury. “Who are you to tell me who I can or can’t speak with?”

  He tilts his head. “You can speak with whomever you want,” he murmurs, and steps toward me.

  “So long as it’s not Darian.” I take two steps back this time.

  “You can speak with whomever you want,” he says, enunciating every word. “I wouldn’t dream to ‘dare’ say otherwise.”

  “But Darian can’t talk to me.”

  “That’s that coward’s choice.” Nero takes another step in my direction.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket at the same time as I say, “You didn’t leave him a choice.”

  Our eyes do battle once more, making it very easy for me to pretend that I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I stick them both in my pockets.

  “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I’m beginning to think Darian let me catch him just so that we could have this pleasant conversation.”

  I had a variation of that same thought before, but I don’t share that with Nero. Instead, I use the moment to palm the new phone and take it out in such a way that Nero won’t be able to see me glance at it.

  There’s a text from Felix.

  I now have access to the cameras. Get out of there.

  “I don’t care what Darian’s motivations were,” I say, glaring at Nero as I slip the phone back into my pocket. “It’s yours that are a problem.”

  Nero’s eyebrows pull together. “I didn’t tell Darian anything that wasn’t my prerogative as your Mentor.”

  “Did you forget the part where I quit being your Mentee?”

  Nero looks me up and down, and I take another step back as he says, “That isn’t your choice to make.”

  I fight the urge to slap him for real as he asks with mock courtesy, “Was there anything else?”

  My jaw tightens. “Did you blacklist me?” The plan doesn’t require us to be talking anymore, but I’ll be damned if I don’t give Nero a piece of my mind.

  “Did I what?” He takes another step in my direction.

  I step backward again—and my back meets the glass wall. “Did you sabotage my job search?” I push away from the wall, my hands balling at my sides. “Did you tell everyone in the financial industry not to hire me?”

  “You already have a job.” Nero waves his hand, as though to encompass his building. “There’s not a better job in the financial industry.”

  My desire to slap him intensifies. “Bullshit.” Remembering my other reason for this visit, I pull my old phone out of the other pocket and shove it at him. “I quit. Remember?”

  “You’re taking a break,” he says dismissively, showing no sign of taking the phone from me. “Thus far, you took a comp day to make up for your work on Sunday, but if you continue this, you’ll be using up your vacation days.” He pauses as though to make a quick mental calculation. “You have twelve days left.”

  Before I understand what I’m doing, I throw the old phone at his head.

  With another supernatural display of speed, he catches the phone and smiles.

  “I got myself a new phone,” I say, seething.

  “Give me your new number,” he replies with infuriating calmness.

  “I really hate you.” I pivot on my heel, heading for the door.

  “You forget,” Nero says to my back, and I hear a smirk in his voice. “I can tell when you’re lying—and it doesn’t matter if you momentarily believe your lie yourself.”

  I jerk open the door, and it takes a monumental effort of will not to stomp out like an angry toddler.

  Forgetting the lesson from my entry, I try to slam the door shut behind me, but the evil device just makes that impotent puff of air instead.

  Venessa is standing in my way. In her bitchiest tone, she says, “You’re—”

  Something in my gaze must activate the woman’s sense of self-preservation, because she stops speaking and moves out of the way.

  I’m still fuming by the time I’ve walked a few blocks.

  Taking out my phone, I dial Felix.

  “You better tell me you’re in that asshole’s system,” I say instead of a hello.

  “Sadly, no. Nero set strong passwords just as I’d instructed him to do. I was hoping he wouldn’t have done it, like many other users.”

  “Don’t tell me I went into that office for nothing.” I squeeze the new phone so tightly the plastic creaks.

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Felix says defensively. “I’m just going to need more time.”

  “Fine.” I loosen my death grip on the poor device. “Let me know as soon as you have it figured out.”

  “I will,” Felix says. “Oh, your mother just called me—so I gave her your new number.”

  I fight the strong desire to smack my phone against the asphalt. “I wish you’d have checked with me before doing that.”

  “She said she was worried,” Felix sa
ys, confused. “I didn’t realize—”

  “Forget it.” I take a deep breath. “Focus all your attention on penetrating Nero.”

  “Deal,” Felix says and hangs up the phone.

  I get myself a cab and try to calm down.

  My phone rings.

  This number I recognize.

  “Hi, Mom.” I do my best to keep any residual irritation out of my voice. “How are things going?”

  “Sasha.” Mom sounds like she’s hyperventilating. “I was about to call you so we can talk about extending my stay in Paris”—I mentally translate this from Mom-speak to mean she was going to ask me for more money—“when Beverly called me.”

  She stops, and I can hear her inhale enough air to speak for a couple of minutes nonstop.

  Beverly is the gossipy friend of hers who saw me have lunch with Dad the other day. If she called Mom, I can easily guess what this conversation is to be about. Mom wants to complain that I’m “cooperating with the enemy behind her back”—which is total self-centered BS that I’m going to put a stop to.

  “I just saw Beverly the other day,” I say before she can continue her tirade, deciding that this calls for the best defense—offense. “When I was having lunch with Dad. Remember I told you about that the other day?”

  In reality, I called her and tricked her into thinking the call was cutting out, but unlike Nero, she’s not a lie detection machine.

  “You did call me.” Mom audibly blows out the big breath. “Said something about sushi. But you didn’t tell me—”

  “I did,” I say confidently. “Why do you never listen to me?”

  There’s a very long pause on the other line. I’m about to check if she’s still on when she says, “You’re trying to muddy the waters. What matters is that you took that cheating scoundrel’s side, and we don’t have much to talk about.”

  If she’d called me on any other day, I might’ve cringed, but today isn’t that day.

  “Talking to my father isn’t the same as taking anyone’s side,” I say sternly. “And so that we’re clear, ‘nothing to talk about’ obviously includes conversations about extending your stay in Paris.”