Reluctant Psychic

by Dima Zales

  He runs after me.

  I sprint faster, pushing my muscles to their limits.

  When I reach the stairway, I leap two and three steps at a time as I make my way up, the sounds of pursuit urging me on.

  The neighbors must’ve heard the gunshot. Could one of them be on the way to save me?

  Unlikely. If I were them, I’d call the police and stay in.

  Two flights of stairs later, my breathing is ragged and the admiral is closing the distance.

  How long would it take the cops to get here?

  Probably too long to save me.

  If I could just make it to my apartment, Fluffster would take care of him.

  I can barely breathe by the time I reach my floor, and the sound of the admiral’s footsteps is right behind me.

  I smell his garlicky breath as I desperately reach for the door handle, but it’s too late.

  His hand grabs my shoulder in a vise-like grip.

  I pivot, reaching for the knife still stuck in his shoulder when a needle pricks my arm.

  No. I can’t allow this to happen. I have to stay conscious.

  If I pass out, I’ll—

  I wake up to pitch blackness. Some kind of cloth is covering my face, my mouth is painfully dry, and my head feels like it’s stuffed with rotten cotton candy.

  I attempt to move and find that I can’t.

  Scanning my body, I realize my hands are bound with something metallic—probably handcuffs—and that I ache in places I didn’t know it was possible to have aches. The cloth over my face shifts slightly as I try to shake it off.

  It must be a bag acting as a blindfold.

  There’s a sense of movement to my surroundings.

  Am I in the trunk of a car?

  My breathing speeds up, and I inhale gasoline fumes.

  Yes. Definitely in the trunk of a car.

  This is not good—especially in light of being cuffed and blindfolded.

  I shift my weight around as I would if I wanted to perform a Houdini-inspired escape from a trunk.

  My arms are behind my back—not a great start for any escapism demonstration.

  Channeling all my recent yoga classes, I slide my bound hands under my butt, then farther down my legs. Nearly dislocating my shoulders, I wriggle my cuffed wrists over my feet to the front of my body.

  Now I can deal with the cuffs—

  The car stops.

  I fake unconsciousness.

  Someone opens the trunk, and I see faint light through the thick cloth covering my head.

  Garlic breath assaults me again, and rough hands grab me under my shoulders and knees, then carry me somewhere.

  Flashing back to Maya’s horrific psychometry revelations, I do my best to breathe evenly, as an unconscious person would.

  Luckily, my captor hasn’t noticed that my cuffed hands migrated to the front.

  Unless he noticed and doesn’t care.

  We enter a new place that smells woodsy—like wet birch trees with a hint of eucalyptus.

  The hands place me into a chair, and the bag is removed from my head.

  The place is so bright I’m blinded even through the closed eyelids.

  “Sashen’ka,” says a familiar ancient-sounding androgynous voice in a heavy Russian accent. “Are you awake, dear?”

  I keep my eyes shut, still pretending to be unconscious.

  I know what I’d see if I opened them, of course.

  Wrinkled face, dandelion-like hair.

  Baba Yaga.

  A man—the admiral by my estimation—barks something at her in rapid-fire Russian.

  “Innokentiy noticed your hands went from behind your back to your front,” Baba Yaga says in English. “So you can stop pretending.”

  “So, he did notice.” I open my eyes and swallow to moisten my parched throat. “You can’t blame a girl for trying, though, can you?”

  As my eyes adjust to the bright halogen lamps, I verify that it is indeed Baba Yaga sitting across the table from me, holding a cup of tea in her gnarled hands.

  We seem to be in a restaurant of some kind.

  “Actually, I can blame you for trying to deceive me,” Baba Yaga says. “But I won’t. Not yet anyway.”

  She studies me, and I stare back with the innocent expression I use when someone claims they caught me executing a secret magician move.

  “Is this the Izbushka?” I ask to break the silence and do some reconnaissance at the same time.

  The place doesn’t look like Baba Yaga’s fancy establishment and has more of a cafeteria feel, but it’s not like I saw every nook and cranny the last time.

  The witch sips her tea instead of replying, so I look around.

  On the table in front of me is a large golden tea kettle I’ve seen at Felix’s parents’ house—a Russian samovar.

  To my left is Baba Yaga’s right-hand man—Koschei. The usual mischief is absent from his marble-green eyes as he stares blankly into the distance.

  To my right is my kidnapper—Innokentiy, a.k.a. the admiral.

  A woman in nurse scrubs is putting finishing touches on a stitch job on his shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The full malevolence of his gaze is trained on me.

  “She’s untouched, right?” Baba Yaga says to the admiral, noticing his stare.

  The malice in her voice is unmistakable.

  Koschei must pick up on it too, because he steps toward the admiral, who violently shakes his head and pleads with them in Russian.

  “Fine. I believe you,” Baba Yaga says to the admiral, and Koschei stops. “Get out of here.” She regally waves her hand, and the admiral and the nurse bolt out of the room. “You too, Koscheiushka,” she adds. “Sasha and I need to discuss feminine matters.”

  “I don’t trust this one,” Koschei says, but reluctantly turns toward the exit.

  “Leverage is far superior to trust,” Baba Yaga says to his back. “You know she’ll do as I say when I tell her.”

  “I’m not sure she’s loyal even to her friends,” he says over his shoulder, and before either of us can come up with a rebuttal, he slams the door behind himself.

  “Tea?” Baba Yaga grins, exposing the few jagged teeth in her otherwise empty mouth.

  “I’d love a cup, thanks,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice steady.

  Tea is the last thing on my mind, but maybe she’ll take off my handcuffs to let me drink?

  She pours me tea and moves a saucer with jam and honey toward me, but she leaves the cuffs on.

  I take the cup with exaggerated clumsiness, blow on the tea, and take a small sip. Looking up, I toast the old woman with my cup so that my cuffs clank. “This is a very nice tea.”

  “Flatterer as well?” Baba Yaga picks up her own cup again. “I’ve never met a seer quite like you before.”

  Since a reply isn’t required, I use this moment to consider my options. Despite her frailty, Baba Yaga is a formidable opponent. The last time we met, she attempted to use a mind control spell on me—and only Rose’s counter spell saved me.

  Since I don’t have such protection today, I need to be on my best behavior and at least consider whatever it is she wants from me. Otherwise, she might try to force me with that spell again—and succeed. Not to mention the other evils she can do to me, like leaving me alone with the admiral and his knife.

  What is it that she wants, anyway? I told her I wouldn’t do anything illegal when we made the bargain, so how awful can her demand really be?

  “Did you look into the future?” Baba Yaga asks, misconstruing my thoughtful expression. “If so, you must’ve seen how futile resistance would be.”

  I resist the urge to point out that she’s misquoting the Borg. “I did.” I blow on my tea, hoping that helps sell the lie. “I’ll do what you want, so how about you tell me what that is?”

  Baba Yaga cocks her head and studies me, as if trying to see into my brain. “I want a seer of my own,” she says as I sip the slightly cooler tea. “Not one in m
y employ, not one beholden to me, but one who’d treat me like a parent.”

  The tea goes into the wrong pipe, and I start coughing uncontrollably.

  Is she saying what I think she’s saying?

  When my eyes stop watering and the heaving spasms ease, she continues. “I want you to bear a seer child for me. That is the service I require.”

  So I did understand her correctly. Red specks dapple my vision, and I slam my cup on the table, using all my willpower not to throw it at the witch’s head. “You want what?”

  “A baby seer,” she enunciates. “I assume you know where babies come from?” Her chuckle is a borderline evil cackle. “Just as a hint, there are no birds, bees, cabbage, or storks involved.”

  A few minutes ago, I’d decided I’d consider what she wants, but this is unthinkable.

  The rage that grows within me feels like a living being.

  Give up a child?

  My hands squeeze into fists so tight my nails stab into my palms.

  Have my child be raised by this monster?

  I’m itching to leap up and smash things, Hulk style.

  Have my child not know her biological mother?

  I picture my teeth ripping out Baba Yaga’s wrinkled throat.

  Then, there’s the very idea of getting pregnant—

  All blood leaves my face. “You didn’t have someone impregnate me when I was passed out, did you?” I don’t feel any soreness or anything like that, but—

  “How crass do you think I am?” Her lips curl in disgust. “I do not condone rape. Never have. But even if I weren’t a paragon of virtue, the father-to-be is extremely squeamish and uncooperative in that department.”

  “The father-to-be?” I contemplate toppling the table and leaping for her. Would she cast her spell in time or have a chance to summon her minions?

  As though picking up on my thoughts, Baba Yaga pulls out a gun from under the table, and her thin lips curl in that toothless smile again. “We are in a banya,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “A banya?” I stare at her, thrown off kilter.

  “A Russian spa where you can warm up your bones with wet and dry heat,” she explains helpfully.

  “I know what a banya is,” I hiss, and catch myself before I add that Felix took Ariel and me there once. No need to involve friends in this. Taking in a deep breath, I say in a calmer tone, “What I don’t understand is what a banya has to do with this reluctant-to-rape father-to-be?”

  She cocks her head. “You know of domovoi, but you don’t know about the bannik?”

  “Bannik? No, I don’t know what that is.”

  “Not what. Who.” She takes another sip of her tea. “A bannik is to a banya what a domovoi is to a home.”

  I stare at her blankly.

  “Slavic mythology.” Baba Yaga puts down her cup.

  My blank expression gets its own blank expression. Can fury mess with hearing?

  It’s possible. Blood is still pulsing violently in my ears.

  “To make a long story short, banniks are powerful seers with a big limitation.” She waves her hands to encompass the cafeteria. “Their power is attached to a banya in the same way that a domovoi’s power is connected to their house.”

  A seer from mythology who’s bound to a spa? My brain is on the verge of exploding with questions, but I refocus on my unique predicament. “How exactly is this supposed to work? The domovoi take an animal shape, so—”

  “Ah.” She looks relieved. “Is that what’s bothering you? No furry business, I promise. Conception will not be an issue at all. You won’t be disappointed with Yaroslav in that department. No flesh-and-blood woman would be.” Her cheeks redden in an improbable blush. “If I weren’t so old—”

  “That isn’t what’s bothering me,” I snap. More evenly, I add, “I don’t know how this sort of thing is done where you come from, but—”

  “I’m not asking you to marry him.” She takes out a smartphone from under the table and taps the screen a few times. “I’ll cover your medical bills, protect you for the nine months in question, and even throw in a nice cash bonus.”

  That she thinks she’s being reasonable makes me want to pick up the samovar and pour the boiling tea on her head, slowly.

  Before I can act on this, or other similarly violent urges, the door behind me opens.

  “So?” Koschei prompts. “The parilka is ready, and I have to leave to take care of our guest.”

  “Parilka” is what Felix called the super-hot steam rooms in the banya, I recall.

  “Innokentiy or one of his men can take her to the parilka if you’re so busy, but speaking of guests”—Baba Yaga waves the phone—“I was about to make Sasha an offer she cannot refuse.”

  This is the second time she’s quoting the Godfather, but I don’t point it out, because the idea of an offer I cannot refuse can only mean one of a few things—none of them good.

  “I’m ready,” I lie. “Take me to the bannik.”

  My plan is simple and desperate. Let them take me to this seer who allegedly has something like a conscience—if “squeamishness” about rape can be said to be that. Hopefully, he’ll be easier to escape from.

  Baba Yaga looks at her screen, then at me.

  It’s almost as if she has some horrific image on there that she wants to show me—like, say, the last girl who refused to accommodate her, with some limbs missing from her torso.

  “There’s no need for more threats,” I say as coolly as I can under the circumstances. “I’d rather go with Mr. Koschei than be near that Innokentiy character ever again.” I let some of my true feelings for the admiral show on my face as I add, “He gives me the creeps.”

  Baba Yaga looks confused for a second. Then a toothless smile spreads across her face. “You already knew.” She waves the phone excitedly. “You foresaw?”

  “Did I know or foresee that you’re a sociopath?” I’m tempted to ask, but instead, I say, “Let me meet this chick-magnet bannik and get this over with.”

  “Take her,” Baba Yaga tells Koschei, almost giddily. “Looks like I still have a knack for these old-fashioned deals.”

  Koschei helps me get up from the chair and leads me out of the cafeteria into a large hall.

  In the middle of the space is a pool, a Jacuzzi, and a giant bathtub with ice floating in it. These must be the source of the chlorine smell hitting my nostrils.

  Guards—or at least I assume that’s what the half-naked dudes are—are frolicking everywhere.

  Ignoring everyone, Koschei leads me down a couple of labyrinthian corridors filled with shower stations and wooden doors.

  In the occasional window, I see big sweaty men sitting in the varied parilka rooms wearing towels and funny hats on their heads. Occasionally, they spank one another with bunches of birch branches—a dubious relaxation treatment I’d also seen in the banya Felix took me to.

  This banya is ten times bigger than the one I visited, though—especially if every one of these wooden doors leads into a different steam room.

  After we make a sharp right turn, we face the biggest wooden door in the place.

  Koschei opens the door and gestures for me to enter.

  I walk in.

  The large windowless room seems empty, and the heat inside is so intense it momentarily takes my breath away.

  Is this what Hell would feel like?

  Felix’s banya was way less hot, and Ariel nearly passed out anyway—though that was in part because she refused to properly rehydrate between sauna sessions.

  Vodka isn’t water, after all.

  Koschei looks around, doesn’t seem to find what he needs, and frowns.

  I break into a serious sweat.

  Seemingly oblivious to the heat, Koschei bends over a wooden bucket of water, takes a large wooden ladle that hangs next to it, and pours water on the nearby rocks.

  The rocks hiss angrily, like a giant snake, and the room gets enveloped in burning water vapor—which makes the heat trip
le in intensity.

  Is this Baba Yaga’s idea of hot and steamy, or is this a new form of torture?

  In seconds, I sweat out enough water to drown an elephant. If I pass out from a genuine heatstroke, is that going to be an excuse not to make a baby, or could this bannik consider passing out in his domain a form of consent?

  More importantly, is this heat a ruse to make me want to get naked?

  If so, it’s kind of working.

  “Yaroslav,” Koschei says from the vapor. “She’s here.” Realizing I’m hard to see, he leans so close he becomes visible again. With a creepy smile, he says, “I’ll let you two get acquainted.”

  Before I can retort with something witty, Koschei leaves, slamming the wooden door behind himself.

  A gallon of sweat later, I feel a presence in the room. At least, that’s the best I can describe it.

  I frantically look around, but the vapor makes it impossible to see if there’s anyone else present.

  Well, if I can’t see them, they can’t see me.

  Wiping the sweat from my eyes, I walk through the vapor to cover my smaller movements. Reaching into my mouth, I turn my tongue-piercing gizmo into lockpicks, pull them out, and make short work of the handcuffs.

  The sensation of the presence intensifies.

  Ignoring the hair rising on the back of my neck, I gently place the cuffs on the wooden bench and hide the lockpicks back in my tongue.

  My completely soaked-through clothes make it hard for me to creep stealthily for the exit, but I give it my best shot.

  When I see the door in the haze, a mere four steps away, a sense of deep foreboding stops me in my tracks.

  “That’s right,” says the vapor around me in a melodious, Russian-accented masculine voice. “You can’t leave yet.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Is the heat playing tricks with the acoustics?

  “Who is there?” I drag the scorching air into my lungs. “Show yourself.”

  “My name is Yaroslav,” the vapor says in the same soothing baritone. “I am—”

  “The bannik and the father—or more accurately, the rapist—to be,” I say, ignoring the frantic hammering of my pulse. “Except, that’s not happening today. Or ever.”