by Dima Zales
The cabby looks back as Lilith’s eyes turn into mirrors. Silkily, she says, “You will follow my commands and not remember anything said in this car from this moment onward. Do you understand?”
Holy cow.
Lilith found me.
As the driver robotically repeats the glamour instructions, the guide dog leads the blind guy over to the front passenger seat.
The man gets inside and feels around for the safety belt, then fumbles with the buckle until it clicks in.
I only now register the fact that he has the Cognizant Mandate aura—and so does his “dog”, who is probably not a dog but a werewolf or something similar.
The creature prances over to the back and leaps in. It looks like a Siberian husky that’s been fed growth hormones until it was the size of a pony, and it smells like a dog park.
“Seriously?” Lilith looks at the beast, who looks back with intelligent blue eyes and gives the mistress of evil a doggy grin.
Rolling her eyes, Lilith scoots away from the creature and so far into my personal space that I can name her perfume—Victoria’s Secret’s Sexy Little Things Noir.
I keep staring, my brain struggling to parse what I’m seeing.
“Drive,” Lilith commands the enthralled cabbie. “Go as fast as you can.”
The driver floors the gas, and the car rips forward.
Crap. There goes my chance to run. Not that I could really outrun the super-vampire that is Lilith.
At least the driver is still following the GPS directions to Felix’s location.
“Watch out for that yellow cab,” the maybe-not-blind man shouts at the driver with a French accent, pointing to the left.
We swerve a moment before the collision, and the adrenaline clears my brain enough for me to blurt out, “You’re Lilith.”
It’s not my most brilliant observation, but hey, at least I managed to complete a sentence and express a semi-coherent thought.
Lilith looks at me with maternal pride, then shakes her strange companion by the shoulder and says in Russian, “You see, Michel, she really is a seer. Must’ve seen me in some vision already. How marvelous is that?”
“O ye of little faith,” the man—Michel—says to her sarcastically in Russian, his French accent still noticeable. “I told you that your child with Rasputin would be a seer, and she is. You can be—”
“Hush, Michel. You’re ruining the surprise.” Turning to face me, she turns up her smile by a few gigawatts and triumphantly announces, “Sasha, I am your mommy.”
Chapter Nine
I almost expect her to add, “Search your feelings, you know it to be true.”
Of course, I was already pretty sure she’s my mother, but hearing her admit it dispels what little doubt I still had—and makes my head spin at the same time because it doesn’t explain what’s happening at all.
Not even a little bit.
I force my brain to function. “What are you doing here? Who is he?” I gesture at her blind companion.
“I’m saving your life, of course,” Lilith says. “According to my sources”—she glances at Michel—“you’re on your way to face a group of chorts by yourself. They’re nasty creatures—and extremely dangerous. Even to someone as powerful as I am.”
Did she just say “chorts?” As in, the plural of “chort”—a demon-like creature from Russian folklore?
To this day, Russians curse using the word. There are expressions such as “thousands of chorts” (something you’d say when stubbing your foot on a coffee table) and “go to the chort” (a common response when a guy you don’t like makes an indecent proposal).
If chorts are a type of Cognizant, they must be quite formidable with all that human adoration powering them.
“Rushing to face the chorts,” Michel grumbles and shakes his head. “One wonders where the girl gets her impulsiveness from?”
“Hey now,” Lilith says. “I think you mean where she gets her bravery from—and that, indeed, would be from moi.”
I watch their exchange in disbelief. Is this really the evil vampire goddess whose world we barely escaped from? “What do you mean you’re here to ‘save my life?’” I blurt. “And are chorts a type of—” Glancing at the glamoured driver, I lower my voice just in case. “Are chorts like us?”
“Yes,” she says. “Nasty things, can make your organs go all screwy.”
“Great,” I mutter. “And who or what is he?” I glance at Michel.
The man harrumphs. “Since someone rudely forgot to introduce me, allow me to do so myself.” Turning around, he extends his hand slightly to my right. “They call me Nostradamus. I am a seer of some renown and—”
“Some. Right.” I shake the hand, fighting a hysterical giggle. “Yeah, I might have heard that name once or twice.”
“Good.” He pulls his hand away. “Then you should believe me when I say I’ve looked into the futures where Lilith and I did not help you save your friend. In some, the chorts torture you to make your friend talk, and in others, they torture him and you spill the haricots.” He shakes his head, making his sunglasses move—which allows me to see some old scars underneath. “Once they learn where Rasputin is located—and they do in almost all the futures—they kill you both to make sure you can’t warn him that they’re coming.”
He stops talking to let the information sink in.
The idea of someone hurting Felix to make me talk is unthinkable, but now that he mentions it, that could’ve easily been the result of my rescue.
And, if what he says is true, being spared that fate is a huge favor.
Is that what Lilith is after? Is she trying to get on my good side?
Assuming all of this is true, of course.
I should jump into Headspace and check—
“Do not look into the future,” Nostradamus says urgently, as if reading my mind. “I carefully curated the outcome I want, but if you know what happens, you’re likely to alter it, and then we might—”
“Fine,” I say, though now my temptation to look into the future is much stronger. “If it means we can save Felix, I won’t risk messing it up.”
Except, what if they’re here to kidnap me? What if they have no intention of helping Felix?
Well, for starters, they’d need to change the GPS, which they didn’t. Also, if they are kidnapping me, the truth will be glaringly obvious soon, so—
“Even with us there, the encounter is still risky,” Lilith says, her expression turning serious. “Are you sure your little friend is worth saving? Or your father, for that matter?”
“Yes, obviously.” I glare at her. “They’re worth more than a hundred of you, Mom.”
As if to punctuate my words, the driver makes a sharp right, causing the dog to whimper.
“Wow.” Lilith looks at Nostradamus. “I know you said she’d say those exact words if I pushed, but wow.” She makes puppy eyes at me and in the voice of a five-year-old says, “That hurts my feelings.”
“Boo-hoo,” I say, matching her tone. “What are you really doing here? And please don’t say you’re helping me out of your maternal instincts or trying to save Rasputin—the man you tortured and kept in your dungeon.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Is that what he told you? What about my conjugal visits? What about—”
“I’m going to puke,” I mutter. Then, sarcastically, I add, “But please, keep telling me how you’re the best thing for Rasputin.”
“Well, how about the fact that I’m the only reason the St. Petersburg Council never had a clue where to even start looking for dear Grisha?” Lilith says. “When he was in my care, he was shielded by my formidable luck. Once your boytoy Nero got him out, however, all bets were off.” She touches the tattoo on her temple. “I imagine your friend’s name happened to occur to one of their probability manipulators as a way to locate him, or one of their seers gleaned him as a way—”
“Unbelievable.” I fold my arms across my chest. “And I mean that literally—as in, I don’t believe you.”<
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“That’s your prerogative, of course,” Lilith says. “But tell me, why would I need to lie?”
Our driver slams on the breaks, cutting off the long tirade I was about to unleash.
“We’re here,” Nostradamus says and pulls out something from his jacket. “Put these on.” Turning, he offers us a pair of surgical gloves and a couple of creepy-looking rubber masks.
“Why?” I ask, not touching the stuff.
“Because chorts need skin contact in order to mess with your organs,” Lilith says mockingly, putting on her gear. “You don’t want that—even if the organs in question are sexual ones.”
If I survive this, I may need to teach Lilith the concept of too much information.
And conscience.
She could really use some of that.
Nostradamus is still dangling the gloves and mask in the air in front of me, so I take them. And since I don’t like the idea of organ failure—and don’t see how wearing this stuff could benefit Lilith in some sinister way—I put it on.
The dog exits the car, walks to Nostradamus’s door, and waits.
The seer gets out and grabs the guiding straps.
The pair rush toward the building, with Lilith on their tails.
I pinch myself to make sure this isn’t a strange dream, then follow.
When the dog and the seer reach the elevator, Nostradamus presses the button as if he can see it.
“Are you visually impaired?” I can’t help but ask.
“I don’t have eyes, if that’s what you mean,” Nostradamus says. “But I can and do have visions of my near future all the time, which allows me to know where certain things will be and—”
“Wait,” I say. “So seer visions don’t require actual eyesight?”
“Not in my case,” he says as the elevator opens. “Though, to be fair, I wasn’t born this way, and I have no clue if a seer born blind would be able to foretell the future. I imagine it would still be possible, but I simply don’t know.”
As if to illustrate his point, he reaches out and presses the seventh-floor button on the first try and without feeling for it.
I sneak a peek at his scars again and wish I didn’t. The last thing I want is to feel bad for Lilith’s ally—which I can’t help but do. Whatever happened to his eyes must’ve been the stuff of nightmares.
“Tartarus did that,” Lilith says, following my gaze. Then she puts a reassuring hand on Nostradamus’s shoulder.
“That monstre has a lot to answer for.” Nostradamus’s face contorts into a mask of hatred that looks foreign on his features.
The dog whines, and I look away from the scars. Clearing my throat, I decide to change the subject. “And who’s this big guy?” I ask, waving at the dog.
“Marius,” Nostradamus says.
“Humpius,” Lilith says at the same time.
The dog looks up and shows Lilith his teeth.
“And what is he?” I ask, studying his aura.
“Technically, a werewolf,” Lilith says. “Except no one has ever seen him outside this form. Yet another victim of you-know-who—”
The elevator dings, cutting off my follow-up questions.
“Right,” Lilith says. “I think I’ll go in first. The rest of you just watch my back.”
“Shouldn’t he be in charge?” I nod at Nostradamus—who’s putting on his own mask and gloves as we speak.
“No, dear. I’m always in charge.” She winks at me. “Michel said to ‘do my thing’ when we get to this point, so I plan to.”
Without further ado, she blurs down the corridor, and I sprint after her. I’m not about to trust her with Felix’s life; after all, the woman is supposed to be vindictive. What if all this is a very elaborate ruse to hurt him?
Thankfully, catching up isn’t hard. When Lilith gets to the already-opened door, she slows down and creeps forward.
Moving as quietly as I can, I follow, though my steps aren’t nearly as soft as those of Lilith. She makes no sound at all—as if she’s hovering just above the ground.
Come to think of it, maybe she is. She was defying gravity without any effort on her own world.
I glance back. Nostradamus is walking around a coffee table that even a sighted person could’ve bumped into, and Marius is clearly channeling his inner and outer wolf as he creeps forward.
“He’s going to live,” I hear Woland say as we near the office where everything is taking place. “And therefore, so will you.”
Crap.
This means we didn’t prevent Felix from getting badly hurt. They’ve already tortured him, then performed that rib-breaking CPR as per my vision.
Just like in that vision, the Sasha chort says, “I’m going to take away the pain of his injuries as he comes to. Then I can remove my aid or—”
Moving like the ghost of a ninja, Lilith glides into the office, and a pain-filled shriek reverberates through the apartment.
Chapter Ten
Woland—the polite older chort with the goatee—whooshes out of the office, leaving his screaming colleagues behind.
He looks upset—at least until he spots the person in his way.
Me.
My martial arts training kicking in, I throw a punch at his face.
Instead of connecting, my fist goes through his cheek as if it were a cloud of vapor. All of Woland, in fact, suddenly looks like a cloud of vapor or a hologram.
Did he just turn incorporeal?
Fighting a swell of jealousy at this stage-worthy power, I jerk my hand away.
Woland’s head re-solidifies, making his scowl more visible.
I must be stunned or confused, because I miss it when he leaps away from me and sprints down the corridor.
Marius jumps up.
Woland dodges the werewolf’s massive jaws and dives under Nostradamus’s extended arm, going straight for the exit.
Before I can even think the word “chase,” another chort runs out of the office.
It’s Boris, the asshole who hit Felix.
Though I usually fight out of necessity, this guy I really want to hurt.
So I throw a vicious punch at his annoying face.
Instead of using Woland’s trick, Boris simply dodges my strike, then hits me in the chest.
I don’t even want to guess how much this would’ve hurt if I’d been under chort mojo, like Felix. As is, my solar plexus screams in agony as I bend over, gasping for air.
Through my watery eyes, I see Boris heading for the door—which is when Marius leaps at him, giant canine teeth bared.
Only those teeth go through a mirage of an appendage instead of Boris’s forearm.
Apparently, Boris can do that trick when he wants to.
Must be a chort thing. No wonder Lilith said they were powerful.
Speaking of mother dearest, a new wave of sounds from the office reminds me of a slaughterhouse in hell.
Hearing the horrific screams, Boris re-solidifies his arm and leaps for the door.
Another chort escapes the office, whooshing right by me since I’m still catching my breath.
Nostradamus, who’s still by the coffee table, extends his foot, tripping the bastard.
The chort goes flying—right into Marius’s maw. The werewolf’s teeth clamp on the throat of the chort before he knows what hit him—and more importantly, before he goes all ghostly.
With a gurgling sound, the chort tries to rip the beast away from him, but Marius’s jaws are locked too tightly on the chort’s neck.
Within seconds, the chort goes limp, and then his dead body turns ghostly and disappears, leaving behind nothing—not even the clothes.
I stare at the empty spot, then at Marius.
Even the blood around the werewolf’s mouth is gone without a trace.
“That’s chorts for you,” Nostradamus says before I get a chance to ask. “They phase one last time when they die.”
I finally manage to gulp in enough air and hurry into the office.
&
nbsp; Felix is unconscious on the floor, and there are bits and pieces of chorts all around the office, especially on the shards of the broken windows.
The owners of the gore lie there with tell-tale vampire wounds on their necks, but clearly not dead—else they’d be gone.
Lilith stands over the Sasha chort in a classic vampire-drinking-blood position. Hearing my ragged breathing, she looks up and smiles a bloody smile.
“When you start drinking from them, they can’t do their annoying phasing for a while,” she explains, her extended vampire fangs giving her a little lisp. “That’s why they fear vampires so much.”
She looks down at the horrified Sasha and playfully musses his hair.
Ignoring her, I kneel next to Felix and check his vitals.
He has a heartbeat, but it’s barely detectible.
I’m not a doctor, but my roommate looks bad.
Really bad.
“I can fix him for you,” Lilith says, her voice back to normal. “Just say the word.”
I look up, narrowing my eyes at her. “How?”
“My blood,” she says. “How else?”
Oh, hell, no. Been there, done that with Ariel. “So you want to make him addicted? Is that your plan? To use Felix to—”
“Don’t be silly.” She walks up to the desk and picks up a blood-splattered water bottle.
Unscrewing the cap, she opens her mouth, and her right fang extends. Reaching for the tooth with her pinky, she pierces her skin, then squeezes the tiniest droplet of blood into the water bottle, screws the cap back on, and gives it a good shake.
“If he drinks just a drop of this, he’ll recover and not be addicted in the slightest,” she explains, handing me the bottle. “The choice is yours, of course. If you don’t trust me, you can take your chances with human doctors.”
“Which would lead to his death,” Nostradamus says solemnly, walking in.
Sure.
I’ll take their word for it.
Not.
Taking in a calming breath, I focus on Felix’s fate and leap into Headspace.
Two clouds of shapes appear to me.
One set scary-sounding and the other not.