The Girl Who Sees

by Dima Zales

  Having said that, if I had my choice, I’d rather not be tied up with rope because it’s the restraint that takes me the longest to escape. In this case, though, Ariel either never learned how to tie someone up, or she was in too much of a hurry to do it correctly. Furthermore, as she was tying my wrists, I’d managed to wiggle just enough to give myself an edge.

  It takes me only a few seconds to free my hands, and the rest of the rope comes off after some further wiggling, like a too-tight sweater.

  The picks in my tongue defeat the handcuffs in another few seconds.

  Free, I leap to my feet and barge into my room, taking care not to trample Fluffster.

  Grabbing Nero’s cash, a windbreaker, and my favorite scarf (which I also use as a blindfold at my restaurant gig), I sprint after Ariel, nearly knocking over the coffee table in the living room.

  Just as I slam the apartment door behind me, I spot the elevator doors closing.

  Ignoring my poor legs’ protests, I dash for the staircase and zoom down, leaping over multiple steps at a time.

  The last time I used this staircase was when we lost power after a brutal winter storm, and the heavy layer of dust on the cement steps makes me suspect my neighbors also haven’t used it since.

  By the time I get to the first floor, my calf muscles burn as though someone branded me, and I’m panting like an overheated dog. I really hope my legs get toned as a result of all this running; it would be nice to make lemonade out of my life’s torrent of zombie lemons.

  Staying firmly in the cardio zone, I head for the building’s exit. Running out, I see Ariel getting into a green Hyundai Sonata with an Uber sticker on the back.

  I sprint toward the road, pulling out a hundred-dollar bill from the stack of Nero’s cash in my pocket.

  The Sonata signals a left turn. It’s about to depart.

  I wave my hundred at a passing yellow cab and make eye contact with the Sikh cabbie.

  He pulls over next to me with a screech of brakes.

  I immediately jump in. “Follow that green Hyundai Sonata,” I tell him after I exhale the cloud of burned rubber out of my lungs. “If you don’t lose them, I’ll give you the meter plus this hundred.”

  “You got it,” the guy says, and the cab jerks forward so fast it gives me minor whiplash.

  We get on the Sonata’s tail right away. Say what you will about Uber, but yellow cab drivers still have the edge when it comes to aggressive maneuvering.

  I slide behind the cabbie, hoping his turban will hide me in case Ariel glances back. Unless she spots me, I doubt she’ll realize she’s being followed. Yellow cabs are so common they’re practically invisible.

  As we swerve in and out of traffic, I let my mind drift back to my last prediction dream and try to incorporate what I’ve heard into my new paradigm.

  The word “Cognizant” featured prominently. Based on context, it seems the people in that room referred to themselves as such. Also, the way they said the word “human” implies that a Cognizant isn’t human, though I could’ve misunderstood that part. Most interestingly, I seem to be one of these Cognizant, and my TV performance broke some big rule of theirs—a rule that has something to do with faith, if I remember correctly.

  Could it be that I started seeing the future in my dreams simply because a lot of people in the world falsely believe me to be a psychic? The timing seems to coincide—plus, I felt that first warm flow of energy just as the largest chunk of people saw me perform.

  But no. Going on TV can’t give you powers, or else all the fake psychics would also become real. Then again, the Council made it sound that being a Cognizant was a key factor here. Specifically, that Cognizant are forbidden from doing exactly what I did. Could it be that when enough people believe a Cognizant to be capable of something, the Cognizant in question gains that power? If so, I sure wish I did something else that evening, like one of my telekinesis effects (I have several methods for seemingly moving objects with my mind).

  This faith business, if true, could also explain something: why Darian insisted I don’t openly deny being a psychic on TV. He knew he couldn’t get me to make that claim, but leaving the question ambiguous was enough to get tons of people to assume that I am for real—and thus, according to this theory, make me so. As to his motivation, it sounded like he wanted another seer, something that Chester guy opposed—

  “They seem to be going to JFK,” my driver says, bringing my attention back to the chase.

  “Why do you think that?” Looking out the window, I realize I’m in Brooklyn for the second time today.

  “Professional hunch,” the cabbie says. “If that’s where they’re going, do you still want to follow?”

  “Yes,” I say, though my heart is sinking. If Ariel plans to fly someplace, it will be very hard to inconspicuously follow her.

  To deal with the nervous anticipation, I take out a deck of cards (every item of clothing I own has at least one) and practice a few moves that I’m still rusty on. And sure enough, before long, Ariel’s car takes the JFK airport exit, and we follow it all the way to Terminal 5.

  “Thank you,” I say to the cabbie. I pocket the cards and thrust two hundred-dollar bills at him.

  Since I don’t have time to wait for change, I leave the ecstatic driver behind me and hurry after Ariel.

  As usual, the drop-off area is teeming with people, which is useful because Ariel is less likely to spot me if she turns around.

  She doesn’t turn around, though. Instead, she goes through the rotating glass doors without pausing.

  I follow her, staying a dozen feet behind her and making sure to keep at least a few people between us.

  As always, whenever I enter an airport, especially JFK, I get unpleasant flashbacks from the incident I shared with Lucretia. A knot forms in my throat at the old memories, so I push them away. The last thing I want is to lose focus and let Ariel get away—not that I know how I’d follow her onto a plane without a ticket or any clue about her destination.

  Still, I have to try.

  I follow Ariel through the crowds for a couple of minutes, and whenever I get a chance, I glance at the upcoming flights. According to the tableau, it’s 12:37 p.m., so Ariel could be heading to Houston, Texas, on the 1:15 p.m. flight, or she could be getting on any of the dozens of later flights to other destinations.

  Then I recall Ariel’s gun, and the flying theory becomes less solid. TSA won’t let you bring a gun onto a plane, even if you’re going to a gun haven like Texas. Even I—an expert at hiding stuff on my person—wouldn’t risk trying to smuggle something as big as a gun. Ariel stands no chance.

  In another few minutes, it becomes clear she isn’t heading toward security anyway. Instead, she makes her way to the back of the terminal and unlocks a nondescript door before going through it.

  I sprint like a zombie is on my tail and catch the door with my foot before it closes.

  Then I wait for a couple of breaths to make sure Ariel gets sufficiently far before opening the door and stepping in.

  For the second time today, I find myself with a gun to my forehead.

  “Sasha!” If it weren’t for the deadly weapon in her hand, Ariel’s wide eyes would seem comical. “How did you get here?”

  “Can you stop pointing that thing at me?” I raise my hands palms out. “Pretty sure you could get arrested for bringing a weapon to an airport.”

  Ariel lowers the gun and steps back, rubbing her forehead with one hand.

  “I’m not letting you go without me,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Ariel stuffs the gun into her holster. “Yes, you are.”

  I put my hand on the door handle. I could probably escape before she grabs me, but I’m not certain. “If you so much as touch me again, this is it.” I’m so frustrated I can’t help but play dirty. “I promise you, we’ll be through. I’ll get my own apartment and never speak to you again. Friends don’t treat friends like—”

  “I’m trying to p
rotect you,” Ariel says through gritted teeth, and I feel a pang of guilt.

  “I can take care of myself,” I retort, wishing I felt as confident as I sound. “Besides, you didn’t give me a chance to tell you everything. I had more visions. There was this Council—”

  At the mention of the word “Council,” Ariel looks like someone’s slapped her across the face. It’s clear she wants to ask me for details, but she doesn’t say anything.

  Maybe it has to do with the bleeding incident?

  “I understand you can’t tell me anything, but you can listen,” I say on another hunch. “I know I’m one of the Cognizant.”

  Ariel’s eyes threaten to pop out of their sockets.

  “In my vision, I was alive when I talked to this Council, so unless that’s where you’re headed now, I’m going to survive wherever we go.”

  I don’t mention that I might have trouble surviving the Council itself.

  Ariel frowns, then shakes her head. “I don’t understand, but there isn’t time to discuss.”

  “So take me with you, and I’ll explain on the way,” I say, watching her intently for any sudden movements.

  “Fine, but you have to be blindfolded until we get to our destination.” She points at my scarf.

  “Deal,” I say, taking it off. I’m extremely glad I’ve never shown Ariel any effects featuring this particular item of clothing.

  Ariel extends her hand for the scarf and steps toward me.

  “Wait,” I say, grabbing the door handle again. “First, you have to swear you’re actually going to take me with you. For all I know, you’ll put that blindfold on me and knock me out or tie me up—or do something else I’d never expect my best friend to do to me.”

  “I swear,” she says solemnly. “And I’m sorry about twisting your arms at the apartment. I was trying—”

  “To protect me. I understand and resent it.” I hang the scarf over my shoulder and turn my back to Ariel. “It’s all forgiven and forgotten—if you take me with you.”

  Until now, I’ve never had to rely on Ariel’s word, so I still half expect to get knocked out instead of blindfolded. If our roles were reversed—if I truly thought Ariel was in danger and breaking a promise would save her—I’d probably do so. Then again, being a magician makes me comfortable with deceit.

  Fortunately, it soon becomes clear that Ariel is more honorable than I am. Instead of knocking me out, she puts the scarf over my eyes, and the only sign of her displeasure is how tightly she ties it around my head—I might’ve just heard my skull creak at the pressure. What Ariel doesn’t realize, though, is that the tighter this blindfold is on me, the easier it will be to peek from it. When I use it at the restaurant, I always emphasize how tight I want it around my head.

  Blindfold work is a staple of mentalism because something about seeing without eyes really resonates with the audience. There are dozens of methods for seeing once “blindfolded,” and my scarf is perfect for the oldest of the classic methods—peeking down your nose. Anything below my navel is crystal clear, as though I’m not blindfolded at all, and—and this is why my scarf is extra nice—the fabric isn’t as thick as it appears, which allows me to see vague shadows in well-lit rooms.

  “Hold my hand,” Ariel says, grabbing me like a mom who’s walking her five-year-old over Broadway.

  I do as I’m told, and we start our speed walk down the hallways.

  “Tell me everything.” Ariel’s hand is cold—a sure sign of stress.

  I tell her about the dreams and my confrontation with Amie.

  As expected, she doesn’t clarify anything.

  “I had an idea,” I say. Pretending to be blind (and maybe vindictively), I step on the heel of her right army boot. “I know you can’t tell me things, but can you sing the explanations to me?”

  “No.” Ariel drags me through yet another door.

  “How about texting, or tapping it out on my palm in Morse code?”

  “No,” Ariel says, turning the corner.

  “How about Pig Latin?”

  “No.”

  “I notice you can say ‘no’ when I say something dumb, so maybe that can be a way for you to confirm something for me. For example, are we currently in the Pentagon?” My question isn’t just a joke—the labyrinthian corridors we pass through belong there more than under JFK.

  “No,” Ariel says.

  “I’m a Cognizant,” I say, and Ariel doesn’t reply.

  I take it as a confirmation.

  “Felix has a girlfriend,” I say next.

  “No.” Ariel chuckles humorlessly.

  “You’re a Cognizant also,” I say.

  No response confirms my suspicion.

  “From here, we’ll need to stay silent,” Ariel says and opens a door.

  We enter a room with a floor made of some slippery chrome material that gives the impression of standing on a mirror. From the echoing of our footsteps, I estimate that the room must be huge, and the reflection of the ceiling in the shiny floor material confirms my supposition.

  A glow of multi-colored light surrounds us, though I can’t be sure what the source of the light is without bending my head back—which I dare not do so as not to give away my nose-peek secret to Ariel.

  Her grip tightens, and she pulls me in the direction of a purple light.

  When we’re a couple of feet away, in my down-the-nose-view, I see the lower half of the light source—and it takes all of my self-control not to squeeze Ariel’s palm in shock.

  Back in college, in my Intro to Physics class, we learned about plasma—the fourth state of matter, the others being liquid, solid, and gas. If someone were to make a 3D flattened sphere out of plasma, and make it glow purple, it would probably look like the thing in front of me. It’s as though someone has taken lightning (which is plasma), compressed it into a circle, and colored it purple. It vaguely reminds me of the magic energy I saw come out of Beatrice’s hands—only much bigger and more impressive.

  “We’re about to step outside again,” Ariel lies—or at least I assume she does because she actually drags me toward the giant circle of purple light.

  When her right leg crosses the threshold of the plasma, her leg disappears.

  I suppress an awed gasp. This must be the hardest bit of acting any magician in history has had to do to maintain the secret of the blindfold.

  Given that Ariel is not screaming about her missing limb, I assume that its disappearance is just a visual illusion.

  The rest of Ariel’s body follows her foot into the light. Only her hand is visible now—the hand I can’t help but grip a little firmer as I follow her in.

  My leg also disappears, and I feel no pain. I feel nothing unusual, in fact.

  Fully crossing the plasma’s threshold, I fight the overwhelming temptation to rip the stupid scarf from my face.

  The mirror floor below my feet looks exactly like the floor in the room we just left, but what I see reflected in that mirror isn’t the same at all.

  We’re no longer in JFK, or even on planet Earth.

  We’ve just stepped into a completely alien world.

  Chapter Twenty

  The sky above us is a fluorescent purple—the kind used in psychedelic black light paintings. The clouds are pink and look like blobs of heavenly cotton candy.

  When I was a kid, I had the worst case of what Mom later called “whyism”—I asked the question “why” about once every half hour. I recall being specifically curious about four big questions: Why is sitting still so boring? Why is sugar sweet? Why is water wet? And (relevant to the current situation) why is the sky blue?

  I later learned why my parents had so much trouble explaining that last question to a five-year-old; the answer is so complex that I only vaguely understand it now, as an adult. The short version is that light coming from the sun has every color in it (colors being light of different wavelengths), but the atmosphere (oxygen and nitrogen) scatters this light in a way that causes the shorter waveleng
ths to hit our eyes. Shorter wavelengths are blue and violet, but due to the way our eyes work, we only perceive the blue.

  Also, though I didn’t care about cloud color as a kid, I now know that they appear white because water molecules aren’t as picky as oxygen and nitrogen are in the way they scatter light. So, when the cacophony of all the colors hits our eyes, we perceive white.

  Not pink, like the clouds above.

  My breathing speeds up, and this is when I realize that the air is unusually thick and sweet as I gulp it down. Could this place have a different atmosphere as well, and if so, is it safe to breathe?

  Thinking about air quality makes me lightheaded. Of course, that could also be because I’m not getting enough oxygen. And now that I’m paranoid, I could also swear that my steps are lighter than usual. Is the gravity slightly off as well?

  If Ariel hadn’t forbidden me from speaking, I’d be asking all of these questions now, but I can’t—especially since I’m not supposed to be able to see any of this.

  Ariel keeps dragging me away from the gateway, and she’s clearly unimpressed with everything. It’s as though we’re just taking a hike through some forest upstate.

  I get a half-baked idea. What if the reflective flooring somehow creates this sky-color illusion? Since Ariel’s back is to me, I risk tilting my head back and raising the blindfold slightly to look directly at the sky.

  The sky stays purple and the clouds pink.

  The only difference is that in my wider view, I spot more impossible things, like two moons—one slightly smaller than the one I’m used to seeing, and one twice the size. There also seems to be a Saturn-like ring orbiting us—maybe remnants of a third moon?

  It takes an enormous effort of will to stop gawking at the sky and look back down—and as I do, I glimpse our immediate surroundings. We’re standing on a large mirrored surface the size of Madison Square Garden, and around its circumference are multi-colored plasma warp gates. Each gate repeatedly gets hit by lightning from the pink clouds above, but no thunder reaches our ears.