by Dima Zales
Damn, he’s quick. I might as well fess up.
“You’re right,” I say. “My monster of a mother would’ve made me do it.”
Felix frowns. “But that means you need us more than ever.”
“Sasha has me,” Nero states. “I’ll make sure she’s okay.”
Felix blinks at Nero as if he forgot the dragon was there. “What happens if I refuse? Or is that why you brought us to this club? To do to us what Nero likes to do to you?”
Nero gives me a meaningful look.
“Please, Felix, don’t refuse,” I say.
“Why even bother with this charade?” he grumbles. “You can always glamour me again to do whatever you wish.”
“I’m sorry about the other day,” I say. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. And I’ll owe you one for this.”
“Fine,” Felix says. “But I don’t want to be stuck in this club for however long this will take.”
“I can spare a few bouncers to walk around Gomorrah with you,” Nero says. “But, if you were to leave their company, I’d be disappointed. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you, Felix?”
My friend audibly gulps. “No, sir. I need to work with Itzel on our project anyway. This might be for the best.”
“What’s the project?” I ask, eager to change the topic.
“Golem version two,” Felix answers excitedly. “Body armor edition.”
“Oh?” I ask, genuinely curious now.
“Remember the robot I lost when we fought Baba Yaga?” Felix says. “And remember the power boost in movement Itzel built into the spacesuits we used to save him?” He nods at Rasputin.
“Sure,” I say, already getting an inkling of where he’s going with this.
“I decided I want something I can use in case there’s another fight, so we’re blending the two projects.” Grievances forgotten, Felix beams with excitement.
“They’re ripping off Batman’s suit from Batman v Superman,” Ariel says, and for a moment, she sounds like her normal self again.
“If anything, we’d be ripping off Iron Man,” Felix says and launches into a comparison of the movies—but I’m no longer listening.
Their banter reminds me too much of what they were talking about before Lilith made me kill them, and the dread wipes away any remnants of guilt I felt for asking them to sit out this fight.
Now I just need to tackle one issue that’s bugging me, and we can go.
“Hey, guys,” I say. “Can you go ahead to Rasputin’s quarters while Ariel and I have a quick chat?”
Nero nods, then herds everyone until they catch up with Claudia and enter the rooms he’d allocated to my father.
I turn to Ariel, examining her perfect features. “Hey,” I say softly.
“Hey yourself.” Ariel takes another puff of her vape pen and exhales a cannabis-scented cloud.
“I just wanted to say that I would never, under any circumstances, let you drink my blood,” I say, figuring I need to just come out with it. “So if that’s what’s bothering you, please don’t—”
“That’s not—” She starts to say, then stops. “In any case, I don’t think you mean what you just said. Wouldn’t you give me your blood to, say, save my life?”
“Fine. Maybe I should never say never, but I swear that if I had to, I’d use only the tiniest amount of my blood to save you—which seems to be safe. Just look at Felix—he didn’t get addicted to Lilith in the least. And I’d look for alternatives first, I promise.”
She takes another drag of her pen without saying anything.
“All right, let me put this another way. I’m the same Sasha you’ve always known, and I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize your sobriety.”
She puts the vape pen away and takes in a deep breath. “I know that. Rationally, I know you’re the same person as before—but when I look at you now, all I see is your new nature. I’m sorry. It’s hard for me to explain. I’ll do my best to get over it, but please be patient with me.”
“Of course,” I say, keeping the hurt from my voice. “Don’t even worry about it.”
“Thanks,” Ariel says and follows the others down the corridor.
Oh, well. There’s a decent chance this will all resolve itself soon—by me perishing at the hands of Lilith or Tartarus.
I enter Rasputin’s quarters a few steps behind Ariel.
If the museum of modern art collaborated with IKEA to create the sleekest, most minimalist-looking studio they could, this might be the result.
Felix, Rasputin, and Nero are sitting on the uber-modern mesh chairs in the posh kitchen I saw in my vision and through a spy camera in Nero’s office, while Claudia is walking around the whole place, admiring the Cubist paintings someone hung on the walls.
“I’ve made the arrangements.” Nero stands up from his chair and walks toward me. “Those of us going to Earth should do so now, while the others will wait for my guards to arrive.”
At her brother’s words, Claudia peels her eyes away from a painting and heads for the door. Rasputin follows after her.
“Where are you going?” I ask him with a frown.
“To Earth,” Rasputin says. “I’m not letting you deal with that monster on your own.”
To my relief, Nero steps in his way. “No. The St. Petersburg Council still considers you persona non grata.”
Rasputin looks as though he wants to shove Nero aside, but he doesn’t dare do so. “Woland and the chorts are dead,” he says tightly. “I’m sure he was the main driver behind their grievance with me.”
“True, but the official ruling against you was never overturned,” Nero says. “If they wanted to, the St. Petersburg Council could send something nastier than the chorts after you. Then we’d have to deal with it, and we have enough problems on our hands.”
Rasputin turns to me, and I nod, grateful to Nero for having my back on this. “He’s right. Your presence there could be a hindrance. Besides, as a seer, you might be more useful to us here.”
“This isn’t right.” Rasputin rounds on Nero. “A father should—”
“Think about what’s best for his daughter,” Nero says in a hard tone. “And you staying here is what’s best.”
Before Rasputin can argue more, a loud knock shakes the door.
Nero walks over to open it. Outside are two beefy bouncers who stand rod still when they see him.
“These gentlemen will take you wherever you need to go,” Nero says to Ariel and Felix.
“And I’ll be able to send you messages via Headspace through my father,” I tell them as they look at me pleadingly. “Thank you again for putting up with my crazy.”
“Sure,” Felix mutters, and getting up, he trudges to the door, with Ariel on his heels.
With one last look, both of my roommates leave with their escorts.
Sighing, I walk over to the table and plop down.
Nero, Claudia, and Rasputin join me there, with Claudia looking through my card deck again.
“Go ahead, call me a hypocrite.” I look at Nero with narrowed eyes. “I know I didn’t tell them their loved ones are in peril. But if I had, they would’ve gone to Earth immediately. You know that.”
“I do,” he says softly. Reaching over, he covers my hand with his. “Don’t worry. In a few days, I’ll have my guards ask both Felix and Ariel to put together a list of people they want evacuated. And you should put together such a list yourself, just in case.”
“Right, of course.” I swallow. “Except my parents, being human, wouldn’t be able to go through the gates.”
“I know, but we’ll figure something out. I promise you.” He squeezes my hand reassuringly.
Rasputin is frowning at both of us now. “What are you talking about? What peril?”
“It relates to what I wanted your help with,” I say and tell him about my vision of the upcoming apocalypse, ending with how my powers served me the vision of Ariel and Felix dying as a solution to the Tartarus problem.
&
nbsp; “Tartarus.” Rasputin spits it out like a curse. Launching to his feet, he walks over to his fridge, grabs a frost-covered bottle of vodka from the freezer, and takes a swig straight from the bottle.
I look at Nero, but he just shrugs. Claudia looks clueless as well.
Coming back to the table, Rasputin sets the bottle down within his reach and says grimly, “All my pain is ultimately that monster’s fault.” He takes another swallow of vodka. “All of it.”
I stare at him blankly. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you this before, but, in a strange way, you owe your very existence to Tartarus,” Rasputin says and avoids eye contact when I gape at him in shock.
I turn to Nero again and see him frowning in confusion. Whatever this is, he’s not in the loop—which might be the first time ever.
“How do I owe my existence to Tartarus?” I ask, my voice unsteady. “I thought I owe it to you and Lilith.”
Rasputin unbuttons the top of his shirt. “As you know, Nostradamus’s only purpose in life is revenge on Tartarus.”
I nod.
“Something that should also not be a surprise is that Lilith is obsessed with her immortality,” he continues as Claudia reaches for his bottle and takes a cautious sip.
Choking, she begins coughing, and Rasputin draws in a steadying breath. “Right,” he says after she’s done. “What you probably don’t know is that long ago, Nostradamus foretold that Lilith would die at the hands of Tartarus—unless her daughter killed him first.” He finally meets my gaze.
“Yes, that’s right,” he says as I stare at him in disbelief. “A daughter born of a powerful Russian seer.” He takes the bottle from Claudia and gulps down another mouthful—to Claudia’s wincing dismay. “That damned prophecy of his is why Lilith seduced me,” Rasputin continues, “and why she planned to turn you, our daughter, into an unflinching killing machine that could be preemptively unleashed on Tartarus. That’s the fate I prevented by—”
“Leaving me at the airport,” I finish numbly as the implications explode in my head.
There’s seer manipulation, and then there’s having me be born just so I could be a tool for revenge.
Also, how was I ever supposed to defeat Tartarus when he’s a threat to someone as powerful as Lilith?
Well, I guess if Rasputin hadn’t taken me away from her, Lilith could’ve made me an evil god on her world—just like Mommy but with seer powers. And by now, I’d be as powerful as she is. Except that didn’t happen, so I doubt Nostradamus’s prophecy will come true.
At least the part where I defeat Tartarus and save Lilith. Pretty sure my biological mother is doomed—though this does explain why she’s made me a vampire.
She must still be holding out some hope.
“I’m sorry I had to give you up,” Rasputin says, looking away again. “It was the only way you could grow up without Lilith’s toxic influence.”
Right.
It all fits, and I probably should be thanking him—except now it might cost Earth its existence.
In the silence that follows, Claudia stands up and walks over to the refrigerator. Moving dragon fast, she takes out the pastry I saw in my vision—one that looks like a cross between pizza and a Cinnabon—and brings it over to the table, along with plates for everyone.
“How do you know about Nostradamus’s prophecies?” Nero asks Rasputin, his voice dangerously low. “And why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
“I only learned Sasha’s fate when Lilith captured me.” Rasputin picks at his snack without much appetite. “She let slip Nostradamus’s name, so I stockpiled some power and challenged him in Headspace. When we joined, I saw a memory of him talking with Lilith. Then he admitted the rest of it to me, saying that he never intended for Sasha to suffer, and that his visions—like all predictions—are not guaranteed, especially when the people involved become aware of their possible fates.”
“Did you look at the future yourself?” Nero demands. “How do you know Nostradamus was telling the truth? How is Sasha supposed to defeat Tartarus?”
“He couldn’t have faked his memories, but as to what he said, I don’t know if he was telling the truth. And I have no idea how, and if, Sasha can defeat Tartarus. I couldn’t foresee any of it,” Rasputin says. “A vision of this magnitude requires a large stockpile of power, and after that encounter with Nostradamus, he’d been making sure I can’t get it by regularly attacking me in Headspace and draining my powers. And what little I would recover, I needed to survive Lilith’s tortures.”
Nero’s hand tightens on the table. “I think I need to have a chat with Nostradamus, see if I can loosen his tongue a bit.”
“Get in line,” I say, then look at Rasputin. “What do you mean by ‘stockpiling?’ I didn’t know you could do that with seer power.”
“It’s something only the most powerful seers can do,” Rasputin says. “Do you know how you can run out of your power and use no more until the next day?”
I nod.
“Well, what happens if you don’t use the power for that day?” he asks.
I shrug. “You have more the next day? I hadn’t noticed any difference, to be honest, and neither Darian nor the bannik—my main sources of seer information—mentioned this to me.”
“Most seers, like Darian and the bannik for example, wouldn’t have more power the next day,” he says. “But some of us—the most powerful—can learn how to stockpile our unused power for bigger expenditures. It requires you to go into Headspace every day but leave without activating any visions. After that, the next day, you’ll have more power than just a day’s worth—and if you keep doing it, you stockpile enough for some major visions.”
“Wow,” I say. “That would’ve been useful information. Assuming I’m powerful enough to do this, of course.”
“I think you are,” Rasputin says. “You’ll have to test it when you get the chance.”
“What I don’t understand is how Nostradamus was able to drain your power,” Nero says, looking at him. “Aren’t you the more powerful seer?”
Rasputin shrugs. “All else being equal, I might be more powerful. But he had stockpiled his power for decades, maybe even centuries, while I had used up mine at the wrong time.”
Nero narrows his eyes. “If it’s about my request, you should’ve told me all this before you drained your power reserves on my rescue project.” He glances at Claudia, who’s still munching on her pastry.
“Oh, at that point, I didn’t have much power anyway,” Rasputin says. “The real hit to those reserves was that hundred-year prophecy I made for you about Earth’s history—but that was worth it, because it convinced you to look after Sasha.”
Nero’s jaw tightens at the jab, but he doesn’t say anything. We all know he wouldn’t have helped Rasputin if it weren’t for the hundred-year prediction that made him so rich—and thus more powerful as a dragon—over the years.
After all, as a baby, I didn’t have my current charms.
Such as they are.
“The good news is, I do have enough power now to look a few months into the future—or to have many short-term visions,” Rasputin says. “Tell me how to best help you. I can, for example, verify that Ariel and Felix will be safe.”
“In that case, can you check to see if Sasha will fall under Lilith’s sire bond?” Nero asks. “And if so, how to prevent it?”
“Yes,” Rasputin says. “I’ll get on that.”
He closes his eyes and evens his breathing.
I check if my own powers have recovered and, to my huge relief, find myself in Headspace.
There, I face a cloud of shapes playing a deadly tune.
Great.
There goes any hope of ever using the stockpiling trick I just learned about. To do so would mean ignoring these visions of doom, and I can’t do that.
Metaphysically sighing, I reach for one deadly vision and prepare to see what new problems the universe will throw at me
.
Chapter Seven
I’m in a hotel bathroom vigorously attacking my teeth with a toothbrush.
This attempt at personal hygiene is long overdue. Turns out, without the routine of daily sleeping, it’s hard to remember to do such things with any regularity.
Maybe I should set a timer on my phone to remind me to brush in the future?
Then again, do I even need fluoride anymore?
I’ll have to ask someone how they find my breath, but something tells me vampires don’t get gingivitis or halitosis. And I bet our teeth don’t yellow over time either.
I know one thing for sure. With an all-liquid diet, I’m never going to floss again.
Suddenly, my vampire super-hearing picks up a noise that sounds like someone opening the door and creeping into the room.
My seer sense—and common sense—rings an alarm.
Without bothering to spit, I toss the toothbrush into the sink and zoom out of the bathroom—smack into a giant intruder.
Stumbling back, I take in his appearance and gulp nervously, swallowing the minty grossness in my mouth.
This guy is what a growth hormone molecule would look like if a magic fairy turned it into a man.
Even his earlobes look like they have muscles.
Weirdly, his hair is long and permed—and has enough hair spray on it to have opened a hole in the ozone layer, à la the style favored in the eighties.
Maybe he’s a rock star?
The outfit doesn’t exactly match. Instead of glittery spandex or whatever, he’s wearing a circa-eighties bomber jacket, tight jeans, and clunky white sneakers.
In his beefy hand, he’s holding another anachronism—a polaroid photo.
I back up some more, examining my crappy options for escape.
There are none.
He’s blocking the path to the door with his massive body, and going out the window involves figuring out how to fly.
Fine.
Time to use what little vampire powers I’m good at. I will my eyes to go into glamour mode, and when they’re nice and mirror-y, I catch his gaze.
“Leave. Now,” I order in a honey-laced voice.