by Dima Zales
“It makes sense, though,” Rasputin says. “How can a single being, no matter how powerful, take over a whole world?”
“Lilith did,” Nero says.
Rasputin nods. “True. But she took over a more primitive world, one without technology. Humans on a world like Earth have weapons that can kill anything.”
“Good point.” I massage my chin. “These children of his—especially ones like that trickster, Lug—will severely complicate plans for defense of Earth.”
“Save the defense talk for when we talk this over with the Council,” Nero says. “Speaking of which, Claudia and I better go.”
I narrow my eyes. “You mean Sasha, Claudia, and I better go.”
Nero regards me with an unreadable expression. “Even with your seer powers drained, you insist on joining?”
“Hells yeah.” Anticipating another argument, I say, “Think about it for a second. In my vision, I was alone when that werewolf attacked me. Us staying together is the best way to prevent that future from happening.”
“Fine.” Nero stands up. “We better go.”
“Just one moment,” I say. “I had an idea before. I think I know how to stockpile power rather quickly.”
Nero sits back down, and everyone looks at me with rapt attention.
I turn to Rasputin. “Remember how you said you can save some power every day for stockpiling?”
Rasputin nods.
“What if you had more days?” I ask eagerly.
Nero nods approvingly. He must’ve guessed where I’m going with this.
“There’s a world called Atlantis,” I say. “Time there runs so fast that the boys Vlad was training in one of my visions turned to grown men almost overnight. If Nostradamus is on Earth and you go to Atlantis, you’ll have a major advantage when it comes to stockpiling.”
Rasputin’s face lights up. “You’re right. Now that you mention it, this is how Nostradamus bested me in the first place. I was stuck on Lilith’s world, where time runs slow, while he was somewhere where it’s fast. Now I get to turn the tables on him.”
“Good,” Nero says, getting up again. “I’ll find someone to take you. Let’s go.”
Turning on his heel, he strides out of the apartment.
We follow Nero all the way to the elevator. When we get downstairs, he talks to a few bouncers and points at Rasputin.
“So this is another goodbye,” Rasputin says, blinking as he stares at me.
“For now,” I say, faking cheerfulness. “Once I have my powers back, I will look for you in Headspace.”
“Be careful,” he says and reaches over to hug me.
“I will do my best,” I say, hugging him back. “You be careful too—Papa.”
As I pull away, I can see that the little endearment did its job. Rasputin’s face glows like a Christmas tree.
On my end, I almost meant the sentiment this time. I do wish he could come to Earth, so we could spend more time together. If I survive the werewolf’s attack and Tartarus—which is a big “if”—I’ll have to figure out a way to get the St. Petersburg Council off my father’s back.
Somehow.
“Let’s go,” Nero orders over his shoulder and pushes his way through the gyrating dancers to the club’s exit.
Claudia and I rush to follow him, sprinting all the way to the elevator in the hub skyscraper.
The ride up is quick, and once on the roof, we jog to the Earth gate.
When we exit on the opposite side, we bump into a disheveled Eric—the teleporter guard whom Nero left to watch over me.
He must’ve recovered from the tranquilizer nappy-nap I put him in.
“Eric,” I say. “Fancy meeting you here.”
He gives me a barely perceptible frown, then cringes under Nero’s glare.
“I know I messed up,” he says. “She—”
“Save it,” Nero growls. “Take us to Sasha’s apartment. Now.”
“Sure,” Eric says and walks up to Claudia. “Her first?”
“Whatever,” Nero says. Then he tells Claudia, “He’s going to touch you in order to teleport you somewhere. Don’t kill him.”
Claudia rolls her eyes as Eric puts a hand on her shoulder, and they wink out of existence.
“Who needs a limo with Eric around?” I mumble. Then the teleporter reappears alone and puts a hand on my shoulder.
Poof, and I’m standing by the door of my apartment next to grinning Claudia.
“I’ve never teleported before,” she says giddily. “That was amazing.”
I grin at her. “I know, right? I’d give my left fang to be able to do that. The illusions I’d be able to perform would blow the minds of every magician in the world. Even Copperfield.”
Eric reappears with Nero.
“Come back in an hour, or when I text you,” Nero tells the teleporter. “Whichever comes first.”
“Deal,” Eric says, and blips out of existence again.
I reach into my pocket to get the key. “It’s not a castle,” I say. “But I call it home.”
Holding the door wide, I let the motley crew inside.
“Sasha!” Fluffster shouts in my head, then dashes over to greet us, his little furry paws skidding on the floor. “You’re back.” He looks at me sternly. “I was worried.”
Seeing my domovoi’s chinchilla form, Claudia literally squeals with delight. “What is that? Please don’t tell me you’d eat such a marvel.”
“Eat him?” I look at Fluffster, then at Claudia. “Where did you get that idea?”
Fluffster backs away—he no doubt remembers the horror-movie-like documentary we saw about the poachers who kill chinchillas. According to it, they don’t let the meat go to waste—and it’s supposed to be fatty, like a duck.
“Who is she?” Fluffster asks. “She seems powerful, like Nero.”
Lucifur—the cat I’ve inherited from Rose—saunters over to check what the fuss is about. She looks unimpressed with all of us. The expression on her flat face seems to say, “If anyone is going to eat that fluffy morsel, it would be Our Majesty, provided someone sticks him into a can of Fancy Feast. Now scram, before you pay for your insolence with your lives.”
“Wow,” Claudia says, gaping at Lucifur. “That creature is even cuter. Is it common to keep a veritable zoo in your home here on Earth?”
“Hey,” I say. “Fluffster is cuter—and, more importantly, unlike the cat’s, his feelings can be hurt.”
“I apologize,” Claudia says, looking at Lucifur.
“That’s not Fluffster,” I say and point at the domovoi. “That is Fluffster.”
I grab my heavenly-furred friend and hold him so Claudia can have a closer look. “This is Nero’s sister, Claudia,” I tell him. “Claudia, this is Fluffster. He’s a domovoi—a type of Cognizant.”
“A domovoi?” She looks at Fluffster a lot more respectfully. “I didn’t realize. They usually look like humans on our world.”
“The locals keep animals as pets on this world,” Nero explains. “And since the domovoi take the guise of pets, they end up looking like cats, dogs, and sometimes like chinchillas.”
“Wait, hold up,” I say, examining him for any sign of mirth. “Are you saying dragons keep humans as pets on your world?”
In my head, I also wonder—what about vampires? And seers?
Put another way, am I Nero’s pet?
“The word ‘pet’ is loaded with too many negative connotations.” Nero smirks as if he read my earlier thought. “How about interspecies companions? Familiars?”
I put Fluffster on the ground and grimace.
“Humans consider it a big honor to live within a dragon’s household,” Claudia chimes in. “The right to do so passes from family to family.”
“Many of the soldiers who helped in our campaign asked for such companionship to be their reward,” Nero adds. “You have to remember, they revere dragons and—”
The doorbell rings.
Nero looks through the peeph
ole, grunts approvingly, and opens the door.
A beautiful, slender young woman is standing there. She’s dressed in tall leather boots and a leather jacket, and her frizzy curls are gathered into a big poof of a ponytail.
Since I can’t see Cognizant auras at the moment, I can’t tell if she’s one of us—but if she’s human, her ethnicity would be extremely hard to pinpoint. She looks as if some mad scientist took Zoe Saldana and spliced her with Emma Watson’s genes, then sprinkled in a touch of Halle Berry.
“Bailey.” Nero gestures for her to come in. “You’re late.”
So this is Bailey Spade, also known as Freda Krueger—the dream walker who works for Nero from time to time.
“Bowser,” Bailey says with mockery in her voice. She looks at me with a good-natured smirk. “You’re his Princess Peach, right?”
Bowser? She called Nero that before—referencing a video game character who happens to be the archenemy of Mario. When I first heard it, I thought she used the nickname because of Nero’s deep voice, but now I realize that it might be the fact that the character in question is a very similar creature to a dragon: he can breathe fire and is scaly. That means Bailey knows about Nero’s nature.
Processing all the information in a flash, I chuckle at my own Princess Peach nickname. In the Mario games, the princess is who Bowser always tries to kidnap and bring to his castle in order to marry her.
“Hi, Bailey,” I say. “I’m Sasha. If you’re here to help me, I’m sorry. I have no time to take a nap today. We’ll have to do this some other time.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Claudia snatching Lucifur off the ground and scratching the evil one under the chin.
Instead of disemboweling the dragoness, the cat purrs contentedly and closes her eyes.
“Actually,” Nero growls at me. “It will happen today. Now, to be precise. Vlad and the others aren’t back anyway. There’s time.”
“There’s bossy, and there’s this.” Bailey shakes her head and looks at me apologetically. “If he weren’t my best-paying customer, I’d leave out of principle.”
“It’s fine,” I say with a sigh. “I guess if we have the time, I’ll do it—if just to shut him up. Besides”—I smile at her—“I wouldn’t want you to miss out on your fee because of me.”
“Thanks.” Bailey examines me with unabashed curiosity. “You know, you’re just as pretty in person as in his dreams. That’s rare.”
“Let’s take this to the couch,” Nero snarls before I can ask whose dreams Bailey is talking about—even though it’s obvious they’re Nero’s.
“I’ll meet you all there,” I say and sprint for my room.
Once there, I fill my pockets with my favorite magic paraphernalia.
If there’s any downtime between now and the end of the world, I hope I’ll get to see how my vampire reflexes affected my repertoire. Also, if I get another chance to show off my skills to Claudia, I want to make sure I get her to pee her pants.
Do dragons need to urinate, by the way? Do I? Because I’ve been drinking my liquids, and I haven’t felt the slightest urge… And what about poop?
“Just to clarify,” Bailey says when I return to the living room, still puzzling over this. “We’re not going to sleep together.”
“That’s good to know,” I say, matching her snarky tone. “So how will this work?”
“Simple.” She plays with a piece of strange furry jewelry on her wrist—a colorful thing that looks familiar for some reason. “You’re going to sleep, and I’m going to touch you. But not in a dirty way. Especially not in front of your jealous boyfriend.”
Boyfriend?
I suppose that’s better than princess-napper.
Or husband.
Or pet owner.
Nero grunts something unintelligible as Bailey, Fluffster, and Claudia chuckle at his—and maybe my—expense.
“Okay.” I lie down, and Fluffster runs over and jumps into my arms.
“You’re the domovoi, right?” Bailey asks Fluffster. “Felix mentioned you. It’s great to meet you in person.”
Oh, right.
She knows Felix.
I wonder if he’ll be sad to have missed her.
“Is that your domovoi’s girlfriend?” Bailey nods at the cat in Claudia’s arms.
“No,” I say. “It’s his mistress.”
“Hardy-har-har,” Fluffster says mentally. Turning to Bailey, he asks, “What was that part about the fee? How much are your services?”
“Nero is taking care of it,” I say quickly. The last thing I want is for Fluffster to rip anyone into bits over budget concerns. “Now, how about we start?”
“One second.” Fluffster looks at the furry wrist-thing on Bailey’s arm. “What is that?”
“It’s Pom,” Bailey says proudly. “He’s a looft who is my friend and companion.”
The bracelet-like thing changes color but doesn’t respond in any other way.
Is it, per chance, an imaginary friend?
Then the term “looft” triggers a memory. We learned about them at Orientation. They live on cow-like creatures called moofts—which I saw on the cannibal gnomes’ world.
I’m tempted to ask a bunch of questions, but I don’t want Bailey to think I’m calling her a cow, so I close my eyes and even out my breathing.
I don’t know if it’s the presence of a dream walker or the relaxation from snuggling Fluffster, but I fall into sleep faster than I ever have.
Chapter Twelve
I’m standing in front of five hundred spectators and my glossophobia/stage fright is speeding up my heart rate to supersonic levels.
Yet I don’t faint.
I’m elated instead.
Performing magic is what I was born to do—and the adrenaline from my phobia is just a free stimulant my body produces to keep me sharp and alert.
“I need a volunteer from the crowd,” I say into the microphone, my voice unshaken. “Someone who’s good with firearms, like a police officer.”
As the chosen lady cop walks to the stage, my already-prodigious stress response turns sharp and primal.
This is it.
I’m about to do the most dangerous of all illusions in magic—and I’m only allowing myself to do this because, as a vampire, I have a good chance of surviving a mistake.
I think.
“Please examine this gun,” I say, handing the revolver to the cop.
She takes the weapon and finds nothing untoward.
“Now also check this bullet,” I tell her, and she does.
“Initial the bullet, please.” I hand her a permanent marker.
She does as I ask.
I then tell her to load the bullet into the gun as Nero—my scantily clad assistant—walks onto the stage.
Usually, revealing outfits are the way assistants draw attention from the illusionist, but today, I had Nero dress this way so the people can see he’s not wearing some special gear underneath to explain away the effect.
Or at least that’s what I told him. In reality, the outfit is there because I enjoy ogling his hard-muscled body.
“Please give the gun to my assistant and then stand behind him,” I tell the cop as Nero and I take our places on the opposite sides of the stage.
She eyes him with obvious interest, then nervously walks over to give him the gun before taking her place behind his back.
Nero raises the gun.
I do my best not to think of a factoid I never told Nero—that twelve magicians I know of have died performing this very illusion.
Then again, unlike me, they weren’t vampires.
As far as I know anyway.
Now that I’m not staring at a large audience, I feel calmer—even with the gun pointed at me.
Nero aims.
People in the audience inhale loudly.
Nero pulls the trigger.
The loud bang nearly deafens me, but everything goes as planned.
I’m not dead.
The only harm is to the enamel on my teeth—and that recovers vampire quick.
Everyone in the theater is dead silent.
The light guy moves a spotlight to me so everyone can see the metal gleaming in my mouth.
It’s the bullet.
I “caught” it between my teeth.
Nero hands the cop rubber gloves and asks her to check the bullet.
She stumbles over and takes the bullet from my mouth.
“Are those your initials on that bullet?” I ask her.
“Yes,” she says in wonderment. “This is the same bullet that was in the gun.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Everyone, let’s have a round of applause for New York’s finest!”
The cop leaves the stage as the audience members launch to their feet and start clapping like their palms are on fire.
As I bow, I grin like a lunatic.
This—the sound of ovations—is what gives my life purpose. It’s a rush that’s better than anything, barring sex with Nero.
And it gets better.
When I look at the adoring crowd, I spot Mom, who rarely comes to my performances, and Dad, who always does. Next to them in the front row are Felix, Ariel, Rasputin, Lucretia, Kit, and Vlad. All are cheering and looking at me with various levels of pride.
Except something isn’t right.
There are people behind them that shouldn’t be there.
Before I can say or do anything, an arc of black energy hits me in the head, completely paralyzing me.
The energy came from one of the people in the second row—the ones behind my friends and family.
I gape in horror.
Behind Mom is Beatrice, the necromancer, and behind Dad is Harper, Beatrice’s succubus girlfriend.
And that’s not all.
Behind Vlad is Baba Yaga, and she is where the paralyzing energy came from.
Behind Rasputin is Darian, and behind Ariel is Gaius.
Why can’t I shake the feeling they can’t be here?
Am I in denial?
Behind Felix is Koschei, and behind Lucretia is Woland—the chort who can stop hearts. Finally, behind Kit is the giant orc chieftain whose son Nero killed.
I strain to move, but I can’t so much as twitch a muscle.