Misfortune Teller: Sasha Urban Series: Book 2

by Zales, Dima

“No.” I gingerly pick up a spoonful of my lagmon.

  “Maybe when you were little?” Felix asks.

  “Maybe,” I say. “But I doubt it. Mom is allergic to taking care of things.”

  Felix chuckles—he’s met my mom. His parents, though, look very somber, and I belatedly recall the emphasis on respect for one’s parents in their culture.

  To cover my faux pas, I put my spoon into my mouth, and the spicy, savory flavor makes it hard to focus on anything else for a few moments. I chase the soup with a nice bite of lepyoshka and resist the temptation to moan in pleasure. When I finally catch my breath, I ask, “Do you know of any way to have Fluffster—the domovoi himself—recall where he comes from?”

  Ruslan fishes a dumpling out of his soup. “Each time a domovoi puts on the guise of an animal, he forms memories, but when that animal dies, the memories don’t carry over into the next shape the domovoi assumes. I think amnesia is the English word for it. I know this happened to my granddad’s domovoi, at least five times.”

  “So,” I say slowly, giving myself a chance to apply logic to this strange idea. “If I had no pets, the last set of memories Fluffster had before becoming a chinchilla would be as whatever pet he was for his last owners—who might be my biological parents.”

  “Exactly.” Ruslan swallows the dumpling.

  “So is there a way to allow him to recover from this amnesia?” I poke my soup with my spoon. I suspect the answer will be no.

  “No,” Zamira says.

  “Maybe,” Ruslan says at the same time.

  “Are you talking about that tall tale?” Zamira frowns at her husband. “Your grandfather could’ve made that up, plus we don’t know if she is the same Baba Yaga as—”

  “Can I speak, woman?” Ruslan says sternly, putting down his spoon.

  In my opinion, the way he banged that spoon borderlines with a temper tantrum, but Zamira stops speaking and, what’s worse, looks chastised.

  The waiter brings the second course, so everyone sits in that uncomfortable silence for a few long seconds before Ruslan speaks up again. “My great-grandfather’s domovoi was a dog,” he says. “Then one day, my grandfather found his father and the dog dead. So when he got a cat—which the domovoi immediately took over—my grandfather wanted to ask the domovoi what happened. However, he faced the same problem you do.” He looks pained at the memory, and I wonder if he was around for all that family drama.

  Zamira puts a reassuring hand on her husband’s shoulder as he says, “My grandfather consulted Baba Yaga, and she helped him recover the memories—”

  “At a price,” Zamira says.

  “It’s true,” Ruslan says morosely. “He couldn’t control his beloved sand for a decade after he saw the witch.”

  I consider that and shrug. “Given how unreliable my prophetic dreams are, being without them for ten years wouldn’t be that big of a burden.”

  “Don’t even say such a thing out loud.” Zamira looks around as though the witch from the tale might jump out from behind the corner.

  Felix swallows his food and says, “You don’t mean to suggest that the Baba Yaga in this story is the same person who has that restaurant a couple of blocks away from here? Izbushka Na Kurih Nojkah?” He looks at me. “That means ‘a hut on hen’s legs.’”

  “I have no idea,” Ruslan says and stuffs his samosa into his mouth. “Doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

  “Baba Yaga is a witch from Russian fairy tales,” Felix explains to me again. “And it just so happens that there’s a Cognizant witch in New York by the same name. She has a bad reputation.”

  “With a name like Baba Yaga, you’d think so.” Zamira daintily slices off a piece of her kebab. “Even if she’s not the Baba Yaga, just think about what kind of person would take such a name. What would you think of someone who takes an alias like ‘Nasty Witch from the West?’”

  “It’s the Wicked Witch of the West,” Felix says and is rewarded with a glare from both parental units.

  “If I were you, I’d find another way to learn who your parents are,” Ruslan says to me.

  “Then why did you tell her that story?” Zamira asks.

  I expect another temper tantrum from Ruslan, but he just sighs. “Everyone deserves a chance to know where they come from.”

  A long silence follows. I spear my manti/dumpling and ponder if I would be willing to see someone who calls herself the Wicked Witch of the West if it meant learning more about my biological parents.

  “So,” Zamira says, looking sternly at Felix, “if you’re not with Sashen’ka or Arielechka as you claim, how am I supposed to get grandchildren?”

  I nearly choke on my dumpling, and Felix turns such a deep shade of red I worry someone will want to make borscht out of him.

  “It just so happens that I did meet someone,” Felix says when his color subsides to the hue of the old Soviet flag. “I just don’t want to jinx it by talking about it.”

  I’m tempted to ask him for more details but abstain in case he just made this up to appease his parents—which is probable.

  I eat another dumpling and notice Zamira staring at me. Is she examining me for signs of jealousy at Felix’s revelation?

  The waiter comes just in time to spare Felix from having to elaborate on the mysterious—and possibly imaginary—girl.

  “If you’re not with Felix, do you have a man in your life?” Ruslan asks in a tone I’d use to say something like, “Are you sure you really saw that Chupacabra under the train?”

  I feel myself blush. “No. I’m very single.”

  Felix reddens again. He probably just recalled what Ariel revealed to him the other day: that I haven’t gotten laid in two years.

  Our waiter brings out the main course just in time. As soon as he leaves, I turn the conversation to the city of Samarkand—a topic I know Zamira and Ruslan would not be able to resist.

  As I eat my plov, I learn all about their hometown, which is “one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in Central Asia.”

  We manage to stay on those types of safer subjects for the rest of the meal. When the waiter brings the check, I point at the remnants of my plov and say, “This was the best rice dish I’ve ever had. In general, the food was outstanding.”

  My words please the Fokins more than they do the waiter, and they insist I come over to their house in the near future to try homemade versions of the dishes I just had.

  “Sounds like a great idea,” I say as noncommittally as possible and put my credit card on the check.

  “What is this?” Ruslan looks at my card like it might sprout fangs.

  “The lunch is on me,” I say. “You’ve been so helpful and—”

  “No.” He grabs the card and plops it in front of me. “Not in my lifetime.”

  Shrugging, I take my card back and decide to send them a nice gift for their next anniversary.

  Ruslan pays the check, and we say our goodbyes.

  I have to head back to work, but given that it’s mere blocks away, I decide to check out the restaurant where this Russian witch of legend lurks.

  Thanks to my phone, I locate it easily on Yelp. The evil witch runs a tight ship (or hut)—the place has pretty much unanimous five-star reviews.

  As I walk over the two and a half blocks, I spot the place. I didn’t really need the address. I could’ve located it visually, given what the Fokins told me.

  Made to look like a giant, multi-story wooden hut, the restaurant has chicken legs where most other buildings would put columns.

  I approach and touch the legs. They feel as though they’re made from real chicken skin. Creepy. Must be some special latex material or something.

  Running up the creaky wooden stairs to the “hut” entrance, I pull on the doorknob.

  It’s locked.

  Then I see the sign with the hours of operations. The restaurant is closed right now and will only reopen at five p.m. I program the phone number written on the sign into my phone and ask it to
remind me to call this place at six—which should give them an hour to open up.

  Summoning an Uber, I lean against a street light and use that minute to check my work email.

  There are a couple of messages from Nero, but before I can read them, an impossible-to-describe but familiar sensation creeps over me.

  It’s that same sense of danger from before, when a brick nearly hit me, only much stronger.

  A spike of adrenaline skyrockets my heart rate, and I look up from my phone.

  A black minivan is hurtling toward me at racing-car speed.

  Chapter Eight

  I jump to the side.

  The minivan slams into the street light I was just leaning against.

  The screech of metal decimating plastic assaults my ears, and the scent of burned rubber scorches my nostrils.

  Unblinking, I stare as the minivan’s front turns into an accordion under the pressure and tilts the lamppost toward me.

  With a metallic groan, the base of the lamppost detaches from the pavement and falls like a chopped-down tree.

  I jump away a second before the one-way sign attached to the lamppost has a chance to cleave through my neck.

  Panting, I stare at the wreckage in front of me in disbelief.

  Did this just happen?

  And what the hell was wrong with that driver?

  Realizing the idiot might be in bad shape, I pull out my phone with unsteady fingers and dial 911 to report the accident.

  When they ask me about the fate of the driver, I tell them I have no idea. The car is too banged up to see through the windshield, and I’m afraid to come closer to check.

  Given my luck today, the car might explode, or worse.

  After I hang up, it occurs to me that bad luck—or at least, bad luck alone—might not be the reason for all these mishaps. Frantic, I look around to see if I can spot Chester in the crowd of gathering onlookers.

  This is the second accident today.

  If the former Councilor is not involved, it’s a doozy of a coincidence.

  My hands have finally stopped shaking, so when I hear sirens, I pull out my phone to check on the car that’s supposed to pick me up.

  I should’ve guessed it.

  The car is already here.

  It’s the one that almost killed me.

  I take a deep breath and summon a new ride. As I’m doing that, a fire truck and an ambulance arrive on the scene with an ear-piercing whine of sirens.

  I watch with morbid curiosity as the firemen pry open the damaged car. As the door opens, I hear the person inside yell something in the deepest feminine voice I’ve ever heard. Either this lady smoked unfiltered cigarettes for fifty years, or it’s some strange side effect of the accident.

  “Put me down,” she roars as the emergency personnel strap her onto a stretcher. “Can’t you see I’m fine?”

  My ride arrives, and as I get in, I spot the still-screaming woman jumping off the stretcher and sprinting away like an insane person.

  How is she so spry after that horrific crash?

  As we pull away, I catch a quick glimpse of her and realize that maybe this wasn’t a woman after all. Though she has breasts, she’s built like the Hulk. Could she be a bodybuilding champion? At least her physique might partially explain how she’s still moving.

  Though I don’t get a good look at her face, I do spot a layer of makeup as thick as drywall and features that must’ve been upsized by anabolic steroid use—that or she, like the guy earlier, has a bunch of Neanderthal DNA.

  Something about the DNA idea gives birth to a nebulous theory, but it’s extremely hard to think with all the adrenaline still pumping through my system.

  To calm myself, I start the breathing exercises Lucretia taught me the other day. After a couple of minutes of this, I talk myself into facing Nero’s emails.

  As is becoming routine, the first email is full of good news. Apparently, Nero had a trader invest as per my suggestions, and a couple of stocks already doubled in price during lunch—an almost unprecedented success. What’s extra strange is that these extraordinary performers are from the bunch where I didn’t do any research at all, just used the stock name to tickle my intuition.

  Did my powers help me with these stocks, or am I just a lucky monkey? For that matter, did my powers save me when the recent accidents nearly happened?

  If yes, could this be why I haven’t had my vision dreams lately? I certainly could’ve used a dream to forewarn me of things falling on my head and cars trying to slam into me, but maybe the dreams somehow “knew” I’d be okay on my own?

  And if I did utilize a preternatural intuition, is that what Nero meant by awake visions? If so, it’s a terrible term since I’d expect something by that name to be, well, more visual.

  I don’t need psychic powers to guess the content of the next email, and Nero doesn’t disappoint. He wants me to research more stocks, and this list is even longer. My boss clearly doesn’t care how I’m making him so much money; he just greedily wants to milk this cow until it falls over dead.

  Realizing I compared myself to a cow twice today, I decide to use the golden goose metaphor going forward.

  Since I did so well with my stock picks sans research, I’m going to apply that “strategy” to three quarters of the stocks on this new list—which should allow me to spend about five minutes on each of the remaining quarter and hopefully get home at a reasonable time.

  I start working on the assignment on my phone, but a text from Ariel interrupts my stock-guessing game.

  Felix told me about the construction site accident. Did you talk to Nero yet?

  I text Felix to let him know he’s the biggest gossip I’ve ever met and contemplate following my friends’ advice.

  With all this work I’m doing for my boss, why not force him to be useful for a change?

  Opening my work email, I write a short and sweet message to Nero:

  Can I talk to you in person?

  His reply is almost instant:

  I have a window on Tuesday at 11.

  He’s going to make me wait four days? My jaws tense and I start writing an angry reply but then stop myself. Why did I just get so upset? Considering how reluctant I was to speak with him in the first place, this response is irrational. I guess I want him to take his Mentor role seriously. Then again, he doesn’t know this has to do with being a Mentor, so I should give him a chance to learn that fact.

  I change my nastygram to:

  This is urgent. Need you as a Mentor.

  His reply is even faster this time:

  Can you talk on the phone now? If this has to be in person, I only get back from San Fran tomorrow.

  I didn’t realize he was away. That makes his Tuesday offer a tiny bit more reasonable, so I’m glad I reconsidered the nastygram.

  My phone rings before I get a chance to type up an affirmative reply.

  It’s a video call from Nero.

  Taking in a calming breath, I accept the call.

  Nero must be in the gym because I see the buffness-creating torture equipment in the background. Not surprisingly, the fancy gym he’s in is equipped with top-of-the-line video conferencing equipment, which means my boss doesn’t have to hold a phone, like the rest of us. What is more disturbing is that said video equipment gives me a very good look at the sweat beading on Nero’s forehead and the veins popping out of the bulging muscles under his skintight sleeveless shirt.

  A shirt that makes it look like he was dipped in caramel.

  Realizing where I’m staring and salivating (at the thought of caramel, of course), I shift my gaze to his face. Is that concern in those predatory features, or annoyance at having his workout interrupted by a lowly minion?

  “Have you been harmed?” His strong chin and prominent cheekbones, highlighted by the sweat slicking his face, give him a particularly fierce expression.

  If he suddenly growled and bit the camera, I’d be only mildly surprised.

  “I’m fine
,” I say. “But I nearly died.”

  “Tell me everything.” He crosses his arms across his chest. I don’t know if his goal was to show off his biceps and pecs, but the gesture successfully accomplished it.

  Focusing on maintaining eye contact in order to avoid ogling my boss’s inappropriately hot bod, I tell him about my recent dunking in the harbor, the things that nearly fell on me, and the car accident. I also mention my theory about Chester.

  “You did well to bring this to my attention instead of involving the authorities,” Nero says when I’m done. “I will remind Chester how to stay alive.”

  The way he says the last bit sends a shiver down my spine. I definitely wouldn’t want to be Chester if something happened to me.

  I see movement behind Nero. A face I’ve recently seen on the cover of Forbes magazine appears in the camera view and says, “Is everything okay? I could use a spot.”

  I stare, dumbfounded. Nero’s workout partner is the CEO of a popular social media platform and one of the richest people on the planet. He probably made more than my annual salary in the minutes he was forced to wait for Nero because of me.

  “Everything will be fine,” Nero tells his billionaire gym buddy. “Give me a second.”

  “I don’t have anything else to add,” I say as quickly as I can get the words out. “You should go.”

  “Let’s still talk face to face on Tuesday,” Nero says and reaches up to touch something on the camera in front of him—a movement that gives me an up-close look at his sinewy forearm.

  “Of course,” I say breathlessly, and the connection terminates.

  Shaking my head, I get back to my list of stocks, squinting at my phone for the rest of the trip.

  When I get to my desk, I’m able to proceed with my research at a much faster pace, thanks to the multiple screens and proper keyboard. I’m almost halfway through when I get so hungry it messes with my focus.

  I head down to the cafeteria and get Thai green curry with mango sticky rice. As I get into the line to pay, my phone reminds me to call Baba Yaga.

  I dial the number.

  “Izbushka Na Kurih Nojkah,” says a pleasant female voice in fluent Russian.