Misfortune Teller

by Dima Zales

  “Timothy.” The sales guy looks like a cornered rabbit. Like me, he didn’t notice his boss sneaking up to peep at my performance.

  I meet Timothy’s watery gaze and frown. “What exactly do you mean by ‘for a girl?’”

  I’ve actually heard of Timothy Bandicoot, the owner of this store. He’s semi-famous in the magician community of New York, mostly because he’s a bit of a contradiction. Though he’s an owner of a magic store, he also has a YouTube channel where he posits his theories on how famous magicians accomplish their illusions. Having watched his show once, I was disappointed at some of the elaborate and impossible theories he proposed as the methods behind the magic.

  Now it seems like he has no customer service skills either. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised at all the fake poop on the shelves.

  “I meant that as a compliment,” Timothy says, rubbing the shiny bald spot on the top of his skull, as if for luck. “Palming is difficult for someone with hands as small and delicate as yours.”

  “Riiight.” I roll my eyes. “So you’re saying you saw me palm the cards, right?”

  “But of course,” Timothy says. “Individual cards and the whole deck.”

  “That’s odd,” I say. “Because my routine didn’t involve palming an individual card.”

  “Impossible,” Timothy says. “That time the card ended up in your pocket—”

  “Care to put money where your mouth is? You have me recorded.” I point at his security camera. “We check the tape, and if it shows me palming a card, you get a thousand dollars. If it doesn’t, you give me five hundred.”

  Timothy looks pleadingly at his mustachioed minion. In my peripheral vision, I see the sales guy shake his head.

  “We’re closing soon,” Timothy says. “No time for games.”

  “Then I’d better go.” I head triumphantly toward the exit.

  “Here,” the sales guy says, catching up with me. He hands me a booklet with a Russian Roulette routine. “A thank-you gift for showing me your tricks.” His eyes also seem to add, “And an apology for my boss being an asshole.”

  “Thanks,” I say, reaching for the door handle. Over my shoulder, I add, “You might want to work for an online magic retailer.”

  I close the door with a loud bang and head for the subway.

  The feeling of being watched returns. Could Nero have driven me crazy with all that research? I wish I had Lucretia or some other mental health professional on speed dial to check this theory.

  Pushing the thought away, I get on the subway and start reading my gift. It makes the time go by so fast I nearly miss my stop.

  As I exit the station, I realize my mind is still too muddled to head home. Fortunately, I have a perfect remedy for that—a stroll in Battery Park.

  Named for the artillery batteries that were positioned here in the more violent past, this park is by far my favorite place in the city. There’s just something about walking by the water of the New York Harbor that’s incredibly soothing. Even my earlier feeling of being followed subsides.

  Almost, that is.

  I leisurely walk on the promenade to the marina.

  As usual, New Jersey is lit up on the other side of the shore, as is the Statue of Liberty in the harbor. The promenade is fairly crowded, but when I get to the marina (i.e. sneak in/trespass), there’s no one around.

  Stopping next to a multimillion-dollar yacht, I park my butt on the pier and swing my legs over the water. Taking out the magic book, I resume reading it by the light of the antique-looking lamppost.

  The book catalogues many interesting methods for Russian Roulette. Some involve a trick gun, some use trick bullets, and others rely on sleight of hand when it comes to inserting a real bullet into a real gun—which is what I considered doing when I fantasized about performing this illusion.

  A deep sense of foreboding suddenly overcomes me.

  Did I just subconsciously picture myself making a mistake and blowing my brains out during a performance?

  My subconscious must’ve forgotten that my TV career ambitions are over. And even if Ariel let me do it, I wouldn’t risk my life over an effect just to entertain my roommates.

  Well, at least I don’t think I would. Maybe on Felix’s birthday—

  The lamplight behind me dims.

  I’m about to turn to look at it when something inexplicable happens.

  One moment, I’m sitting on the pier, and the next, I’m plummeting into the water.

  My head slams into something metallic, and the world goes fuzzy.

  Chapter Five

  My feet hit the water first; then the rest of me sinks into the chilly depths.

  The shock of the cold water clears my daze enough for me to remember to hold my breath.

  For many years now, I’ve practiced holding my breath for an underwater escape I might do one day. All that practice probably saves my life as I keep holding my breath and swim up.

  Just like I’ve done during my practice, I begin counting Mississippis in my head—my record thus far is seventy-eight.

  Was I just pushed, or did I slip? And if I was pushed, who did it?

  If someone’s after me, it might be dangerous for me to resurface.

  Then again, given what I’ve read about the experience of drowning, I might choose the ambiguous danger of whoever pushed me over that infamous agony.

  Fifteen seconds.

  People have an instinct not to breathe under water—an instinct so strong it can overcome the fear of running out of oxygen. At least until the breaking point when too much carbon dioxide and too little oxygen forces the brain to optimistically take that fatal breath. And the horrific truth about drowning is that you’re likely to be conscious when that involuntary breath occurs.

  Opening my eyes, I swim under the water, trying not to be seen from the pier and not to think about all the dirt, used condoms, animal and human waste, potential flesh-eating bacteria/amoebae, and whatever toxic chemicals rain might bring.

  My head is throbbing where I hit it on the way down, the pain messing with my already-compromised concentration.

  Twenty-five Mississippis.

  I’m not sure how much I can trust my senses in this situation, but I could swear a large silhouette is blocking the light from the lamppost. The figure looks huge—must be the water distorting it.

  I strain my eyes for a couple of seconds.

  The desire to inhale becomes my whole world. Somehow, it’s a hundred times more distressing than during my water-escape practice sessions—probably thanks to adrenaline. Paradoxically, my lungs feel like they’ll burst from lack of air. This has never happened in my practice sessions.

  The panic makes my decision for me.

  I’m going to pretend there’s no one on the pier.

  Desperately, I look for the stairs on the side of the pier.

  I’m now at forty Mississippis, though it’s feasible that the panic messed up my count.

  As my hand touches the metal of the staircase, I realize I’ve made a grave error.

  I’ve failed to account for the effects of adrenaline, and my body has just reached that breaking point.

  Against my will, I suck in a breath.

  Water rushes into my mouth and nose, then floods my lungs.

  It feels like I just inhaled melted iron.

  A yellowish-black hue overtakes my vision.

  Everything in me wants to flail, but I manage to spasmodically clasp the metal stair and begin to pull myself up.

  A volcano is exploding in my air passage.

  I lose track of time as I pull myself up one step, then another.

  The agony reminds me of the Rite. Whoever thinks waterboarding isn’t torture needs to inhale some water like this. I’d tell anyone anything to make this stop.

  With a monumental effort of will, I pull myself up another rung, and chilly evening air hits my face.

  Half the harbor water seems to be in my lungs at this point. With a new wave of excruciating p
ain, I cough and heave, and water spews from my nose and mouth.

  The convulsions nearly make me let go of the ladder, but I clutch at it as though my life depends on it—which it probably does.

  If I survive this, there will never, ever be an underwater escape in my career (assuming I get said career back, that is). I probably won’t even go swimming again. In fact, I, like Lucifur, might want to forgo bathing altogether.

  I somehow scale another rung of the ladder.

  My brain must be overloaded with the pain because I don’t remember climbing the next couple of steps.

  In slow motion, as though I’m still underwater, I crawl onto the pier and promptly black out.

  I wake with a gasp and hurl myself into a seated position.

  There’s no figure on the pier.

  I’m here alone.

  My chest feels like it was stomped on by an elephant—which doesn’t make sense, unless on top of nearly drowning, I’m also having a heart attack.

  Taking a few painful but rejuvenating breaths, I slowly get to my feet.

  My head is throbbing and my ribcage feels sore, but my heart is beating steadily. However, I’m so cold that if my teeth had teeth, even they would chatter.

  On legs that feel like burned matches, I stumble out of the marina, ignoring the looks from the people strolling on the promenade.

  Without making a conscious decision, I start to run.

  I bet running wouldn’t be recommended by a doctor after my ordeal, but it warms me up and clears some of the wool from my mind.

  Why didn’t I have a helpful dream forewarning me about this near-drowning? Did the Rite take away my powers? I thought the Mandate was a means to keep the Cognizant quiet about our existence, but maybe something went awry in my case?

  More importantly, did someone push me into the water, or did I fall in of my own volition? The latter seems unlikely, but if someone is out to get me, where are they and why didn’t they finish me off when I was unconscious?

  Not that I mind being left alive. If my would-be murderer had second thoughts, I’m quite okay with that.

  At this pace, I reach my building in just a few minutes. As I get into the elevator, I thank my lucky stars no neighbors are around to see me.

  In the reflective surface of the elevator car, I look like a mix between a wet kitten, a used mop, and the winner of a wet T-shirt contest.

  Ariel greets me in the hallway when I open the door.

  “Wow.” She looks at me, then at the window. “I didn’t realize it was raining.”

  “It wasn’t raining,” I say, and I must sound as miserable as I feel because I can almost see the gears turn inside Ariel’s brain as she launches into what Felix and I affectionately call her “mother hen mode.”

  “Let’s get these wet clothes off you, and you tell me what happened,” Ariel says in the strict-yet-caring voice that indicates full activation of the mode.

  I start my explanation as I head to the bathroom and start stripping.

  Putting on her future-doctor hat, Ariel carefully examines my skull and ribs, shaking her head the entire time. In the mirror, I see bruising on my chest. The welt on my head isn’t visible, but I can feel the bump when I touch it, and so can Ariel.

  “This is not good,” she mutters, turning on the shower as I brush my teeth to get rid of the foul water taste. Spitting out the toothpaste, I continue telling Ariel about the feeling of paranoia that preceded the near-drowning.

  “Go in.” Ariel opens the steamy shower door and ushers me under the spray.

  At first, the water feels scalding, but I quickly adjust to it and regain the feeling in my toes. I scrub everything to the point of soreness, and by the time I come out, I’m all pink and red. As I towel off, Ariel takes my vitals, stuffs me into her fleece robe, and drags me into the kitchen.

  “This is really strange.” She places an icepack into my left hand and shows me where to hold it to my head. “The way your ribs are bruised—I’ve seen that before. The first time I gave CPR in the army, I left marks just like that, because I didn’t know what I was doing and pushed on the victim’s chest too hard.”

  “CPR?” I suppress images of some creepy stranger putting his mouth on mine. “I’m pretty sure I was breathing when I got myself out.”

  “Whoever performed it on you is clearly not savvy when it comes to first aid.” Ariel thrusts a cup of nearly boiling tea into my right hand.

  “But why wasn’t he or she there after I came to my senses?” I blow on the tea to cool it down. “And why not call 911?”

  “Maybe it was the person who pushed you. You said you saw someone through the water, and there was no one there once you woke up.”

  I frown and carefully sip my tea. “That makes no sense. Why try to kill me, but then save me?”

  “Maybe the goal was to scare you?”

  “But why?” I take another sip of the tea. It’s chamomile with honey, I dimly realize. “Usually when you scare someone, you tell them why. Like, ‘don’t talk to the cops or else.’”

  “I agree.” Ariel plops into the chair next to mine. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “Speaking of cops.” I readjust my icepack. “Should I report this?”

  Ariel drums her fingers on the table, her beautiful face set in worried lines. “I doubt there’s much they’d be able to do for you, assuming they believe you. Plus, if this has something to do with you being Cognizant, you might also get in trouble with the Council.”

  Great. That’s all I need. “Are there some Cognizant police I can talk to?”

  “Vlad and his people are kind of it,” Ariel says. “I suppose you can go to him, but maybe start with your Mentor. That’s what Vlad would probably tell you to do.”

  “Nero?” I put down the cup and massage the bridge of my nose. “Do I have to? He’s really not my favorite person right now.”

  “Why? What did he do?”

  “Nothing really.” I grab the tea again and take an angry sip that burns the roof of my mouth. “He just made me do my job a lot more vigorously than usual. I suppose that’s not exactly a crime against humanity.”

  Ariel raises her eyebrows. “Really? That’s all?”

  Figures. Ariel somehow sniffed out that I have a secret concerning Nero. I haven’t told her about the kiss business, and now is not a good time to explain. In fact, I’m not sure there will ever be a good time to—

  “Do you think Chester could be behind this?” Ariel asks. “He lost his Council seat because of you, so maybe that was his revenge?”

  This is something I’ve already briefly considered, but I’m glad Ariel is the one bringing it up. “Do you think he’d do something like that? Gaius said I should be safe from him now that I’m under the Mandate.”

  “I don’t know Chester personally, so I can’t say either way, but who else has a grudge against you?”

  I mull that over. “You know, if it was Chester, that might explain the strange CPR.” I move the icepack from my head to my aching ribcage. “If Chester had killed me, he would’ve been in trouble with the Council, but as is, I just took a horrible dunking and he’s safe from any consequences—unless I can prove he’s the one who pushed me in.”

  “If that’s the case, you have to talk to Nero and tell him you suspect Chester, regardless of how you feel about your Mentor at the moment.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I say and loudly yawn.

  “In any case, for the foreseeable future, you’re not going anywhere without me.” Ariel massages her right fist with her left palm.

  “That’s crazy. I have to work, and you have your med school stuff.”

  “Then stop staying late at the fund and—”

  “Get fired,” I butt in. “No. That’s not the solution, but I do have an idea you’ll like.”

  Ariel crosses her arms. “What?”

  “How about I arm myself?”

  “You would carry a gun?” She uncrosses her arms and looks so excited y
ou’d think I just volunteered to give her foot rubs for a year instead of getting a device that can blow off my toes.

  “It sure beats having to drag you around,” I say. “No offense.”

  “I’ll call my guy,” Ariel says, with that same inappropriate enthusiasm. “Do you know what kind of piece you want?”

  “I was thinking a revolver,” I say, remembering the now-drowned magic book. “Unless you suggest otherwise.”

  “I myself prefer a semi, but a revolver might actually have merit for you. For one thing, if you drop your gun on the floor, a revolver is less likely to accidentally fire.”

  “I hope I don’t drop my imaginary gun at all. But good to know.”

  “The revolver also doesn’t have safety.” Ariel rubs her chin with her thumb and index fingers.

  “Is that good or bad?” I finish my tea in one large gulp.

  “If you’re in a gunfight, with all that adrenaline, you could forget to take the safety off. That happens more than you’d think. Plus, a revolver is less likely to jam.”

  “Great.” I hand her back the icepack. “Why does anyone get anything but revolvers?”

  “There are a number of reasons the armed forces and the police don’t use them.” Ariel walks over and puts the icepack back in the freezer. “For example, a revolver has noticeably fewer rounds.”

  “That might not be that big of a deal for me. If something does go down, I don’t expect to have to shoot more than a couple of bullets anyway,” I say. “At least, I hope I won’t have to.”

  “If we’re going to rely on hope, then let’s get you a gun and hope you don’t need it,” Ariel says in her wise-veteran tone. “It’s better than needing it and not having it.”

  “Agreed,” I say through another yawn.

  “I’ll also take you to the shooting range this weekend.” Ariel makes her voice stern. “No more excuses.”

  “Fine.” I yawn again. “We’re going clubbing and shooting. Are you trying to turn me into you?”

  “That’s like a third yawn,” she says and yawns too. I must be contagious. “Go to bed,” she says in that same strict tone. “Now.”