Misfortune Teller

by Dima Zales

  “No problem.” Felix jumps to his feet and extends a hand to help Maya get up from the couch.

  She blushes, but takes his hand and gets up exaggeratingly slowly.

  I put Fluffster on the couch and stand up to walk them to the door.

  “Be back soon,” Felix says, putting on his sneakers.

  “I won’t be here anyway.” I wink at Maya when Felix isn’t looking. “Got to work.”

  Maya gives me a shy smile and exits the apartment with Felix.

  “Are you crazy?” Ariel exclaims as soon as the door closes behind them. “Do you want him to go to jail?”

  “She’s ‘turning eighteen in a few months.’” I make my voice as high-pitched as Maya’s.

  “So she says.” Ariel locks the door. “Felix better check her ID.”

  “Nothing is going to happen between them anyway,” I say and head into the kitchen. When Ariel joins me, I add, “He’s loyal to that imaginary girl he mentioned before. You know—his potential Netflix-and-chill date.”

  “What do you know, Felix is popular. Maybe he’ll finally lose his virginity.” She chuckles. “Did the date happen already?”

  Felix’s possible virginity is one of Ariel’s favorite jokes. Unfortunately, said jokes often end with a solution that also fixes my long abstinence, so I’m not a big fan.

  “I have no clue,” I say, opening the freezer and pretending not to hear the v-word. “I hoped you might.”

  “No.” She looks embarrassed. “I got home about an hour ago.”

  “When you and Gaius party, you really party.” I examine the contents of the freezer carefully and settle on frozen peas.

  “What’s that for?” Ariel narrows her eyes at my makeshift cold compress. “Did something happen?”

  I tug my shirt sideways and show her my bruised shoulder.

  “Who did this?” she demands, and I have a sneaking suspicion she’d rip off a part of the big orc’s anatomy if he were here to take credit for his handiwork.

  “I’ll have to tell you on my way to the office,” I say, gingerly poking at the bruise.

  The shoulder is tender, but not as bad as Ariel’s reaction would imply.

  Boy, is that medicine strong.

  “Let me see it,” she says and examines my shoulder carefully. “It seems to just be a bruise,” she admits grudgingly when done. “Cold therapy is a great idea.”

  I place the peas on the table and cover myself up again. Applying the frozen pack through my clothes, I start for the door and say, “Ready?”

  Ariel looks down at her casual outfit, nods, and pulls on her old Uggs to complete the ensemble.

  On the way down, I tell her about my encounter with the werewolf bullies and the orc mugging.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says as the cab pulls up to the curb. “I’m so very sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I say as we get into the car. “You got me the gun. It’s my own fault it was empty by the time I got mugged.”

  “If I’d come home at a reasonable hour, I would’ve escorted you to Orientation.” She slams the door so hard the paint chips from the car and the driver gives her a glare in the rearview mirror. “How could I have been so selfish?”

  “You can’t be my chaperone twenty-four-seven.” I apply the peas to my shoulder again. “Now spill it. What were you and Gaius doing all this time?”

  “Nothing.” She develops a sudden interest in the floor of the cab. “We’re just friends—”

  My phone rings.

  It’s a video conference from Nero.

  “Miss me already?” I say as I accept the call.

  “I expected you’d be in the office by now,” Nero says, his gaze taking in my surroundings. “Tell me that’s a cab on the way to the office.”

  “It’s a cab,” I confirm. “I’m almost there.”

  “What is that?” He looks at the peas in my hand.

  “Long story. Suffice it to say, I’m going to work even though I got injured. Remember that come bonus time.”

  “What happened?” he almost growls.

  I look at the driver in front of us and decide not to risk the Mandate pain that would ensue if I spoke about secret things like orcs in front of a human.

  “I got mugged,” I say. “But it all worked out. Just cost me a few hundred bucks.”

  “I will remember.” His already-stormy gaze upgrades to a Category Five hurricane. “When it comes to rewards, I always make sure justice is served.”

  On that cryptic note, he hangs up.

  I look at Ariel with confusion, but she just smiles lasciviously. In an exaggeratedly sexy tone, she mouths, “You will get your rewards.”

  “That’s not what he said.” I contemplate throwing the peas at her head, but my phone saves her by pinging loudly.

  It’s a notification from my bank app. Opening it, I stare at the transaction in question.

  “Nero just gave me a hundred thousand dollars,” I say numbly. “For no reason.”

  Ariel gapes at me, then leans in. “Could it be an indecent proposal?” she whispers conspiratorially. “Doesn’t he realize he can get the goods for free?”

  I again debate throwing the peas at her, but my phone pings again.

  This time, it’s an email from Nero outlining what he needs me to do today. To my shock, it’s prefaced with, “If you’re not feeling well, I can manage without you.”

  Given the unexpected bonus he just gave me, and especially that preface—the nicest thing Nero has ever written or said to me—I decide to be a good corporate citizen and tough it out.

  Once I examine the workload, though, my enthusiasm noticeably wanes. Nero needs me to prepare a presentation for prospective investors about six of the stocks I recommended earlier, complete with a full financial projections model for each. This is a solid three days of work if I do it at a leisurely pace, but he needs it done by Monday evening.

  There’s no way I can cheat by going on instinct here; I have to actually put in the hours.

  “We’re here,” Ariel says, bringing me out of my work-inspired gloom.

  We’re already next to my building, so I reach for the door.

  “Call me when you’re done,” Ariel says. “I’ll come pick you up.”

  “I’m pulling an all-nighter.” I get out of the car. “I’ll be lucky if I get home Monday night.”

  Ariel frowns, but I shut the cab door before she can say anything.

  Spreadsheets and EBITDA ratios swirling in my head, I make my way to my desk.

  The peas are no longer cold when I get there, so I toss them aside and use the little mirror attached to one of my monitors to have a look at my bruise.

  A hundred shades of red, purple, black, and blue, the thing looks so angry I’m lucky all I feel is a dull ache.

  Covering myself up, I look around furtively. The office around me is empty, but there are persistent rumors about hidden cameras in every nook and cranny of this building—video feeds that Nero allegedly watches personally. I’ve always thought these stories were huge exaggerations or flat-out lies, in part because some are plain ridiculous, like the one about an underground bunker full of gold that Nero actually swims in, like Scrooge McDuck. Then again, the fund is heavily invested in gold, so who knows?

  Without further ado, I power up my computer and get to work.

  When I get hungry, I order two burritos, one for right now and one for the middle of the night when the place will not be delivering.

  After I eat, I power through one full financial model, toggles, assumptions, and all, before I allow myself the luxury of a glass of water.

  By three a.m., I make enough progress on the second model to reward myself with the second dinner and a couple of cups of espresso.

  By sunrise, I’m so tired I’m starting to forget all the Excel shortcuts, and would pay a hundred thousand dollars for a nap in my bed.

  When people begin trickling in for their usual Monday start, I take a break and get myself some oa
tmeal in the cafeteria.

  Eating it as I walk back, I realize how lucky I am that I went to the club and then slept so late the day before. If it weren’t for my outing, I’d probably feel much worse than I already do—and I feel like a squeezed lemon that was then put through the blender.

  At eleven, I hear a text notification on my phone.

  It’s from Dad.

  Looking forward to lunch.

  Oh, no, that’s today.

  I strongly debate flaking on him, and if I hadn’t avoided him all this time, I probably would. As is, I decide to stick with the lunch but bail as quickly as socially acceptable.

  Since the sushi place is walkable, I set my phone to remind me to leave at 12:15 and email myself some quarterly reports I can read on the way.

  Then I get back to work.

  The alarm rings, yanking me out of my Excel-induced stupor. Rubbing my bleary eyes, I realize I’ve actually accomplished a lot in the past hour and fifteen minutes.

  Given my progress, I might allow myself a slightly longer lunch.

  My nose is in my phone all the way to the restaurant as I look up the information I need for the next model. Surprisingly, I don’t bump into too many people.

  Dad is waiting outside the restaurant.

  He has no aura.

  I don’t know if I should be disappointed or relieved.

  Tall and dressed in a bespoke suit, my dad looks great for a seventy-seven-year-old and can probably pass for someone ten years younger. Then again, his “youthful” looks aren’t how he ended up married to Wife 2.0, who’s in her forties. Dad owns a very successful tech company that makes 3D printers, and Mom’s replacement is probably a gold digger—though truth be told, his money might’ve been why Mom married him as well.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he says with his signature Boston accent. “So glad you could make it.”

  “Hi, Dad,” I say, feeling a pang of guilt. “It’s good to see you.”

  He beams at me and opens the restaurant door with a butler-like gesture.

  I pocket my phone and walk in.

  Maybe I should’ve made up with him sooner. I feel lighter on my feet, and my earlier weariness seems to have subsided. And—though this might be pure placebo—even my bruised shoulder doesn’t bother me as much.

  “Hello, dear,” Dad says flirtatiously to the beautiful hostess. “My daughter and I have a reservation under Braxton Urban.”

  And just like that, I’m back to Earth, all lightness gone. Did Dad just highlight to the hostess that he’s with his daughter so that she knows he isn’t with a date? Then I notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring either—though for all I know, he and Wife 2.0 could’ve split by now.

  Either way, that’s Dad for you, always flirting with anything that moves.

  “Kiddo?” he says, and I look at him sullenly, feeling like a teenager all over again.

  “Let’s get a seat,” I say, and follow him and the hostess.

  The hostess swings her hips like a pendulum as she walks, and, of course, Dad is staring at the view, hypnotized.

  She hands us the menus, and I stick my nose into mine, determined to take a few breaths so I don’t say something I will later regret.

  “The king salmon sashimi is fabulous,” says the brightly dressed waiter who appears out of nowhere, like a ninja.

  I look up at him and nod. “I’ll try that.”

  What I don’t add is that I’m going to tip him extra for being a guy, and thus sparing me from having to watch Dad flirt with yet another female.

  “I’ll get an order of that as well,” Dad says. “I’ll also have the live scallops and a mango avocado roll.”

  “Add those to my order as well,” I say and smile at Dad.

  He was the one who introduced me to Japanese cuisine early on, and since Mom refused to even consider it, sushi was something we’ve always done as a father-daughter activity. Over time, we’ve even developed a taste for similar entrees.

  “I have a weird question,” I say when the waiter leaves. “Do you have any Russian blood in your background?”

  Dad takes a napkin and meticulously places it on his lap. “Not that I can think of. Why?”

  “No reason,” I lie. “Just making conversation.”

  He shrugs. “I’m an American mutt—part German, which is where our last name is from, but also part French and Irish, with a smidge of Italian.”

  “I think I might be Russian,” I blurt out. “Biologically, I mean.”

  The waiter comes back and places two green teas and two miso soups on the table.

  “It’s possible,” Dad says thoughtfully. “Though when we found you, we did reach out to the Russian embassy, and they had no record of you.”

  Unlike Mom, Dad doesn’t feel threatened when I discuss the topic of my biological parents—something I’ve always been grateful for.

  “Did I have any pets growing up?” I ask, continuing my interrogation. “I don’t recall any, but—”

  “We didn’t have animals.” Dad picks up his soup and cradles it in his palms, as though warming them. “Your mother…”

  “What about you?” I take a sip of my green tea—it’s excellent here. “Did your family have pets growing up?”

  “No. Your grandpa had severe allergies.” He sips the soup straight from the bowl, in the traditional Japanese style. “I did once have an aquarium, though.”

  Could Fluffster have embodied a fish? Doesn’t seem likely, plus Dad not being Russian is extra evidence that I didn’t get Fluffster from his side of the family—something I already suspected but am glad to verify before seeing Baba Yaga.

  I sit up straighter and almost hit myself on the forehead.

  This lunch is not the only Monday commitment I nearly forgot. I also have a meeting with Baba Yaga tonight at eleven.

  How am I going to be awake for that after the all-nighter? What if—

  “Are you okay?” Dad asks, frowning. “You look burned out.”

  “I had to work all night.” Since I’m not as hardcore as Dad, I pick up a spoon for my soup. “A big fire drill at work.”

  “They better appreciate you over there.” He puts down his bowl. “You know you can come work for me any time, right?”

  “I do now,” I say, smiling gratefully.

  He nods and finishes the rest of his soup.

  I definitely didn’t know I could come work for him, and the offer fills me with more warmth than my soup and tea combined. I’d never take him up on it, of course, but I’m still grateful. I want to feel like I earn my money, plus his company relocated to San Fran and I love living in New York too much.

  Our sushi arrives and we attack it with gusto, discussing his business—which is booming.

  “I saw your TV performance.” He gesticulates excitedly with his chopsticks. “I was so proud.”

  “Not sure if that’s ever happening again,” I say, my appetite disappearing.

  “You talking about that nonsense on YouTube?” He delivers a piece of raw salmon into his mouth.

  I nod. I can’t tell him the truth—that a secret society of supernatural beings forbade me from going on TV or in general practicing my magic in front of humans like him.

  “Don’t let them get to you,” he says. “Haters gonna hate.”

  The combination of those words with his accent makes me snort, but my levity is cut short when I notice another patron of the restaurant.

  It’s Beverly, one of Mom’s most gossipy friends.

  I instantly look away.

  Did she see me? I sure hope not. It’s not like I’m ashamed of reconnecting with Dad; it’s just that Mom would be happier if she didn’t know about it.

  “Do you have to head back to the office?” Dad asks, misinterpreting my worried expression.

  “Yes,” I say, and it’s not a lie. I still have a ton to do.

  “Go.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I’ll take care of the bill.”

  Usually, I’d fight him on this,
but these are special circumstances, so I say, “Thank you so much, Dad. Next one is on me.”

  He grins at me, clearly happy to hear there will be a next time.

  “It was great catching up.” He gets his wallet out and gestures at the waiter to stop by.

  “It was.” I jump to my feet, making my chair creak. “Call me when you’re here next. We’ll set something up.”

  I start to make my escape when a hand touches my injured shoulder.

  “Watch it,” I say, wincing.

  Of course, the hand belongs to Beverly. I lost sight of the little tattletale for a moment, and now she’s standing next to me, saying, “What’s wrong, Sasha?” With a deep frown and a crinkle of her corn-kernel nose, she adds, “Greetings, Baxter.”

  “I was just leaving,” I say and remove the hand from my shoulder. I might’ve used too much force, because Beverly rubs her wrist afterward.

  “You guys catch up,” I tell them, and leaving both Dad and Beverly shocked at such an abominable suggestion, I sprint out of the restaurant and dial Mom.

  I want to verify her heritage, just in case, and I want to do it now. Once Beverly drops the bomb about this lunch, Mom might be harder to interrogate.

  She picks up on the third ring.

  “Hi, sweetie,” she says over some noise in the background. “I don’t have much time to talk.”

  “Do you have any Russian roots?” I blurt out. “Felix, my roommate, is from the former Soviet—”

  “No, darling,” Mom says hurriedly. “My family has roots in the British royalty. I must’ve told you that.”

  Come to think of it, she has told me that, but I tend to not register a lot of the stuff she says. Otherwise, my brain would be a garbage dump of Mom minutia.

  “Did you have any pets growing up?”

  “Granny had a parakeet,” she says. “What is this about? Are you on drugs?”

  “I’m not on drugs,” I say, trying not to sound exasperated. Then a mischievous idea enters my head, and I add, “There’s actually something important I wanted to tell you.”

  “What is it?” she asks eagerly. She has a nose for gossip.

  “I had lunch—” Instead of continuing to speak, I hiss into the phone, then press the mute button for a second, then unmute, say “sushi,” then hiss and mute again. Unmuting once more, I say, “Mom, I think you’re breaking up.”