Misfortune Teller

by Dima Zales

  Now if Mom asks me why I had lunch with Dad and didn’t tell her, I can claim that I did tell her—and that maybe she didn’t hear me because she needs a new phone.

  “I better go anyway,” she says. “I’m on a tour in Paris. Why don’t we catch up later?”

  “Okay, sounds good. Glad how cool you are with this news,” I say and hang up before she can question me further.

  I walk in silence for a few heartbeats, thinking. I can now be almost certain Fluffster is my connection to my biological parents. The other option is that he was either a fish or a parakeet in one of two non-Russian families who are not even Cognizant—or, in other words, unlikely.

  Now I need to get all my work done, so I can actually make it to my evening appointment with Baba Yaga—my only remaining resource.

  Taking a deep breath, I pull up the quarterly reports I prepared earlier and read them on my phone for the rest of the way to my desk.

  By three p.m., I make a huge progress in my workload, but the usual slump that comes at this time of the day is a crushing weight that threatens to make me fall asleep sitting up.

  Mainlining coffee, I fight to keep my eyes open as I work on the last model.

  It’s 8:23 p.m. when I finally finish everything.

  No wonder sleep deprivation is used as torture. I feel ready to spill all my best magic secrets to get some shuteye.

  Blinking blearily, I type everything up and preface it with, “I’m beat. If I don’t hear back from you in five minutes, I’m going to go home and crash.”

  I send the email to Nero and place my head on my desk. If I’m going to wait, I might as well close my poor eyes.

  The surface of the desk feels like a pillow under my cheek, and, without meaning to, I doze off.

  I’m a disembodied consciousness floating in a back alley.

  It takes me a moment to recognize this particular filthy little corner of the city. This place is where the giant garbage dumpsters for my work building live, but people gather here to sneak a smoke without being judged—especially if they’re smoking pot. I guess when you’re smoking, the stench of garbage doesn’t bother you as much.

  There are four figures standing in a row. The street is wide enough for a garbage truck to back into, yet these four are so big they almost take up the whole width of the street.

  I know this group.

  It’s the orcs who tried to kill me.

  The rightmost is the one who wore the construction hat when I nearly got killed by falling objects. Next to him is the female orc who almost turned me into a pancake with her car right after the construction accident. The dog walker orc is next to the female, and after her is the biggest orc who pretended to be a mugger earlier today and left the bruise on my shoulder.

  “It’s 8:45,” says the mugger orc in a voice that would give me shivers if I had a body. “Where is he?”

  “Yeah,” the female says, her voice nearly as deep. “And where is Bogof?”

  “Bogof is always late,” says the dog walker orc, and I realize that scary voices are something all orcs share. “We can do our business without him.”

  Who is this “he” the mugger mentioned, and for that matter, who is Bogof? Is it safe to assume that Bogof is the name of another orc and not the abbreviation for the “buy one, get one free” sales tactic?

  More importantly, what are these four waiting for? Are they about to mug someone who isn’t me for a change?

  The orcs look to the entrance of the alley.

  Instead of another orc—assuming Bogof is an orc—the newcomer is very familiar.

  It’s Nero, and he’s walking right into the gaggle of orcs, as though he doesn’t see them.

  What’s worse, another orc (probably the aforementioned Bogof) is tailing Nero in the distance—and my boss doesn’t seem aware of that either.

  “No,” I want to scream at Nero, but I don’t have a mouth. “Don’t go there. It’s a trap.”

  Nero keeps walking.

  The orcs form a semi-circle and menacingly head toward him.

  Chapter Twenty

  I open my eyes.

  My head is still on my desk, but the adrenaline coursing through my system forces me to jump to my feet.

  It’s 8:38 p.m. according to my phone.

  I frantically dial Nero, but my call goes straight into voicemail.

  Crap.

  Was that back-alley scenario a new dream vision?

  It sure felt like the ones I’d had a few days ago.

  Assuming that it was a vision, was it about something that’s going to happen today? Because if it is a prophecy for today, Nero is in trouble pretty much right now.

  Without further deliberation, I grab my gun bag and run for the elevator, looking for allies as I go.

  Most of my coworkers already left for the day, and the few analysts still working look like wimps.

  If only I could find one of the building security guys.

  Then I realize I don’t have time to convince people to join me. In fact, I’ll be lucky to make it down to the alley if I run all the way there.

  The elevator arrives blissfully quickly, and I hit the “P” button—the fastest way to get to my destination.

  My heart is jackhammering in my chest when I reach the nearly empty parking garage.

  As I run through it, I reach into my bag and extract the gun with sweaty fingers.

  There are six bullets in this gun. There are five orcs. My chances are not good. Every one of my bullets would have to hit an orc, ideally in the head—a wildly ambitious goal, given my marksmanship at the shooting range.

  A cowardly thought keeps swirling in my head. Why am I willing to put my life in danger for Nero?

  If I just wanted to be a Good Samaritan, I could’ve called 911, told them a story that doesn’t involve visions and orcs, and then crossed my fingers. I’ve already tried to reach Nero on the phone, so my conscience would’ve been clear.

  Then again, the call went into voicemail, and I know the cops wouldn’t have made it in time. So another way of asking this cowardly question is: am I willing to let Nero die?

  For some reason, everything in me shouts a resounding, “No.”

  I don’t understand that about myself. Am I doing this because he was nice to me for a second last night? Or does this have something to do with that whole debacle when I had some intrusive thoughts about him with a vibrator on my lady bits?

  If I survive this (which sadly seems unlikely), I’ll need to figure out if I have some kind of feelings toward Nero—other than the normal annoyance, that is.

  No, that’s preposterous. I’m just saving him because that’s the right thing to do. The brave thing to do. Isn’t this what being brave is all about—doing something you know is crazy?

  Zooming out of the parking lot, I turn the corner.

  I’m yards away from the back alley now, and if I were going to chicken out, now would be the time.

  Gulping down a big breath, I tighten my grip on the gun and dash for the corner.

  As I round it, it takes me but the briefest glance to verify that my dream was indeed a vision.

  Nero is already here. Already surrounded by the orcs—just like in my dream.

  The other orc—Bogof—is also here, right in front of me. I think his plan is to jump Nero from behind.

  “Now or never,” I think to myself and raise my gun.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The gun is heavy in my hand, making me painfully aware of my bruised shoulder. Gritting my teeth, I ignore the pain and step toward Bogof’s enormous back.

  Pressing the barrel against the mountain of flesh, I hiss, “If you move another inch or make a peep, you die.”

  Bogof freezes in place.

  I drag the barrel across his back to press it to his head—though I’m forced to rise on tiptoes to actually reach it. Channeling Clint Eastwood, I whisper, “That’s a .44 Magnum, punk.”

  The orc raises his bulging arms above his head. “
I should’ve just let you drown,” he snarls under his breath.

  Did he just say what I think he said? All this adrenaline is making it hard to focus, but I think Bogof just admitted to giving me the inexplicable CPR—and likely also pushing me into the water in the first place.

  That huge back does look awfully familiar.

  In front of us, the other four orcs are within an arm’s length of Nero.

  Nero’s face isn’t visible from my vantage point, but he doesn’t seem tense enough for the situation. He just approaches the mugger orc—the largest of the five specimens in front of me—and for a moment, the two of them stand there, staring at each other with their chests sticking out, like roosters right before a brawl.

  I realize a big flaw in my whole rescue plan. If I shoot at any of the four orcs next to Nero, with my aim, I’m just as likely to hit him instead of them.

  Well, at least I’ve got Bogof under control. Plus, I can shoot in the air and try to scare them off; they don’t know how bad of a shot I am.

  “You weren’t supposed to harm her,” Nero growls at the mugger orc, startling me so much I nearly drop the gun. His vicious tone raises gooseflesh on the back of my neck, and it takes me a moment to register what he’s actually saying.

  The gun feels like it’s gaining a pound with each moment. Who is this “her” Nero’s referring to? It can’t possibly be—

  The mugger’s shoulders stoop. “I—”

  “You gave her a bruise, you fucking imbecile.” If nearby windows cracked at Nero’s guttural roar, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  Hand shaking, I try to make sense of what’s happening.

  My boss just mentioned a bruise.

  I have a bruise.

  Before I can further parse the significance of what Nero just roared, he does something.

  Something preternaturally fast.

  One second, the mugger-orc is growling some reply, the next, his head blows up into little pieces—blood and brain matter spraying the rest of the group like a broken fire hydrant.

  Nero moves again.

  Even with the blur of his speed, his arm looks wrong. It’s bigger than usual, and I spot a glimmer of something like claws or talons.

  Whatever Nero does, the result is that the rest of the mugger’s body rains on the ground as though someone detonated a bomb inside him.

  The dog walker orc’s giant hands ball into fists the size of my head. “He just did what you—”

  Nero blurs toward him, and the dog walker’s body explodes into small chunks of orc flesh and broken bone.

  I’m so shocked by the severity of this violence that I nearly unload my gun into Bogof—though what I really want to do is drop the gun and run.

  The computer that is my brain is crashing. A small voice of rationality reminds me about a factoid I completely forgot in my rush here.

  Everyone always walks on eggshells around Nero—and I’m now seeing why.

  The female orc shouts something, but her scream turns into a bloody gurgle as her head flies in one direction and her shredded body in the other.

  The construction site orc seems to be the smartest and tries to run toward me and Bogof.

  He doesn’t make it more than a yard before Nero catches him. My boss’s movements are still blurry, but the result is all too vivid—another orc turns into an orc kebab, gore spraying in every direction.

  Bogof is shaking.

  My own heart is in my throat.

  Still covered in orc blood and meat, Nero turns toward us—the savage expression in his blue-gray eyes not even remotely human.

  Bogof must realize that death by my bullet might be preferable to what Nero has in mind, so he turns.

  Frozen, I only have time to realize his green skin isn’t covered by makeup before he opens his mouth in front of my gun.

  There are significantly more than thirty-two teeth in his maw, plus tusks—something his stealthier kin must’ve filed down.

  For a second, it looks like he wants me to shoot him in the back of the throat, suicide style. Instead, he chomps down on the gun.

  The crunch of twisted metal on bone makes the fabled nails on the chalkboard sound heavenly in comparison.

  Unblinking, I process the impossible end result.

  Half of my gun is in Bogof’s mouth, and the other half remains in my sweat-slicked hand as the orc’s enormous arms start to close around me.

  I’m so shocked by the fact that orc jaws and teeth are strong enough to bite through steel that I finally squeeze the trigger.

  Nothing happens.

  Bogof spits out the chewed-up metal and leans in, bathing me with his putrid breath.

  I throw the remnants of my gun at his protruding forehead.

  Bogof doesn’t even blink. Instead, his giant arms complete the earlier hug-like motion, crushing me against his enormous body.

  Without giving me a chance to say goodbye to life, he reopens his maw above my head.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  This is it.

  If he can bite a gun in half, those teeth will tear through my skull like cotton candy.

  Only the orc doesn’t get a chance to close his mouth.

  His hands looking normal again, Nero grabs Bogof’s jaws in a maneuver applied to crocodiles in cartoons, and—with barely any strain—rips the orc’s mouth in half.

  Blood and brain matter splatter all over me.

  Still moving too fast for me to fully register, Nero does something else with his hands.

  Bogof’s huge arms fall on the ground around me with a loud splat.

  The orc spews gallons of blood from the empty sockets where his arms and head used to be, then falls to ground—where Nero’s kick breaks through his massive chest cavity and squishes the giant heart that was still beating there after all the abuse.

  My paralysis breaks and I back away, ignoring the blood covering my face and dripping into my eyes.

  “Are you okay?” Nero asks, his voice so unnaturally low it vibrates my internal organs.

  I wipe at my face with my sleeve—though I might as well try to clean a gun wound with a Q-tip. All I succeed in doing is smearing blood over my face.

  Continuing to back away, I stare at the carnage around us, as though the answer to Nero’s question might be divined by inspecting orc entrails.

  “Why are you here?” With a smooth motion that looks almost practiced, Nero wipes a thick layer of blood and gore from his face.

  Does he rip up orcs on a regular basis?

  I finally find my voice. “Why am I here? What about you? Why are you here?”

  Nero cocks his head and takes a step forward.

  I take another step back but slip on a bloody orc remnant. Frantically, I flail my arms, trying to keep my balance.

  Nero blurs into motion again, catching me before I can plop into the bloody muck around me.

  His arms are incredibly strong, his body warm as he holds me against his chest. My insides squeeze strangely, my heartbeat kicking up another notch as he carefully lowers me to my feet.

  “Are you okay?” he murmurs, looking down at me.

  My legs are unsteady, but I manage to push away from him and step onto a piece of pavement miraculously untainted by orc remains.

  To my relief, Nero doesn’t follow.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he says, his voice back to its normal deepness.

  “Uh-huh.” I look around me for another oasis, but I’m standing on the only piece of orc-free real estate.

  Gore or Nero? I don’t know what’s worse.

  “I’m not coming near you,” he says, correctly divining my dilemma. He reaches into his inner pocket with a blood-soaked hand.

  I’m not sure what I expected him to take out, but a phone was very low on that list.

  “One second,” he tells me.

  My eyes bulging from my head, I watch as Nero casually dials a number.

  “Yes. This is Nero. I need you now,” he says imperiously. “By the dumpsters nea
r my building. Five supersize orders. Platinum rate is fine.”

  I inhale the metallic-scented air and try to organize my thoughts.

  I can’t help but feel there’s something huge I’m supposed to be thinking about—something on the tip of my tongue.

  Something that would be obvious if I didn’t have adrenaline coursing like acid through my veins.

  Then it hits me.

  “He was going to say, ‘He just did what you told us to,’ wasn’t he?” I say, my voice barely louder than a whisper. “The dog walker orc.” I point at a mound of intermixed body parts. “It was me they weren’t supposed to harm, wasn’t it? I’m the one with the bruise that sent you into that… frenzy, am I not?”

  Nero frowns. “Sasha—”

  “Don’t you Sasha me.” My voice spikes before I recall that I’m yelling at the man who just recreated a scene from Texas Chainsaw Massacre with his bare hands. Taking a deep breath, I revert to a semi-calm tone. “Tell me you didn’t hire these orcs to come after me.”

  Nero remains silent.

  I ball my hands into fists. “Why?”

  I can almost see the gears in his manipulative mind turning.

  “Have you seen The Karate Kid?” He gently kicks aside a large chunk of Bogof, as though to create a cleaner path in case he wants to leap at me. “Or was it before your time?”

  “What?” I’m so flabbergasted I forget to be angry. Then I realize that might be his goal, so I narrow my eyes and cross my arms. “This better be leading to these orcs.”

  “In that movie,” Nero says as though he didn’t hear me, “a boy wanted to learn karate, and his master had him complete various chores that seemed to have nothing to do with fighting yet actually turned out to be teaching the movements of attack and defense—”

  “Wax on and wax off,” I say, my feeling of entering The Twilight Zone intensifying. “My roommate made me watch it. But I still don’t see what—”

  “I knew you were a seer as soon as I laid eyes on you,” Nero says, and as I reel in shock from that informational kick to the stomach, he continues. “I also knew you’d want to master your power, but that there would be a problem: your deep-rooted skepticism.”