Misfortune Teller

by Dima Zales

  I stare at him, my head threatening to explode like that of the hapless orcs.

  “So, I’ve been Mentoring you.” Nero kicks another orc chunk out of the way. “I gave you stocks to research, but less and less time to properly research them.” He folds his arms across his chest, mirroring my stance. “My goal was to have you rely on your seer power in order to keep up with my increasing demands—and you’ve done that beautifully.”

  “Wax on and wax off,” I mutter, beginning to understand.

  “Exactly,” Nero says. “Except the bigger picture never materialized. You never believed in yourself. Never accepted that you’re a seer. Instead, you attributed your financial successes to luck, your cleverness, and anything but what you needed to believe. Which is why your powers can only manifest when you’re asleep—when your ever-vigilant conscious mind is at rest.”

  My mouth is open so wide a trickle of orc blood gets in and causes me to gag. I spend a few seconds spitting viciously while Nero patiently waits.

  By the time I’m done nearly puking, his words register fully.

  Like some damn Peter Pan, I need to believe in my magic to be able to do it. Such self-delusion didn’t come to me naturally, so he tried to nudge me in the right direction by having me perform purely instinctive stock picking—the success of which I still attributed to luck, even after I found out I have seer powers.

  “You were frustrated you didn’t have day visions,” he says when I finally stop trying to get the taste of orc blood out of my mouth. “And you made it clear to me that stressful situations help you tap into your visions—dream ones at that point.”

  No.

  He can’t mean what I think he’s saying.

  The orcs were part of some insane training to get me to have day visions?

  He stares at me, his gaze unreadable.

  “Are you seriously calling those near-death experiences ‘stressful situations?’” The incredulity in my voice doesn’t do justice to the tornado of confusion inside my mind. “Do you know the definition of the word ‘understatement?’”

  “You were never in any danger.” He takes a step toward me.

  I back as far away as I can without leaving the clean spot. “I nearly drowned—”

  “Bogof was an excellent swimmer.” Nero glances at what’s left of the orc. “He would’ve saved you—if it were necessary, that is.”

  “A brick nearly caved my head in.” I realize I’m shouting.

  “Carefully aimed to land ten inches from you,” Nero retorts.

  “That car—”

  “I dropped twenty grand to customize that car.” Nero takes another small step toward me. “It would’ve swerved if you didn’t step away—which is something you need to ask yourself about. How did you know to jump away?”

  I ignore his question, even if it’s a damn good one. “What about the dog? Are you going to stand there and tell me it was a robot dog? Or did you have a bomb inside it that would’ve allowed you to blow it up if I was in danger?”

  “Max is a well-trained, flesh-and-blood dog and wouldn’t have hurt you even if you hurt him first.” If I didn’t know better, I’d think Nero looks offended—the nerve of that guy. “I wouldn’t kill a dog like that. What kind of a monster do you think—”

  My laughter is borderline hysterical. He is a monster, though I have no idea what kind. “The last guy had a gun to my head—”

  “It was empty.” Nero clears yet another piece of bloody orc debris from between us. “But, because you were not alone, the imbecile went off his script. I hope we agree that he and his kin have paid for it dearly.” He casually gestures around the carnage.

  I don’t look around lest I start gagging again. “I still could’ve died. I could’ve jumped under the brick instead of away from it, I could’ve jumped in the same direction as the car would’ve swerved, I—”

  “You were safe,” Nero says, his tone steely. “Darian owed me a favor, and I had him divine the outcome of this exercise.” His expression darkens. “He assured me you’d be fine.”

  I fight the urge to pick up a juicy chunk of orc meat and throw it at Nero’s head. “Even if this little story about Darian were true, his visions do not guarantee my safety.” Then some imp makes me add, “For example, did you know that your good friend Darian saw himself as my lover in the future?”

  Nero’s eyes glint readiness to shred something or someone else into bits.

  Is he jealous?

  And if so, do I actually care?

  “As you can guess,” I say as I make myself look around the bloodbath, “if Darian had anything to do with this, the rosy future he saw isn’t happening.”

  “That we can agree on.” Nero’s face looks nearly as terrifying as during the slaughter. “You and Darian are never going to happen.”

  The possessive note in his voice sends my simmering anger into boiling territory.

  “I had my own visions,” I tell him, my fists clenching. “As soon as you get the darn thing, it can change. The mere fact of him telling you that I’d be fine could’ve led to my death.”

  Nero’s face smooths out, returning back to its cool lack of expression. “With all his faults, Darian is much better at prophecy than you. He considers his own vision’s impact, and even the effect of visions by other seers. His life was on the line when I called in the favor, so he wouldn’t have gotten this wrong.” Nero sounds like he’s trying to convince us both.

  “Does this look fine to you?” I drag aside the collar of my shirt, flashing him my bruise.

  His eyes glint dangerously at the sight. Is he about to sprout those talons/claws again?

  Then it clicks. He already knew about my bruise—that’s what seems to have led to this massacre. I told him I was hurt on that video conference, but not the details, so the only way he would’ve known specifically about the bruise is if those rumors about cameras at the office (where I examined my shoulder) were true.

  I can’t get much angrier than I already am, though. A violation of privacy is nothing compared to what he’s already put me through.

  “Even if I wasn’t in danger—though I was—you had no right to do this to me,” I say, glaring at him.

  “As your employer, I had every right to give you work to do,” Nero says, taking a step toward me. “And as to the test of your mettle, that’s well within my rights as your Mentor.”

  “Is that so?” I’m so pissed now I actually advance toward him—and instantly step into a bloody puddle. The grossness of body parts squishing under my shoes sends bile surging up my throat, and before I can think better of it, I tell Nero, “In that case, I quit. I quit this job”—I stab my thumb at the hedge fund building behind me—“and I definitely quit you.”

  He closes the distance between us, his big body looming over me. “You don’t mean that,” he murmurs, and the intimate note in his voice further quickens my pulse.

  Battling to keep my breathing steady, I step back onto the bloodless oasis. “Oh, I mean it. I’ve never meant anything more in my life. Find yourself another seer to abuse.”

  “I don’t want another.” He steps up to the edge of my respite.

  “Your wants are not my problem.” I’ve never been this proud of saying something calmly.

  Did Nero just grow in size, or has he always occupied so much three-dimensional space? It’s as though a much bigger creature is trapped in a man’s body and is now threatening to rip its way out. “You’re making rash, emotional decisions right now,” he says, and though his tone is icy, his minty breath is warm on my face. “You will change your mind.”

  A roar of motors interrupts my blade-sharp retort—likely for the best.

  No matter how tempting, it’s not wise to antagonize this supernatural Jack the Ripper, or whatever Nero is.

  One of the arriving cars is a hearse, while the other looks like a cross between a food truck and one of those armored cars banks transport money in.

  The cars park on the edge of the go
re, and their doors open all at once.

  I’m not surprised to see Pada—the man who cleaned up a similar mess of zombie body parts for Vlad, as well as one very animated zombie for me.

  His guys look like younger versions of him, right down to black leather jackets and grumpy expressions on their faces.

  “Jik, grab the bone saw,” Pada yells at an Asian guy who looks to be the youngest of the bunch. “Wen, you’re working the pump today,” he yells at another guy, who looks vaguely Native American.

  The crew attack the mess with uncanny efficiency.

  “What about her?” Pada asks Nero, pointing at me as though I were a bloody carcass that falls under his purview.

  “She’s to be taken home,” Nero says. “Can you take her while your colleagues finish up here?”

  Pada grunts, reaches into the back of the hearse, and brings out a large red raincoat.

  “Put that on,” he says to me, his voice a little kinder than usual.

  Still at a loss for words but relieved at the prospect of going home, I put the hideous contraption on over my head, smearing blood everywhere.

  Pada reaches into the bigger car and comes back with a large white towel. Before I can protest, he dabs at my face with it. My eyes sting and the smell of something chemical makes me want to sneeze and retch at the same time—a dangerous combination.

  Is he trying to chloroform me?

  No.

  I’m still painfully conscious.

  When Pada finally takes away the towel, it looks like a tampon from a slasher flick.

  Opening the hearse door, he catches my gaze. “Please get inside.”

  I do as I’m told, cognizant of Nero’s eyes following me all the way from my spot to the car.

  “I meant it.” I turn back to look at Nero as I grab the door handle. “We’re done.”

  Nero starts to reply, and I take great pleasure in slamming the door before he can get any words out—not that anything he might say would change my mind.

  “Great idea,” Pada says when he gets inside and closes his own door. “Why not antagonize the devil while you’re at it?”

  “Are you sure Nero isn’t actually the devil?” I ask, only half-joking.

  “If I knew what he was, I don’t think I’d be among the living,” Pada whispers, as though Nero can hear us inside the car—and for all I know, he can.

  I don’t say anything else, so Pada starts the car and puts it in reverse.

  The hearse backs out of the alley, and after some initial struggles, Pada maneuvers it onto the street.

  “I never got a chance to ask you,” I say when we’re cruising down Broadway. “What kind of a Cognizant are you?”

  “An honest working one,” he says, his eyes still on the road.

  “Seriously?” I turn to him, my raincoat making rubbery rustling noises.

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say.” Pada signals a turn. “The myths about my kind are rather unflattering.”

  “I don’t really care about that.” I take off the raincoat hood, get a glare from Pada, and put it back on.

  “If you insist, I’ll give you some examples,” he says with an exasperated sigh. “Jik’s ancestor, for instance, went by the name of Jikininki in Japan.” He looks at me for a reaction, gets a blank stare, and adds, “Wen’s great-great-great-grandpa was named Wendigo—perhaps you’ve heard of that?”

  Wendigo does ring a distant bell, but I have to take out my phone and google both names—an action I regret as soon as I spot descriptions such as “spirits who eat human corpses” in reference to Jikininki and “mythical cannibal monster” in reference to the Wendigo.

  “Unflattering?” I study some of the human-drawn images of the two beings. “You don’t say.”

  “We serve a critical purpose.” Pada viciously cuts off a yellow cab and nearly runs over a pedestrian in a single maneuver. “We certainly don’t give a damn about anyone’s delicate sensibilities.”

  “I appreciate you,” I say reassuringly, in case he’s talking about my sensibilities—which appear to be far from delicate. “Sorry if I’m acting a bit testy. Witnessing Nero play Shredder tends to bring that out in me.”

  “That was a fine mess,” Pada says as he makes another turn.

  “Yeah.” I rub my eyes, as though that will somehow erase the snuff film burned into my retinas. “Do you mind if I make a quick phone call?”

  “Go right ahead.” Pada reaches into the depths of his leather jacket, pulls out a pair of headphones, and puts them over his ears. Louder, he adds, “I should probably focus on the road anyway.”

  I reply with a thumbs-up and take out my phone. I still have that eleven p.m. appointment with Baba Yaga, and I figure I better reschedule it for a night when I didn’t just pull an all-nighter and survive an orc bloodbath.

  I pull up the phone number of Baba Yaga’s place and dial.

  The pleasant female voice answers me in fluent Russian again, and when I ask for the owner, she puts me through to the manager, like before.

  “Sasha,” Koschei says in his signature Crypt Keeper voice. “I didn’t expect to hear from you until your allotted time later today.”

  “That’s actually why I’m calling.” The car goes over a pothole, so I grip the phone tighter. “I’d like to reschedule my appointment for another day. If that’s all right.”

  There’s a graveyard silence on the other end of the phone.

  “Hello?” I say. “Did we get cut off?”

  “No,” Koschei says, his voice a couple of notches creepier.

  “No, we didn’t get cut off?”

  “No, it’s not ‘all right’ to flake on your commitment.”

  “Fine,” I say as politely as is possible under the circumstances. “Then I shall see you at eleven, as per our earlier agreement.”

  “Make sure you’re here on time,” Koschei says flatly and hangs up.

  “What a charmer,” I mutter under my breath.

  Pada doesn’t seem to be aware of me. Instead, he’s humming to the tune that escapes his headphones—No One Loves Me and Neither Do I by Them Crooked Vultures.

  Instead of disturbing Pada’s peace, I close my eyes in the hopes of dozing off and maybe getting some useful dream vision intelligence on the meeting with Baba Yaga.

  Unfortunately, despite how much my brain craves it, I don’t fall asleep.

  “This is you,” Pada says, and I open my eyes to see that we’re indeed next to my building. “Let me walk you up.”

  He opens the door and leads me to the elevator.

  “You can use cold water to loosen the blood stains,” he says conversationally after he presses the button for my floor. “Afterward, you can apply some hydrogen peroxide, wait for a while, and then rinse with warm water.”

  “I’m not keeping any blood-soaked clothes,” I say with a shudder. “I just hope I can wash it off my skin.”

  “Warm water and soap should get you as good as new,” he says. “If you don’t want to keep these clothes, it might be best if I take them with me.”

  The elevator dings its arrival.

  “Sounds good,” I say, and we step out.

  I’m walking when I hear an exaggerated feminine gasp.

  Looking back, I see Rose drop her garbage bag. Her gaze is on the blood stains I just left behind me.

  “I’m fine,” I tell Rose quickly. “This isn’t my blood.”

  “I’ll clean up this mess,” Pada says. “Hello, Rose.”

  “Hi, Pada,” she says, glancing at him dismissively before refocusing on me. “Sasha, dear, you better go clean up, and then I expect you to stop by my place and explain what’s happening.”

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “Nine-thirty,” Pada says after glancing at his watch.

  “In that case, I should have some time to stop by for a quick cup of coffee,” I tell Rose. “I do have an appointment in Brighton Beach at eleven.”

  “Go,” Rose says. “You’re dripping b
lood all over the place.”

  I walk briskly to my apartment and unlock the door.

  “Hello?” I yell when Pada and I get inside. “Anyone home?”

  Fluffster and Ariel come out to greet us. Ariel’s face turns stark white, and Fluffster’s is probably doing the chinchilla equivalent—I’m not as good at reading rodent faces.

  “I’m fine,” I rattle out. “The blood isn’t mine.”

  They pepper me with a barrage of questions, but I dodge them all, heading straight for the bathroom.

  “Ariel,” I shout when I reach my destination. “Can you please bring me a couple of garbage bags?”

  When she does, I get into the tub, close the curtain, and strip, throwing all my bloody clothes into the bags.

  The poor tub looks like someone cut his wrists in it.

  “Can you give this to Pada with my thanks?” I put the bags out, and not waiting for a reply, I turn the shower knob to the maximum water flow.

  Grabbing the body wash, I smear myself with a thick layer and let the hot streams of water carry red rivulets into the drain.

  The bathroom door closes but soon reopens.

  “Start talking,” Ariel says over the sound of running water.

  “Seriously,” Fluffster adds mentally. “You can’t make such an entrance and then not spill it.”

  “Fine,” I say as I slather myself with another coat of soap. “It was the orcs.”

  I tell them what happened, focusing on how and why it was Nero’s fault.

  “That explains the odd CPR,” Ariel says when I’m done. “As well as how those orcs got to Earth. Nero certainly has enough pull to bring them here and get away with it.”

  “Especially now.” Though my skin is rubber-squeaky at this point, I apply another thick layer of soap on myself. “They effectively disappeared.”

  “You know,” Ariel says, “you did mention you felt something before the attacks. Maybe Nero had—”

  “Can you escort me to this appointment with Baba Yaga?” I ask to change the topic. The last thing I want to hear is her making any excuses for that manipulative bastard.

  “Of course,” Ariel says. “I’ll go get my car ready.”