by Dima Zales
The pain is not as severe as it was in my vision. I think a part of me learned how to make this landing a little less impactful—that, or Harper’s throw didn’t have as much momentum behind it, since she’s on her back on the floor.
Still, air whooshes from my lungs, and I reflect on how frustrating it is when the future gleaned in a vision tries to stubbornly recreate itself, as though it has a mind of its own.
As I force oxygen back into my lungs, all I can think about is how this fight is likely to proceed from here—broken bones, followed by paralysis and death.
I clutch at the TV stand, hoping that this time I’ll manage to get to my feet before she breaks my arm.
Harper leaps up, landing next to me, and raises her foot.
Felix lunges at her with the knife—and stabs her in the thigh.
She wails in pain and swats at Felix with the back of her hand, as though he were an annoying mosquito.
The knife clatters to the floor, and Felix lands in a naked heap by the bed.
Harper kicks the weapon under the bed again just as I stumble to my feet.
I can hear Felix’s ragged breathing, so he’s alive, though not moving. I hope he’s either unconscious or wise enough to fake it.
Harper follows my gaze, and for a second, she seems torn as to which one of us she wants to finish first.
I use that distraction to kick her in the shin.
Bursting with Felix’s sex energy, she doesn’t even blink in pain. Instead, she grabs me by my shoulders and lifts me in the air, oblivious to my feet delivering more blows all over her body.
Her intent is obvious.
She’s about to send me flying through the window—just as she did in my vision.
Then I see movement behind her—a movement I glimpsed at the end of the vision.
It’s Fluffster.
He runs into the room with an unnatural snarl on his face.
“Stop!” The message hits my mind like a mental ballistic missile. It’s as though Fluffster’s usual mode of communication has been amplified with enough power to run New York for a year. The strength of it makes me want to curl into some dark corner and shiver.
Harper is clearly affected by the mental assault. Letting go of me, she grasps her ears—as though Fluffster’s shout didn’t go directly into her mind.
I fall onto my hands and knees and scramble as far away from Harper as I can.
Ignoring me completely, the succubus faces Fluffster.
The chinchilla’s no-longer-rodent eyes narrow, and he begins to grow.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
As he grows, the domovoi doesn’t resemble a giant chinchilla—which would’ve been a sight so cute it could’ve been weaponized.
Instead, he morphs into a creature from a nightmare—an amalgamation of teeth, claws, and a scorpion-like stinger in place of a tail. Tentacles replace his whiskers, and I glimpse deadly thorns on the tips.
Another mental shout emanates from the creature, and Felix and I grab our heads in pain. It sounds like Russian death metal played backward on maximum volume from every speaker on Earth.
Harper shrieks and takes a step back.
In a blur of motion that rivals Nero’s speed, Fluffster dives for her—an action followed instantly by a hail of Harper’s body parts exploding like a hellish piñata.
For the second time in one night, I find myself covered in blood.
No, not just blood, I realize, looking down.
There are bits of intestines, too.
Fighting nausea, I push myself up to my feet and look around.
This is even worse than that bloody alley. Pieces of Harper are sliding down the window, and chunks of her cover the ceiling, the computer desk, and Felix’s bed. His favorite Matrix poster looks like someone switched it for one of a horror movie, and the TV is a cracked, gory mess.
Trying not to slip on Harper’s remains, I limp over to Felix. I feel surprisingly intact considering what happened to me in the dream vision. My already-bruised shoulder hurts worse now, and my upper back is sore, but I’m otherwise okay.
Back in his usual form, Fluffster stands in my way, looking extremely subdued. “She violated my domain.” His mental voice is also back to normal—though he sounds sheepish, for lack of a better term.
I stare at him, images of tentacles and claws seared into my retinas.
The chinchilla stands on his haunches and cleans his whiskers in a distractingly cute gesture.
“Was that what you really look like?” I ask, swallowing audibly—and instantly regretting it when I taste copper.
“I don’t know what I looked like when I did that.” He solemnly examines the room. “Nor do I know what I really look like. I was just angry, so I reacted. Maybe I overreacted. Replacing all this stuff will cost us a fortune.”
Hearing him worry about finances makes me chuckle hysterically. Then I see him looking at me in puzzlement and realize I’m being a crappy friend.
“How are you feeling?” I ask. “Baba Yaga—”
“I feel as good as new,” Fluffster says and puffs up his tail. “I regained consciousness in the kitchen and heard a noise, so I came to investigate…”
“And you saved my life,” I say firmly, banishing the images in my mind as much as I can. “Feel free to look that way again if someone tries to kill us.”
Fluffster nods and scurries out of the room—no doubt to take a dust bath.
I realize I forgot to ask him if he regained any memories, but I guess that will have to wait.
Fighting another bout of nausea, I make my way over to Felix.
Aside from the layer of Harper gore, and his impossibly-erect-after-all-this-abuse manhood, Felix seems to be fine.
His breathing is even, and nothing looks to be broken—though, of course, I’m not a medical professional, which is what he currently needs.
I take out the phone to dial 911.
“Don’t,” Felix says, his voice barely above a whisper. “The state of this room might be very hard to explain to the cops.”
I put the phone away. “Are you all right?” I sink onto my haunches next to him. “Anything broken?”
Felix props himself up on his elbows, glances down at his nude body, and reddens so much his face blends with the blood smeared on it.
Sitting up, he covers himself with his hands. “Yes, I’m intact,” he says in the voice of a virginal maiden. “Any chance you can give me a moment?”
“Sure,” I say, looking anywhere but his hands. “If you’re sure you’re okay, I’m going to take the first turn in the shower.”
Though I’m not looking there directly, I can swear something below his palms twitches, and his blush deepens into the ultraviolet spectrum.
Leaving bloody footprints on the floor, I escape into the bathroom, take out my phone, and text Ariel to let her know that Fluffster is fine, and that she missed “some fun times that I’ll tell her about when she returns.”
Next, I locate Pada’s number in my contacts and dial it.
“Greetings,” a man’s voice drawls.
“Pada, this is Sasha. Thanks again for the lift earlier today.”
“Sasha. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”
I look at my blood-drenched reflection in the mirror. “I’m afraid I could use your help at my apartment.”
“What level of assistance?” As usual, he sounds almost giddy at the prospect of a horrific cleanup.
“Something like earlier today.” I shudder. “Only a single small order, though,” I add, recalling Nero’s euphemism.
“That level of cleanup will cost you ten grand,” Pada says matter-of-factly. “I’m giving you a frequent customer rate—even if, strictly speaking, it’s only your second direct order.”
Great. The benefit I’ve always wanted—a frequent customer rate for a body disposal service. What’s next, a Groupon for funeral arrangements?
“That’s fine,” I say, wishing I hadn’t just lost my steady pa
ycheck. “Hope you can get here soon.”
“I’m home right now, so you’re in luck.”
That’s right. He lives near us—another dubious stroke of luck.
“Thanks, Pada,” I say. “See you soon.”
I hang up the phone, place it on the edge of the sink, strip, and repeat the aggressive soap routine from earlier today.
What does it say about my life that I’m getting so good at washing blood out of my hair?
When I’m done, my skin is raw from the over-scrubbing, so I slather myself with lotion. Wrapping myself in a towel, I pick up my phone, step over the bloody rags on the floor, and walk out barefoot to get my slippers from their place by the front door.
Toward Felix’s room, I shout, “The shower is yours if you need it.”
“Thanks,” Felix yells back. “Can you please go to your room for a few minutes?”
I go to the kitchen instead. Reaching into the pantry where Ariel keeps our medical supplies, I take out Band-Aids and attack all the cuts and scrapes I can locate on my body.
Done with that, I reach into the freezer and grab our next-to-last packet of frozen peas.
Sitting at the table, I apply the cold pack to my shoulder, close my eyes, and take a few relaxing breaths.
I must zone out for a few minutes because Felix walks into the room, also wearing a towel. Then again, it’s possible his cleanup just didn’t take as long as mine; his extremely brief showers are one of the many great things about having Felix as a roommate.
“I’ve been watching the surveillance video from my room and the hallway.” Felix gesticulates with his phone. “This is mind-blowing.”
Perhaps it’s because he’s a technomancer, or a paranoiac, or both, but surveillance gizmos are Felix’s passion—even more so than other gadgets. He installed an alarm system with video recording when we first moved into the apartment. His room is the only bedroom we allowed him to equip, but the hallway, living room, and kitchen get recorded and overwritten on a regular basis—so that if someone broke in, an alarm would go off with evidence ready for the cops.
Of course, when Ariel and I consented to his setup, we didn’t realize we have a much better (albeit slightly messy) system already in place: Fluffster.
“Check it out,” Felix says, showing me the screen. “I think this happened just before you ran into Ariel’s room to get the knife.”
I stare at the screen.
In the recording, I’m walking down the hallway. Then I stop, and blue lightning streams from my hands straight into my eyes.
Instead of getting burned, my eyes simply glaze over, and I stand there like a statue, then come to my senses and run into Ariel’s room.
“I thought that lightning stuff was just an illusion in my mind,” I mutter. “I can’t believe that’s really what brought about the awake vision.”
I explain to Felix how I fought Harper twice, and he listens with his mouth gaping so wide I’m tempted to toss the frozen peas into it.
“I wonder if the same thing happens during your dream visions,” he says, and then reddens—no doubt imagining himself standing over me as I sleep.
“You better sit down,” I tell him when I notice a couple of cuts on his torso welling up with blood. “Let me take care of that.”
Felix puts the phone on the table and takes a seat. I give him my cold pack to press to his forehead, grab the first aid stuff, and unscrew Neosporin.
“I met her at the coffee shop,” Felix says, looking down as I put a layer of antiseptic on his cuts. “Girls never start a conversation with me. I’m so sorry—”
“If anything, this is my fault.” I grab the Band-Aids box and prepare one.
Unbelievably, even with the rest of Harper smeared all over his room, her pheromone-magic must still be coursing through my veins. Every time I come near Felix’s skin, I become hyperaware of his naked torso—which seems to have muscle tone I’ve never noticed there before.
Taking in a deep breath, I apply the first bandage just above his collarbone. My fingers inadvertently caress his neck, and he visibly shudders under my touch.
Pornographic images involving Felix kaleidoscope through my mind, and judging by the sudden animation of his towel, Felix’s head—both of them—is on the same inappropriate wavelength.
“Sasha.” His voice is hoarse, and his blush is back, redder than ever. “I think I should apply the rest of this stuff by myself.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, my voice husky as I fight my hand’s insane desire to rip away both of our towels like a magician revealing a completed effect. “Should you do it by yourself?” I stop and lick my suddenly dry lips. “I can help you.” I take the makeshift icepack from his hand and put it aside.
The doorbell rings.
All blood leaves Felix’s face.
“It’s Pada,” I explain. “He’ll take care of the mess.”
Felix exhales a tortured breath, then nods.
As I head for the door, I wish I were wearing clothes—especially if Pada brought his colleagues with him.
To my relief, Pada is alone, and if he notices my state of undress, he certainly doesn’t show it.
All business, he puts on a pair of hospital booties and starts the cleaning—beginning with the bloody footprints leading to the bathroom.
Should I get back to the kitchen?
Now that Felix isn’t naked in front of me, I realize that we were at risk of relieving Harper-induced tension right there on the kitchen table. That would’ve been horrible for all sorts of reasons, but especially since, Ariel’s jokes aside, there is a possibility that Felix is still a virgin.
What if today was the closest he’s ever come to getting laid?
I simply can’t take on the responsibility of being his first, nor should Felix, of all people, be the way I break my long bout of abstinence.
Plus, it’s Felix. What was I thinking in the kitchen? Harper really deserved what she got. That power is toxic and should be banned—like chemical and biological weapons, which I guess that yummy smell could be considered to be.
My gaze falls on the package, and I let my curiosity temporarily suppress my libido as I grab the cardboard box, rip it apart, and take the VCR to my room.
It takes me a few minutes to hook it up to my tiny TV and stick the tape in.
Darian’s handsome features show up on the screen, his green eyes twinkling mischievously.
“First,” he says, his British accent stronger than usual, “I wanted to say how sorry I am for partaking in Nero’s folly. I owed him a favor, you see, so when he asked for a vision concerning this orc nonsense, I grudgingly obliged. For what it’s worth—despite how you may feel in this very moment—of all the futures of you I have gleaned, this was, paradoxically, the best-case scenario.”
I pause the tape and just sit there, staring at Darian’s grainy face.
The best-case scenario?
Everything I’ve just lived through?
What was the alternative then? Was I going to get eaten alive by cannibals with dull teeth?
Unless… is he talking about himself? A best-case scenario for Darian might well include me breaking it off with Nero—
“Hi,” Fluffster says in my mind, and I see him sitting next to his dust bath, looking much too thoughtful for a chinchilla.
“Do you want me to change the dust?” I ask, noticing a light red tint to the powder inside.
“Yes, please,” Fluffster replies gratefully.
I change it out, making sure to put the baggie with the old dust out into the hallway, so Pada can take it with him as he gathers the rest of the evidence.
Getting back on the bed, I cover my suddenly chilly feet with the blanket. “So,” I say, studying Fluffster intently. “Did Baba Yaga’s spell work? Do you remember your past?”
“Yes.” He climbs up the bedframe and sits next to me. “I can only recall bits and pieces of my last incarnation, but it might be of use to you.” He pauses, as though he needs to ca
tch his breath—which seems silly, given the mental nature of his communication. “I was a Siberian cat and—”
I burst out laughing. I can’t help it.
No wonder he likes those cat videos.
“My name was Murzik,” he continues pointedly. “I remember Russia, but long ago—before the revolution that ended the monarchy. I remember glimpses of my home—and of my last owner.” He pauses as though for drama, and I barely suppress the urge to shake the information out of his tiny body. “His name was Grigori,” Fluffster finally announces triumphantly. “Grigori Rasputin.”
I look at my chinchilla, and he stares back at me guilelessly.
“This isn’t a joke?” I ask. Expressions on rodent faces are hard to read, so maybe he decided to try his hand at humor at the most inappropriate moment in history. “The guy who owned you before the Russian Revolution—as in, circa early twentieth century—happened to be named Grigori Rasputin, who features in that part of history?”
“I just knew him as Grigori,” Fluffster says. “All I recall is glimpses of him, on the rare days he’d come home and pick me up, that is.”
I leap to my feet and google Rasputin on my laptop.
Showing Fluffster the bearded image on the Wikipedia page, I ask, “Is this what he looked like?”
“Yes,” he replies excitedly. “That’s him.”
I read the page details together with Fluffster. Rasputin, who died in 1916, was “a Russian mystic and self-proclaimed holy man who befriended the family of Tsar Nicholas II, the last monarch of Russia, and gained considerable influence in late imperial Russia.”
“You don’t recall anything between Rasputin’s cat and this shape?” I ask Fluffster, doing my best not to sound as disappointed as I feel. “These memories are more than a hundred years old.”
“That’s all I remember,” Fluffster says sheepishly. “Maybe more will come with time?”
“I hope so,” I say and give him a reassuring stroke on the head.
This isn’t a lot to go on. At best, Rasputin might’ve been my great-grandfather or something like that. A quick internet search reveals that he had children, so it’s feasible that—
Someone clears a throat and knocks gently on my door.