Sleight of Fantasy

by Dima Zales

Wait a second. I never told her about my dry spell, or the brief, unsatisfying relationships that preceded it.

  Did she really just figure this out using some Hannibal Lecter-like shrink methods?

  The magician in me wants a simpler explanation, so I ask, “Did you pull that info from the files Nero keeps on me?”

  Her blue eyes take on a sorrowful look. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

  “No.” I unclench my hands, realizing they’d turned into fists. “You’re right about my past, but so what? It’s just bad luck. I was focused on school and then my career. There’s no sinister deeper meaning.”

  She tilts her head. “You fear being abandoned by the person you fall in love with.”

  “Well, duh,” I say. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Not me,” she says. “Not Vlad and Rose. Not—”

  “Fine,” I say testily. “Even if what you say is true, which it isn’t, it has nothing to do with why I shouldn’t develop feelings for the hypothetical person we were talking about before. It’s perfectly normal to be wary of evil, manipulative bastards.” I realize that my voice is starting to rise, so I take in a deep breath and more calmly add, “What’s he afraid of?”

  “That another person he cares about would die,” she says somberly. “But don’t ask me for details because they’re not mine to share.”

  As though waiting for that exact moment, Lucretia’s stomach growls like a bear roused from hibernation.

  She covers her belly with a delicate hand and chuckles mirthlessly.

  “Saved by the stomach,” I mumble, still overwhelmed by the topic we stumbled upon. Swallowing, I square my shoulders. “Should we end the session?”

  “If you wish.” She nods.

  I stand up. “How about I buy you breakfast before I go face a certain someone again?”

  “Deal,” she says, getting up from her throne. “But you have to promise to come back.”

  “I doubt I’ll be given a choice,” I say as we step out of the office.

  I, too, could use a visit to the cafeteria.

  To face Nero again, I need to consume enough espresso to make a rhino bounce off the walls.

  Chapter Four

  Jittery from all the caffeine, I storm into Nero’s office for the second time in one day.

  This time, he stops typing instantly and looks me up and down.

  “That was quick,” he says. “I never said you had to make your therapy quick.”

  “I’m here to deal with my ‘work allotment,’” I say. “I’m dying to know what that is, and how I can accomplish it without a desk.”

  “Follow me,” he says and marches out of the office.

  By the time I catch up with his long-legged strides, he’s already summoned the elevator.

  Surprising me with a gentlemanly gesture, Nero holds the elevator door from closing. “After you.”

  Is he mocking me?

  My heart rate elevated for some reason (no doubt the brisk walk), I slink inside and lean against the back of the car.

  Nero saunters in and stops by the elevator buttons, his side to me.

  I grit my teeth in annoyance. The guy manages to look great even from the profile.

  My throat feels uncomfortably dry as I realize we’re confined together in a small space.

  Does he always take up more room than the laws of physics dictate?

  Oblivious to my discomfort, Nero takes out some unusual-looking card and swipes it over what I would’ve guessed to be the fireman’s override on the elevator button console.

  The elevator dings approvingly.

  Nero presses the button labeled B01—one of several that don’t work when a mere corporate peon presses on them, no matter how curious said peon is.

  We ride down in a silence that gets progressively more uncomfortable. “Are we headed to your secret underground lair?” I ask, only half-jokingly.

  The persistent rumors about Nero having a cave filled with money and riches often feature these off-limits basement floors.

  Nero raises an eyebrow but doesn’t answer.

  “I’d sure like to take a swim in gold,” I say.

  “No time for that today, I’m afraid,” he says, his expression unchanging. “Your task is simplicity itself. You are to provide me with a stock recommendation. Just one. That is all.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.” I give him a relieved smile, and he smiles in return—but something about it isn’t right. It seems like he’s laughing at me, not with me.

  The elevator dings.

  We exit into a long, poorly lit corridor that reminds me of the secret passages that lead to the gate hub in JFK airport.

  As I follow Nero down a few forks, the resemblance grows stronger.

  Just in case, I sneak my phone out and make notes on the turns we take—just like I did in the JFK labyrinth when Ariel was leading me.

  We turn right, and the corridor ends with a metallic door.

  There’s a digital screen on the front of the door.

  Nero reaches for it, and I prepare to nonchalantly spy on what he types in.

  As though he’s the psychic, Nero uses his body to block the keys he presses from my sight.

  The only thing I get a good look at is his backside—not bad as far as consolation prizes go.

  “Is that a safe?” I ask when the door swings open. “Is this where your money is stashed?”

  Nero just gestures for me to enter, so I do.

  The safe isn’t a safe.

  It’s a furnished room.

  A fuzzy carpet with a modern-art motif is on the floor, with a comfortable-looking meditation cushion in the middle of it. My old chair is here too. It’s standing to the side, but there’s no desk or computer. However, there is a couch in the back.

  Could the computer be in one of the adjacent rooms? I do see two doors inside, so perhaps that’s where the workstation is kept?

  The only monitor-like screen is a keypad identical to the one outside.

  Nero again blocks what he types into the keypad, and when he’s done, 8:00.00 shows up on the screen above the number pad. A second later, the clock changes to 7:59.59.

  Wait a minute.

  He can’t mean—

  “This is the work allotment,” Nero says, pointing at the digital countdown. “You are to put in eight hours of work every weekday.”

  “This is outrageous.” I look at the metallic sheen of the walls, then at my boss.

  Nero lifts an eyebrow again. “You’re going to be the only person at the fund putting in so few hours, and you know it. Even you used to work more.”

  “I’m talking about this.” I wave around the safe-like contraption. “This is every claustrophobe’s worst nightmare.”

  “It’s nine hundred square feet, which makes it the second largest office in this building.” Nero crosses his arms. “And you don’t have claustrophobia.”

  “After eight hours in this cage, I just might develop it,” I mutter.

  “If you convince Lucretia that you genuinely ‘developed claustrophobia,’ I will swap offices with you.” Nero comes toward me.

  I back away from him. “Why are you doing this?”

  “This room is soundproof, and no one will be able to interrupt you.” To my relief, he stops a couple of feet from me. “Can you think of an environment more conducive to your visions?”

  I want to smack myself for not getting it sooner.

  Of course.

  This is the perfect place for meditative contemplation—in a way that, say, a cave in the mountains might be.

  Then again, it’s also very similar to solitary confinement, which is usually a punishment that’s worse than mere incarceration.

  And it all comes down to the stupid visions.

  How could I forget that?

  Grigori Rasputin—or I should say my biological father—gave Nero a prophecy that listed all the notable events in the years between 1916 and 2016. Like Biff, the villain in Back to the Future II,
Nero has turned Rasputin’s foresight into obscene wealth.

  So now that we’re outside the list’s timeline, Nero is going to use me to keep the money flowing.

  Perhaps I’m lucky he plans to let me leave this cage after eight hours.

  At least I assume he does.

  He turns toward the door.

  “What about lunch?” I ask quickly.

  He walks up to one of the doors and opens it. Metallic walls aside, the room looks like a high-end kitchen, with a microwave and regular oven, a toaster, and a giant refrigerator with glass walls.

  Inside the fridge are enough gourmet dishes to feed an army of the pickiest foodies.

  Some stuff looks so good I almost wish I hadn’t eaten all those muffins.

  “What about a bathroom?” I ask, my heart falling further because I see where this is going.

  Nero takes me to the other door, and of course, there’s a huge fancy bathroom behind it—with a shower stall and a Jacuzzi. Most disturbingly, he opens a closet, and I see it filled with my favorite brands of cosmetics, shampoos, soaps, and even feminine products.

  “What if there’s an emergency?” I ask, in large part to keep myself from wondering how he knew which products to get.

  “Press 911 on the keypad,” Nero says. He must see some glint in my eyes because he adds, “If you do so when there isn’t an emergency, your work allotment for that day will be doubled.”

  I stalk out of the bathroom.

  He follows me out. “And don’t try to guess the password and claim you meant to type 911. If a wrong password is entered at any point and for any reason, I will know it—and your work allotment will double for a whole week. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal.” I give him a baleful glare.

  How could I have kissed such an insufferable man? I must’ve been insane to find him appealing on any level.

  “I will see you when you’re done,” he says and walks to the exit.

  “You expect me to give you a stock recommendation without doing any actual research?” I ask, frowning at his back. “Without using any technology?”

  “I believe in you.” Nero turns and taps his forehead. “Now get to work.”

  He leaves, and the thick metal door locks with the finality of a tax audit.

  “You suck!” I yell, but I doubt he can hear me over the thickness of the metal.

  Yep. No reply comes. In fact, the room is so quiet it’s eerie for a New Yorker like me.

  In the dead silence, I hear my rapid breathing.

  The nerve of that guy.

  How does he expect me to have visions if he’s going to piss me off like this?

  Then again, he miscalculated.

  He didn’t explicitly say I must have a vision to provide him with the stock tip.

  I could in theory tell him to buy whatever stock pops into my head.

  We’ve never invested in CAKE, for example, which happens to be the ticker for The Cheesecake Factory. Nor did we ever buy EAT—a company that owns several other restaurant chains.

  No, that might be my stomach talking. There was cake in the fridge.

  Alternatively, maybe I should offer up BOOM, which is a metalworking company that uses explosives. The investment in that stock would also go boom.

  I smile, Grinch like, getting into the spirit of the exercise.

  Maybe I should tell Nero to invest in Harley-Davidson Motorcycles? That would suit him: their ticker is HOG, and Nero is being a pig.

  Or is he being a dog? There is WOOF for that case—a veterinary medicine company.

  No.

  Too obvious.

  I’ll tell him to invest in Majesco Entertainment, a videogame company that has the ticker “COOL.”

  Unless that makes him think that we’re “cool,” which we are not.

  My smile falters.

  What happens when I tell him one of these fun stock names, and he loses a ton of money? Will that also double my “work allotment?”

  I sigh.

  Now that I’m calmer, I should try to get Nero a stock tip based on a vision—regardless of how much I would’ve enjoyed the petty revenge of having him invest in purely random stocks.

  Parking my butt on the meditation cushion, I close my eyes and attempt to get into Headspace.

  When my breathing evens out, my mind goes blissfully blank. All I notice now is my breathing.

  I hover in that wonderful state for an indeterminate time, until my palms get warm.

  This is it.

  Lightning shoots from my palms into my eyes, and I spiral away.

  The usual bodiless strangeness of Headspace surrounds me once again.

  I float there, trying to readjust to the foreign set of senses unique to this place.

  Soon, I become aware of the surreal shapes all around me—shapes that represent visions.

  Okay, now what? I have no clue how to locate the shapes that will make Nero money.

  Should I seek out green and minty shapes? Or ones shaped like coins or diamonds?

  Better question is, why do I always have to figure out these things on my own?

  Why did Nero have to scare Darian away from me?

  Despite all his faults and obvious agendas, Darian has saved my bacon plenty of times now—and I doubt I’d have reached Headspace so soon without his Jubilee gift of the videotape.

  Good old manipulative Darian.

  Where is he now? Is there a way he could talk to me without risking Nero’s wrath?

  I can almost picture him now, evading my questions, sounding all British-royalty proper—

  Suddenly, something extremely odd happens—that is, odd even for Headspace.

  A moving shape appears next to me.

  A shape so different from the others it might as well be a different species.

  No, it’s more like comparing a concrete physical object (like a pickle or a skunk) to something ephemeral (like honor or justice).

  Besides the Headspace attributes I’ve labeled temperature, colors, taste, and music, this apparition has millions more—most without sensory parallels.

  Yet that’s not what’s most strange about it.

  It’s the conviction that its appearance was triggered by my thoughts about Darian.

  That, and the fact that it’s sentient.

  I don’t know how I know this. I just know that it is like me. I bet if I magically turned my Headspace attention inward, I’d probably see the same awesome complexity.

  Expectation (for lack of a better term) pulses from the entity.

  “What do you want me to do?” I want to ask it, but don’t know how.

  The entity kaleidoscopes the myriad attributes impatiently.

  I float there, pondering what to do.

  Then it hits me.

  Why don’t I try the usual?

  When it came to regular shapes, I had to sort of extend myself and metaphorically touch them to activate a vision.

  Will it work in this case?

  I try it.

  The entity pulses in excitement and seems to reach for me just as I reach for it—which is when a vision-like black hole sucks me in.

  Chapter Five

  I’m staring at a playing card in my hand.

  My fingers look strange—bigger and without nail polish.

  How odd.

  I try to move, but find that I can’t.

  Huh?

  “Two of Diamonds,” thinks a male voice inside my head with a noticeable British accent.

  “Darian?” I reply. “What are you doing in my head?”

  No answer.

  Instead, my eyes move from the card to take in my surroundings—which is when I realize I’m unable to control my body.

  The surroundings are startlingly familiar.

  This is the restaurant where I had performed my magic until I was forbidden from doing so—only everything is washed out, for lack of a better term.

  It’s as though everything was filmed with an ancient camera, and then s
omeone turned that footage into a virtual reality environment.

  The people at the other tables are indiscernible, and even color is drained from most objects.

  Without meaning to, I pick up a beer bottle from the table and take a swig.

  To my surprise, the dark lager tastes yummy, not bitter as usual.

  “Two of Diamonds,” a female voice that sounds like me says, but not out of my mouth.

  I look up.

  There I stand, holding a deck of cards in my hands and grinning.

  Is this another trick by Kit?

  It’s possible, though this me doesn’t exactly look like me—and Kit was pretty accurate.

  This person looks like my much-hotter sister who had some major plastic surgery and was then photoshopped for a few years.

  I zoom in on that face as though she’s about to sprout an angelic halo.

  “How did you do that?” I say to the other me in Darian’s voice.

  Wait, even my voice is Darian’s?

  “Very well,” the supermodel version of me says with a seductive wink. “Now you try it.” She turns to the woman on my right.

  Wait a second.

  I know what’s about to happen.

  The woman is about to choose a card under extremely fair conditions, and I will reveal it to her.

  Of course.

  This is some strange replay of the day when I first met Darian—the meeting that led to the fateful TV performance and the rest of the madness.

  But why am I seeing this memory in such a strange manner?

  “She’s so fiery,” Darian thinks inside my head. “Just like Matilda was.”

  “Who the hell is Matilda?” I try to ask, but he doesn’t reply—probably because I lack a mouth with which to speak.

  The outside me guesses the woman’s card correctly, then names another card chosen under lab-experiment-fair conditions, then another, and another.

  “She is so bold,” Darian thinks. “So adaptable and creative.”

  My doppelganger names his card. He claps and thinks, “So playful with the audience, so brave… and so bloody gorgeous.”

  “Thanks, pal, but seriously—”

  My restaurant self hands over the deck and asks me to cut it.

  When her hand-model-smooth fingers brush mine, I feel a strange sensation in my groin.