Sleight of Fantasy

by Dima Zales

  “You can use the endorphins that physical exercise will provide,” Nero says in a more reasonable tone. “You should—”

  “Are you claiming this as your Mentor time again?” I lift my chin.

  “No.” He holds my gaze. “You can come with me or not. It’s your choice.”

  “Fine,” I surprise myself by saying. “Since you’re asking so nicely, I guess I could use a workout after this huge breakfast.”

  “Good,” he says and turns around. “This way.”

  He walks so fast that keeping up is already a workout.

  After a few turns, we find ourselves in his private gym—a room the size of a basketball court filled with top-of-the-line equipment.

  “Warm up here.” He gestures to an elliptical, and I get on.

  He steps on the treadmill next to me, starts it up, and takes off his shirt, tossing it on the machine next to him.

  My cardio shape takes a sudden dive as my heart rate speeds up out of proportion with my movements.

  My boss is an impressive specimen of maleness, and running really highlights that fact.

  A few drooling minutes later, he informs me that we’re sufficiently warmed up.

  Very true in my case.

  In fact, I may be in the middle of a hot flash.

  We move to the free weight area, and he shows me how to do a few exercises while I fight off the urge to trace the grooves of muscles on his torso with my tongue.

  To my relief, he then steps back, and I’m able to focus on actual weightlifting.

  Before long, I’m glad he dragged me to the gym. Working out is the perfect activity when you’re angry or otherwise in turmoil. Every time I lift a weight, I picture punching someone or something—and this helps me go extra heavy.

  “Good job,” Nero says as I drop the dumbbells with a grunt. “Now let’s do the bench press.”

  I agree, but soon realize I’ve made a huge mistake. Watching his rippling muscles flex as beads of sweat form on his smooth, tan skin is chipping at my self-control like a river at the foot of a limestone mountain.

  “I’m tired,” I say when I can’t take it anymore. “I’m going to hit the shower.”

  He stares at me intently, and I tense, worried that he’ll offer to wash my back—and that I might accept.

  “Will you find your way there?” he asks to my relief.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  Escaping the gym, I rush to the master bathroom and take a cold shower—something that’s becoming a ritual with Nero.

  It helps a little, though when I step out of the shower, my face still looks a bit too flushed.

  Oh well. I quickly dry off and put on my freshly laundered clothes from yesterday.

  Clearly, it’s time to go home.

  I navigate my way to the penthouse entrance—and find Nero standing there, still shirtless.

  I try not to swallow my tongue as I notice the droplets of sweat on his chiseled chest.

  “So… this has been fun. Thanks for everything.” I take a step forward, but he doesn’t get out of my way. I try again, more bluntly this time. “I think I’m going to head home now.”

  “No.” Nero crosses his arms in front of his chest like a bouncer. “You’re not.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “I am too,” I say, then realize how childish that must sound. In a more adult tone, I add, “You can’t hold me prisoner.”

  At least I hope he can’t, but then who knows what being a Mentor entitles him to. Or being a ruthless asshole, for that matter.

  “You’re not a prisoner,” he says, almost grudgingly. “I just want to make sure you’re safe.” He comes closer. “When I find out what’s going on, I will let you leave.”

  “Well then, that’s simple.” I take a step back. “Your partner, Baba Yaga, is trying to kill me.”

  “That’s impossible,” he says firmly. “She said she isn’t, and she can’t lie to me. We’ve been over this.”

  “Then she’s making me wish I were dead,” I say as my earlier suspicions about Nero being in cahoots with Baba Yaga resurface.

  “I don’t think that’s an explanation for the moves she’s made,” he says. “Lucretia works for me—and though she wasn’t covered by the agreement, I doubt Baba Yaga would want to get on my bad side. Also, pissing off Vlad is foolish. She wouldn’t do that just to get back at you.”

  “Uh-huh. So you’re saying that if she did want to hurt me, she’d pick a softer target, like Ariel—who’s still missing, by the way.”

  “Or Felix,” he says. “Or your family.”

  I taste bile in the back of my throat.

  “Don’t worry. I’m keeping an eye on your adoptive parents,” Nero says, taking another step toward me. “And I told Felix to stay home, where your domovoi and Councilor Kit should provide sufficient protection.”

  My nausea subsides, but I still step back, out of his reach.

  His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t move. “I don’t think hurting you is what Baba Yaga ultimately wants—which is why I have someone on the case, trying to get to the bottom of it.”

  I blink. “You do?”

  “Yes. They call her Freda Krueger,” Nero says in the tone people use to name-drop a celebrity.

  I lift my eyebrows. “I know of a very famous Freddy by that last name, from A Nightmare on Elm Street. Never heard of a female version, though. Please don’t tell me Hollywood is making yet another remake with—”

  “Her real name is Bailey Spade,” Nero says and looks at me expectantly. When I don’t show any recognition, he adds, “She went to school with Felix.”

  “Still doesn’t ring a bell.” I shuffle from foot to foot. “He’s never mentioned her.”

  “Well, the name isn’t important,” Nero says. “She’s agreed to look into this matter for me, and she possesses some unique skills that make her an ideal person to get to the bottom of this.”

  “You hired a Cognizant detective?” I rub my temples.

  “You can think of it that way,” he says. “What’s key is that her report is due in a few hours, and I think you’ll want to wait for it.”

  “Doesn’t sound like I have a lot of choice.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, mimicking his stance. “What do you expect me to do if I stay?”

  “There was something I was hoping you could show me.” He reaches into the pocket of his workout shorts.

  A hand in the pocket? That’s a surefire way to get a girl’s attention. I can’t help but stare at his crotch in fascination.

  Is my boss about to go pervy on me? What would I do if he does?

  His hand comes out of the pocket holding a deck of playing cards. He extends it toward me on the palm of his hand. “I’d like to see your card magic up close.”

  I let myself blink.

  He’s good. In fact, if they gave out medals for being master manipulators, Nero would get the gold.

  He must’ve figured I’d be almost as excited about this prospect as I was when I contemplated another kiss.

  “I guess I can show you a thing or two,” I say, using all my acting skills to seem less eager. “I’d need a table if—”

  “Follow me,” Nero says and leads me into a wing of the house I haven’t seen. On the way, he stops by a closet and pulls on a T-shirt.

  My ovaries go into mourning, but the rest of me is grateful.

  I was worried about my ability to focus on the cards.

  We end up in a small-for-this-penthouse, twenty-two by twenty-eight-feet room.

  I gape at the decor in jealous fascination.

  “I host high-stakes poker games in here,” Nero explains when he sees my open-mouthed expression. “I thought it might make a good setting for this.”

  No kidding. The place looks like a miniature casino.

  If someone wanted to design the best set for my card effects, this would be it.

  “Can I use this table?” I walk up to the green poker table and feel the perfect-for-card-spreads sur
face with my palm.

  “Of course.” Nero takes the chair opposite me. “That was the idea.”

  “Great.” I sit up straighter and feel the surge of confidence that always accompanies my performances. “Shuffle those cards.”

  Nero surprises me yet again by giving the cards a professional riffle shuffle. He follows that with a set of flashy cuts that the best Monte Carlo croupier would be proud of, and as I watch his strong, sinuous hands perform all these delicate movements, I find myself needing another cold shower.

  “Give me those,” I say in a hoarse voice.

  Nero moves the deck toward me, and I could swear there’s a tiny smirk on his lips.

  I spread the cards face up for Nero to see. “Are you happy with the way you mixed them?”

  “Sure,” he says without looking up from my hands.

  “Good.” I gather them up. “Now name your favorite poker hand and a number of players.”

  “The Royal Flush,” Nero says, still staring at my hands. “And four players.”

  What he’s doing is called “burning the hands”—and it’s a real hazard when it comes to my art.

  To perform the effect, I need him to look away—but how? On my home turf, I’d have a plan for a distraction, but here, I have to resort to something else.

  Questions make great misdirection, so I blurt out, “I’ve been meaning to ask you this for ages. What kind of Cognizant are you?”

  As I hoped, Nero looks up, allowing me to do sneaky business.

  Though I don’t expect him to answer, I still feel distracted by the mere possibility that he might tell me. It’s a good thing I’ve put in all those hours of practice with cards; otherwise, I’d mess this up.

  “It’s not that I don’t want you to know.” Nero cocks his head. “It’s just better if no one knows.”

  “I can keep a secret.” I find it ironic that I’m saying that phrase as I’m doing something secret under Nero’s very nose.

  “I believe that you can,” he says. “But there are beings like Bailey, who can still get the information from you without your willing participation.”

  “There are?” I nearly drop the cards. “Your pet detective sounds scary.”

  “She’s not mine,” he says, staring at me intently.

  “Whatever.” I grasp the cards. “Let’s just get on with the demonstration.”

  With exaggerated fairness, I deal four poker hands on the table and ask, “Which player?”

  “Which player what?” Nero asks, belatedly resuming burning my hands.

  “Which player is to have the Royal Flush?” I can’t help but allow myself a gloating grin.

  “That one.” He points at player number three.

  “Please check,” I say, feeling the usual rush of dopamine from an effect gone right.

  Nero turns over the cards, revealing the Royal Flush in Hearts.

  He stares at the cards, then at me, then back at the cards. “Remind me never to play cards with you,” he finally says and smacks the Royal Flush on the table.

  I’ve heard this a million times before, but having Nero say it fills me with a thousand kittens’ worth of warm fuzzies.

  I then show him some of my favorite classics with cards, and Nero eats it all up with genuine enthusiasm.

  To finish the set, I invent an effect on the fly. I start by having Nero choose a random card and lose it in the deck. Then I tell him that we’ll get back to the card in a little while.

  Next, I perform the needle-swallowing effect as I practiced it at home—and Nero makes the appropriate grossed-out expressions at just the right moments, though the way he stares at my mouth throughout is distracting as hell.

  For the grand finale, I spring the cards at the card table at the same time as I spit out the last needle—and it spears a single card in the air.

  Nero’s “lost” card.

  He stands up and claps. “That was very impressive.” He gives me an admiring look. “You’re amazing.”

  I redden from the top of my head all the way down to my toes, and want to dance in glee.

  If he’s faking this, he’s good.

  Scary good.

  First, he was trying to slither into my heart through my stomach with his cooking. Now he’s using the type of flattery that could definitely get him into my pants.

  But I can’t let myself fall for it.

  I must do something to break the evil spell.

  There’s only one thing I can think of—and it happens to kill a few birds with one stone.

  “Tell me about my father,” I blurt out.

  The excitement instantly evaporates from Nero’s face, and he sinks heavily back into the chair, his face turning serious.

  “Please?” I say. “Anything you can.”

  “You’re a lot like him,” he growls quietly. “He also could never leave anything alone.”

  I suppress a surprised gasp and just sit there quietly, afraid to startle Nero out of this unnatural-for-him bout of sharing.

  “Like you, he makes up his own rules on the fly. And you get your imagination from him too, as well as your resourcefulness.” He gestures at the chaos of cards on the table. “You also got that almost pathological sense of loyalty from him.” He stops talking and sits there, looking lost in thought.

  I realize I haven’t taken a breath since he started speaking, so I do so now.

  I’m not sure if he realizes it, but Nero has just talked about Rasputin in present tense. This answers something I desperately wanted to know.

  My biological father is alive.

  I decide to really push my luck, so I soothingly ask, “How can I find him?”

  The distant expression on Nero’s face shifts into the familiar stony mask he often wears at the fund.

  “I can’t tell you that,” he says. “I’ve already said too much.”

  Pushing was clearly a mistake. My hands ball into fists, and I leap to my feet. A part of me knows he’s just adhering to the contract with my father, but another, very large part wants to slam a fist into his stubborn chin.

  “I’d like to be alone for a bit,” I say in as cordial a tone as I can manage under the circumstances.

  “Let me take you to the living room.” He gets up and leads the way, his back tense as he walks.

  I follow him into yet another opulent room, which must be our destination. The south wall is covered by a TV large enough to hang in Times Square.

  “I’ll be in my office,” Nero says and promptly disappears.

  Did I upset him with this request for privacy?

  Good.

  I’m sure he could tell me more about my parents if he really wanted to.

  He just doesn’t.

  I catch myself pacing the room and realize I need to calm down.

  Eager for a distraction, I walk up to a wall of shelves featuring a huge Blu-ray collection.

  How quaint. Does Nero have something against streaming?

  I check out some movies at random. The Wolf of Wall Street, The Big Short, Trading Places, Boiler Room, Margin Call, Wall Street—there’s a definite pattern to Nero’s entertainment choices, and it’s almost sad.

  Even in his rare leisure time, he watches work-related movies.

  Feeling a little calmer, I park my butt on an ultra-comfortable lounge chair and close my eyes.

  This is when it hits me.

  It’s been hours since I’ve woken up, and I haven’t used my powers to check on Vlad.

  I’m not doing a very good job of “taking care of him” for Rose.

  I bet Nero would be extra smug if he knew how distracting he has been.

  Well, “better late than never” has always been my motto.

  Without opening my eyes, I slip into the prerequisite state of focus, reaching Headspace in record time.

  Ignoring my surroundings, I concentrate on Vlad, and my environment changes.

  The shapes around me now have notes of fear and grief as strong as the ones that accompanied th
e fateful vision where Felix and Maya got killed.

  These will show me something equally terrible.

  Reluctantly, I proceed to touch the nearest shape without changing the vision duration—I do try to learn from my mistakes.

  The resistance is there again—and it confirms my gloomy suspicions.

  Biting my nonexistent tongue, I will my wisp to touch the shape.

  It doesn’t work at first, but on the twentieth attempt, the metaphorical maw of the vision opens up and I fall in.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I’m bodiless, surrounded by water.

  It’s a pier. The sign in the distance says “St. George Staten Island Ferry Terminal.”

  There are only a handful of people standing on the pier, and all have their backs to me, with the exception of Vlad.

  The expression on Vlad’s face reminds me of the feral samurai masks no doubt designed to demoralize opponents.

  These strangers should be afraid.

  Vlad moves forward, and I find my point of view floating to perch over his shoulder.

  The other people on the pier turn out to be Koschei, Ariel, Lucretia, and Gaius, plus three black-clad Enforcers whom I recognize from the aftermath of my disastrous TV performance.

  Vlad’s head tilts from side to side. He must be examining his opponents. His gaze doesn’t linger on Ariel, who’s staring back at him with a glassy expression, nor Lucretia, who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. His focus seems to be on Koschei—no doubt the knife in the man’s hand caught his attention.

  The very knife that killed Rose.

  Koschei takes a step back, as if pushed by the force of Vlad’s gaze.

  Finally, Vlad turns his attention to Gaius—who takes out Lucretia’s rapier.

  “You and your fucking ambition,” Vlad growls, his face twisting into a savage grimace.

  “I merely evened out the playing field,” Gaius says coolly. “Without the power boosts from your pet witch, you’re no match for me, let alone all of us.”

  If Gaius wanted to subdue Vlad, mentioning Rose was a tactical error.

  Like a CGI effect, Vlad blurs into motion.