Paranormal Misdirection (Sasha Urban Series: Book 5) Page 3

  Felix chuckles. “There may be those there too. But according to Kit, there is also a suitable room that we will use. She says it’s best to keep the gnome as close to the gates as possible, so this kills a bunch of birds.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “Anything else?”

  “I made the FUN investment last night,” Felix says and pulls out his phone. “Wow. It’s already up.”

  Fluffster scuttles over to look at the screen and appears pleased.

  “I want to practice some more Russian on you guys,” I say when they look back at me. “Why don’t you say something, and I’ll try to reply?”

  “Horosho,” Felix says, grinning, and launches into rapid-fire Russian. Now that he’s speaking so fast, comprehending him is harder. Still, I’m pleasantly surprised at how much I catch.

  “You’ll be fluent in no time,” Felix says as we’re wrapping up the meal. “You’ve made a lot of progress already.”

  “I have, haven’t I?” I say, and strain my brain for something to reward myself with.

  Of course.

  There’s something that always cheers me up—magic.

  Of the performing kind.

  Especially when I’m the performer.

  Yeah, that’s it. I’ve been thinking of ways to impress the Cognizant with something besides a card-cheating demo, and in this very moment, a whole branch of magical arts comes to mind: escapes.

  “Before you go, can you help me with something?” I ask Felix as I jump to my feet in excitement.

  He glances at his phone with a frown. “Sure. Let’s just make it quick.”

  “In my room,” I say and rush ahead with a bounce in my step.

  Before Felix can catch up, I locate the hardest-to-crack straitjacket that I own—and I own too many—and pull it out.

  “A straitjacket?” Felix looks at me as though I’ve gone insane enough to actually need one.

  “Yep.” I put the thing on. “I’m trying to build a repertoire that would impress the Cognizant, and it occurred to me that escaping this can’t be explained by any powers.”

  “Not really.” Felix walks up to me and examines the locking mechanism of the strange garment. “If you had Kit’s power, you could—”

  “Impress Cognizant who know what my power is.” I narrow my eyes at him.

  “Even with your powers, you—”

  “Dude.” I turn my back to him and get into the classic straitjacket position. “I don’t need your opinion. I just need you to lock me in this thing so I can practice my escape. It’s been ages since the last time I’ve done it.”

  I inhale deeply and hold it in.

  Grumbling under his breath, Felix pulls my arms behind me—a bit too roughly.

  I tense all the muscles in my body and overall try to make myself as big as I can.

  “How long is this going to take?” Felix asks when he’s done. “I need to be at work.”

  “You can go,” Fluffster says. “If Sasha can’t escape, I’ll help.”

  Felix looks down worriedly. “Are you sure—”

  I tune them out and start my work.

  First, I exhale.

  Next, I relax my muscles, creating some slack in the bindings. Then I manipulate the slack toward my left shoulder and proceed with the rest of the escape.

  Four seconds later, I’m free.

  Both Fluffster and Felix look impressed—and Felix is one of my toughest customers.

  “I guess I’m a little rusty,” I say as I drop the straitjacket on the floor. “It usually takes me three and a half seconds.”

  “It’s good. Add it to your repertoire.” Felix picks up and examines the cloth of the straitjacket for any funny business—and finds none. “If you had this on and hung yourself by your feet over some fire, almost anyone would be impressed if you escaped alive.”

  “I think I’ll work out something like that.” I take the straitjacket from him and start folding.

  “Now I really have to go,” Felix says.

  “See you later.” I wave at his back.

  When he’s gone, I put away the straitjacket and resume studying Russian. I’m at it for what feels like hours, until my phone rings.

  Grabbing it, I see that it’s 12:30 p.m., and that the caller is Nero.

  What could he want?

  My heart rate speeds up as I accept the call. “Hello?”

  “Sasha,” Nero says in his super-deep voice. “Did you eat yet?”

  I blink. “No. I’m starving, actually.”

  “I’m downstairs,” Nero says. “Come down, and we’ll grab lunch.”

  Before I can reply, he hangs up.

  I stare at my phone incredulously.

  Lunch with Nero?

  Is this a prank?

  Mind spinning, I dress in some presentable clothing and even put on some makeup—a rarity for me.

  As I make my way down, I keep wondering what this could be about.

  Is this a social call, and if so, am I glad?

  Or is Nero merely planning to impart some Mentor wisdom?

  Well, whatever his intentions, I always have a million questions I can ask him, so it would be crazy to turn down such an opportunity.

  Yeah, that’s why I’m so eager—because I want to pose pointed questions.

  And to eat.

  It must be hunger behind the strange fluttering of butterfly wings in my stomach. Hunger combined with sleep deprivation.

  Stepping out of the elevator, I stare at Nero.

  Broad-shouldered and tall, he’s practically oozing testosterone, and the unnaturally thick limbal rings in his blue-gray eyes are out in full force. He gives me a look that makes the stupid hunger butterflies increase their flapping to hurricane levels.

  “How are you?” he growls.

  “I’m okay,” I manage to say and feel like I should be given an award for not tripping over my own feet.

  Nero cares about my well-being now?

  I knew hell was freezing over. There have been many signs.

  “You’re not okay.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Why does everyone always forget they can’t lie to me?”

  “I didn’t sleep last night. I bet that’s why your lie detection activated. When you asked your question, I figured you meant ‘how are you coping with having nearly been killed by Baba Yaga,’ and in that regard, I’m okay.”

  “I see,” he says and starts walking south. “Why didn’t you sleep?”

  “Kit told me about the funeral.” My breath quickens as I hurry to keep up with his long strides. “She suggested I give a eulogy.”

  “Wait, she already told you about the funeral?” Nero sounds displeased.

  Interesting. Did he come here to tell me about it in person? If so, that’s a nice gesture.

  “Yeah,” I say as we turn onto a narrow, one-way street. “She mentioned that you were instrumental when it came to getting Rose this honor.” I look over and catch him staring at me intently. Feeling awkward, I look away and mumble, “Thanks for that.”

  “Of course.” He stops. “If you’d like, I can speak in your stead. I’m sure Rose would—”

  I also stop and look up at him. “No.” Instinctively, I touch his forearm, then yank my hand away, realizing what I’m doing. “I should do this for Rose. That it’s hard for me just makes it more important. Besides, I think I want to. It feels right.”

  “I understand.” He gazes at me with an unreadable expression.

  I take a step back. “Anyway,” I say with forced cheerfulness. “Where are we going?”

  “Nowhere. We’re here.” He points at the large window behind me.

  “This place?” We’re standing next to the best restaurant in New York City—and, by transitive property, the world.

  Though a short distance from my apartment, it might as well be on the moon. The waiting list for mere mortals like me is rumored to be years long—and if I decided to go for, say, my thirtieth birthday, Fluffster would eat me alive once he saw the as
tronomical bill.

  “After you,” Nero says and pulls open the ornamental glass door.

  Swallowing my awed disbelief, I step inside. As soon as the host sees Nero, he fawns over us as though we were royalty, leading us to a well-positioned table by the window.

  Before I can blink, our glasses are filled with wine that probably costs more than I make in a year.

  As Nero orders the food, I take a sip of the wine and examine the impeccable tablecloth in front of me. Then I study all the movers and shakers at the other tables and the giant ice sculptures in the shape of doves by the bar.

  The place is fancy.

  Too fancy and romantic to take someone if you merely wanted to tell her about a funeral.

  Holy estrogen.

  Is this a date?

  Chapter Seven

  A date with Nero.

  The idea is more intoxicating than the divine wine.

  I must find out; else I will lose my mind. Fortunately, there might be a way—apart from simply asking.

  Relaxing into my chair, I let my eyes focus on the traffic outside the restaurant as I try to get into Headspace.

  To my huge relief, it works right away.

  As I find myself floating in Headspace, I feel silly.

  Is this really the best use of my powers—to figure out why my boss took me out?

  I could, for example, use the seer-juice for something more useful—like another Russian lesson.

  But no. I have to know what Nero’s intentions are.

  I focus on the default shapes—those typically show me the immediate future.

  Wait a second.

  The surrounding shapes are playing music that’s a lot more frightening than I’d expect from a vision of a date.

  In fact, they seem like they will show me something deadly.

  My ethereal wisp metaphysically trembling, I touch the scariest of the shapes and prepare for a vision.

  “And what can I get you?” The waiter smiles, but it doesn’t touch his eyes.

  A wave of anxiety spreads through me.

  A police car passes by the restaurant, and I half expect the cops to pull up to the door and arrest me for some unknown reason.

  But no.

  They turn the corner and disappear.

  I pick up my menu.

  Am I worried about food poisoning? This place does specialize in raw delicacies like oysters and caviar—but at these prices, I figure they use the freshest ingredients in the world.

  A large black van slowly rolls down the street outside.

  As soon as I see it, I realize that is the source of my malaise.

  “Is everything all right?” Nero asks. He must’ve noticed all the blood leaving my face.

  Before I can reply, the windows of the van slide down.

  I glimpse a killer clown mask before a large gloved hand pulls out a machine gun from the window.

  I scream.

  Everyone in the restaurant looks at me with a mixture of annoyance and concern.

  With a deafening rat-a-tat-tat, bullets hit the glass window, shattering it into tiny shards.

  My shoulder feels like it’s been torn away, and the leftover stump cauterized with hot iron.

  I’ve been shot.

  The spray of bullets hits the screaming and scattering people around us.

  Face twisted with fear, Nero leaps across the table, grabbing me in a tight embrace and covering me with his body as we fall.

  My breath vacates my lungs as we hit the floor, but I’m glad to be down because I feel like I’m about to faint from the agony in my shoulder.

  On top of me, Nero jolts, as if struck by a bullet. However, there’s no pain on his face, just fury of frightening intensity.

  Whoever these shooters are, they would be crazy not to finish him off. If he lives, he’ll make them regret being born.

  More gunfire. It sounds like either the ice sculptures or people’s heads are exploding around us, and Nero’s body jerks again and again.

  The tiny corner of my brain that’s not screaming in terror keeps repeating one thought over and over: Nero is taking bullets for me.

  The machine gun goes off again.

  Nero tenses, and my ribs shatter with apocalyptic pain.

  A bullet must’ve gone through him and into my chest.

  Blood fills my lungs and bubbles up my throat as my heart stops beating.

  Chapter Eight

  I’m back in the restaurant just as Nero finishes his order.

  “And what can I get you?” The waiter smiles his fake smile at me, just as he did in my vision.

  “Run!” I shout at Nero and leap to my feet.

  As I sprint for the restaurant exit, the same wave of anxiety spreads through me—only now I know what’s behind it.

  To my relief, Nero is on my tail.

  I screech to a halt in the middle of the road—just as the police car pulls onto the street and heads my way.

  Making eye contact with the officers, I wave my arms like a psychotic cheerleader.

  Nero steps in front of me protectively.

  If the cops decide to ram someone with their car, it would be him, not me.

  I wonder what would happen if he was hit? Something tells me Nero is harder to kill than even a vampire.

  “Did you see a vision?” he asks over his shoulder.

  “Yes,” I hiss. “Someone with machine guns is going to shoot up the whole restaurant. It’ll be from a black van that’s about to turn onto this street.”

  The police car stops.

  Nero takes that as his cue to rush to the sidewalk and stare intently at the oncoming traffic.

  Only now do I realize how crazy I must look to the police—but not as crazy as I would sound if I told them the exact truth.

  Not that I can tell them about a vision—or anything supernatural-sounding—without the Mandate turning me into an orifice-bleeding mess or worse.

  “I heard a gunshot,” I lie and point in the direction where the van is to appear.

  The cops pepper me with questions, and I expand on my lie with all the earnestness of an expert magician.

  Toward the end of my explanation, I spot the black van. It stops a few feet behind the police car.

  This was my plan—to have the cops block their path and provide discouragement.

  Hopefully.

  They may have enough firepower to take on these two officers.

  Just like in my vision, the van windows are tinted—yet despite the lack of visibility, I can feel the malevolent gazes from behind the dark glass.

  Nero moves as though he’s about to run after the van. Then he looks back at me, then at the van, then back at me.

  I can practically see the gears turning in his mind.

  Catch the would-be shooters or stay with me in case of danger?

  Making a swift decision, I act as scared as I’d be if I saw a hungry drekavac. “In that van.” I point with a shaking finger. “There’s a guy with a gun inside. I just saw him.”

  As if trying to buy me credibility, the van’s tires screech as it speeds backward.

  “Quickly, they’re getting away,” I urge the confused officers.

  And the Oscar goes to Sasha.

  Telling me to stay put, the cops rush back into their car, turn on the siren, and back away after the van.

  I exhale a breath of relief I didn’t realize I was holding as Nero comes toward me.

  “Let’s take you home.” He grabs my elbow.

  I nod mutely, letting him drag me away at a rapid clip.

  Our semi-jog turns into a sprint, and before long, I find myself in my building elevator, panting like an overheated dog.

  Nero frowns, and I see a promise of cardio training in my future in his gaze. Not waiting until I catch my breath, he sternly asks, “What happened?”

  I explain about my vision as we enter my apartment and go into the kitchen.

  “Okay. Now let’s go over it again.” Nero sits down at the kitch
en table across from me. “You say they wore a mask, but did you see the eyes?”

  Fluffster walks into the kitchen, eyeing us worriedly. “Did I just hear you say you’ve been shot at?”

  I explain that it was a vision and describe as much detail as I can.

  “So no, I couldn’t see the eyes,” I say in conclusion. “It all happened too fast.”

  Nero and Fluffster look upset, each in their own way.

  “Someone is trying to kill you again,” Fluffster says. “Why do you insist on leaving the apartment so much?”

  “Given the nature of this attack, I’m not sure she’d be safe even inside your domain.” Nero’s jaw flexes as he looks at the chinchilla. “If they rang the bell, then shot up the door with a machine gun, even you wouldn’t be able to stop Sasha from catching a bullet.”

  “We’ll have Felix make a robot to open the door,” Fluffster says. “Or better yet, ignore the stupid doorbell altogether.”

  “Yeah, live like shut-ins without ever opening the door,” I say sarcastically. “At least until we starve.”

  “Every time you leave, you almost get killed,” Fluffster counters.

  “We don’t know that this was targeting me.” My stomach rumbles, and I walk over to the fridge to grab cheese, ham, and mayo. Vision bullets don’t seem to mess with my appetite. “The last time I assumed someone was after me, they were really trying to kill Kit. How do we know it’s not the case this time? Maybe this was Nero’s enemy. Or maybe it was someone trying to kill one of the people at that restaurant—there were plenty of VIPs there. Or it could’ve been one of those crazy shooters from the news—some guy who decided to thin out the top one percent. You know, a kind of Occupy Wall Street, but turned violent?” I pointedly look at Nero.

  “The human shooter theory stretches credibility,” he says tersely.

  “And who would dare go after Nero?” Fluffster looks at my boss with a mixture of awe and respect.

  “Someone suicidal?” I grab the bread from the drawer, open the bag, and start spreading the mayo on two slices—one for Nero, and one for me.

  It’s no oyster and caviar, but it’s food.