Misfortune Teller: Sasha Urban Series: Book 2 Read online

  I can’t help looking at Rose’s frail stature and wondering what she means by that. Is she hinting that witches are evil or dangerous in some way? Not wanting to offend her, I steer the conversation to what I’m most curious about. “So how did you and Vlad meet?”

  A small smile appears on Rose’s face. “It was back in France,” she says, her gaze taking on a distant look. “Right before that dreadful Revolution—”

  “Wait,” I say. “What do you mean ‘back in France?’ Are you originally French?”

  “I thought you knew,” Rose says and glances down at her stylish outfit, as though for confirmation.

  “You have no accent,” I say and realize that with the last name of Martin, Rose could indeed be from France.

  “Of course I don’t,” she says proudly. “I’ve lived in the United States since the Civil War. But if you have any doubt…” She proceeds to say something in what sounds like fluent French.

  My hangover reasserts itself, making the hallway spin. “So, when you say you met around the French Revolution, you’re talking about the one with Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, Robespierre, and Napoleon?”

  “Yes,” Rose says. “And the Civil War was the one with Abraham Lincoln, who was such a nice—”

  A door across the hall opens, and one of our neighbors comes out. He has no Mandate aura, and he looks to be around Rose’s age—except I now know that isn’t the case. He could easily be Rose’s great-great-great-grandson.

  Rose wrinkles her nose almost imperceptibly, the way she always does when this neighbor tries to flirt with her. Now that I know what I know—that she has a hot boyfriend (or maybe husband?)—I can’t blame her for her lack of interest in the older man.

  “Hi, Rose,” he says and smiles—a tactical mishap, given the stained teeth.

  “Hello, Mr. Duffertnizer,” Rose says, her voice even cooler than usual.

  Lucifur hisses viciously at the guy, bringing to mind territorial lions on nature shows. Mr. Duffertnizer—who must’ve seen those same nature shows—submissively takes a step back toward his apartment.

  “We’ll have to continue this conversation later, Rose,” I say. “If I don’t get to work soon, Nero will—”

  “Say no more,” Rose says, her expression reminiscent of Mona Lisa. “I best feed Luci before she gets all cranky.”

  Both Mr. Duffertnizer and I look at the small fluff of nerves in Rose’s hands and wonder what this cat would be like when actually cranky. However, he bravely remains in place, and I hear him try to engage Rose in conversation again as I enter the elevator.

  Exiting the building, I grab the first taxi that comes my way and start reading up on the stocks Nero asked me to research.

  * * *

  At 10:45 a.m., I unpeel my eyes from my work monitor. In the ten out of fifteen remaining minutes before my deadline, I write up my recommendation in an email to Nero. However, my finger stops before pressing “Send.”

  This isn’t my best work. Because my time was limited, I had to cut a lot of corners, and the resulting analysis is more instinctual than backed by data.

  If I’m honest with myself, this recommendation is little better than an educated guess.

  “Most of the financial sector runs on hunches,” I tell myself and click the send button decisively.

  Then I stare at my inbox, expecting Nero to instantly reply with some kind of admonishment about my lack of research rigor.

  When no instant reply shows up, I distract myself by checking voicemail.

  Two of the voicemails turn out to be from my dad, and my guilt over doing a crappy analysis blends into a more familiar shame—that of being a questionable daughter. Including these two messages, I’ve probably ignored over a dozen voicemails from Dad at this point.

  Not that he doesn’t deserve it. Like a horrible cliché, he cheated on Mom with his secretary, which led to the break in my adoptive family. I don’t know if my strong reaction to their divorce was normal or if it was made worse by my biological parents abandoning me.

  Whatever the reason, I couldn’t face Dad for years.

  After a while, I did forgive him enough to reconnect. Until his screw-up, he’d been a good dad, and even after the divorce, he’d paid all our bills up until I moved out of Mom’s place—though his shark lawyer had ensured he didn’t have to. However, more recently, he’s left Mom to fend completely for herself, and I’m again mad at him for that. It might be irrational, but it feels like he’s abandoned our family yet again.

  I locate Braxton Urban in my contacts and stare at the number. Do I want to do this? Then my finger taps the screen, and the phone starts ringing before I consciously decide to return the call.

  Have I forgiven my dad, or am I doing this because I have questions for him? He could have Russian ancestry that would explain my domovoi.

  In fact, he could be one of the Cognizant himself.

  Of course, it’s also possible that my recent near-death experiences have put my anger at him in perspective. If one of those zombies had killed me, Dad would’ve been extra crushed because we hadn’t seen each other in so long.

  The phone keeps ringing, and I realize I’m secretly hoping I get his voicemail—which is completely illogical. I guess a part of me thinks that if I leave him a message, it would be possible for me to pretend my earlier avoidance was at least in part a game of phone tag and not—

  “Sasha!” Dad’s gruff voice is overflowing with excitement. “Sweetheart, I’m so happy to hear from you.”

  “Hi, Dad,” I say sheepishly. His enthusiasm amps my guilt more than any chastisement would have. If it were Mom in Dad’s shoes, she’d start with, “So you remembered you have a mother?”

  “I saw you on TV,” Dad says. “You were amazing.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say and wonder if he’s actively trying to make me feel guilty. Now I regret that I wasted the invite to the TV studio on Mom. If I were honest with myself, I’d known that Mom wouldn’t show up, just as I’m now convinced that Dad would’ve flown from San Francisco, where he now lives, to be there for me.

  Then again, if he had come, he would’ve seen a zombie try to kill me and then gotten glamoured into forgetfulness by vampires, so maybe it’s for the best he wasn’t there.

  “Please don’t tell me how you did that,” Dad says, repeating what he’d always say to the teenage me when one of my effects fooled him—a rarity when I was starting out.

  “Sure,” I say as sarcastically as I did back in the day. I guess Dad didn’t see the debunking YouTube video. “I was so going to tell you before, but now that you don’t want to know…”

  Following the old script, Dad laughs his distinct, guttural laugh.

  Instinctively, I glance at my inbox. There’s an email from Nero that’s just one line.

  Come to my office, now.

  “Dad, I got a work thing, but we should get together and catch up,” I say into the phone. “Are you going to be in New York anytime soon?”

  Dad doesn’t speak for a few seconds. He probably can’t believe I just invited him to meet. “I’m here until Tuesday,” he finally says. “That’s why I called.”

  “Awesome. Are you free for lunch on Monday?”

  “I’m always free for you, sweetheart. How about Fuji Emporium? You still like sushi, don’t you?”

  “Sounds great,” I say. “I’m sorry, I really have to run now.”

  “No problem,” he says. “I’ll see you there at 12:30. Monday.”

  “See you.” I hang up the phone just as I hear Dad say, “Love you—”

  I stare at the phone for a moment, then switch my attention to my inbox.

  For some unknown reason, my heart rate is up, as though I’m afraid of what will happen when I meet Nero. But that’s absurd. Yes, meetings with one’s boss are important, and can cause stress, but you’d think with the last few days under my belt, I’d be beyond such mundane worries. Unless this is excitement over meeting my new Mentor?

  I know wha
t it’s not—jitters at seeing a person I dreamed about kissing.

  And briefly thought I actually kissed.

  It can’t be that, because it was Kit, a shape-shifting Councilor, all along.

  The real Nero has no clue that we kissed, because we never did.

  As I make my way through the building in the direction of Nero’s office, the anxious symptoms worsen, and I resort to relaxing breaths in the elevator in order to calm down.

  Am I worried he will fire me for the crappy job this morning? And if he does, would he also end his Mentor responsibilities (whatever they are)? Would I ever see him again—

  Wait.

  Why do I care if I see him again?

  Almost on autopilot, I tell Venessa—one of the more annoying specimens in Nero’s horde of assistants—that I’m expected. She looks incredulous for a moment, but then reluctantly instructs me to proceed.

  My treacherous hands shake as I reach for the handle of Nero’s office door.

  Knees wobbly, I stumble into the brightly lit, spacious, modern-artsy room as though it were the dark and cold underground lair of an evil villain.

  Chapter Three

  Nero’s broad-shouldered back is to me. He’s standing next to one of those fancy sit-to-stand desks that is currently in a standing position. His shirt hugs his frame, and as his fingers jump around the keyboard, his lean muscles dance under the cotton.

  I swallow loudly.

  He minutely stiffens. Without turning, he says, “Sit.”

  “I’m not a dog,” I’m tempted to say, but refrain. Instead, without taking my gaze off my boss’s/Mentor’s imposing body, I plop into the ultra-ergonomic visitor’s chair.

  He keeps typing, and my eyes don’t leave his back.

  What is up with me today?

  Nero presses some button on his desk, and it slowly turns 180 degrees. He moves with the desk’s rotation, and I soon find myself staring at his chiseled face.

  “I didn’t realize your desk could turn like that,” I say, my mouth dry. He doesn’t reply, so I clear my throat and add, “It’s pretty cool.”

  “I’ll be right with you,” he says in that almost comically deep, animalistic growl of a voice that impresses the female staff so much.

  Everyone but me.

  At least I didn’t think his voice affected me. Today, I’m slightly less sure.

  Could it be because the voice was emitted by those stern lips I vividly recall kissing?

  No.

  This is just the stupid hangover messing with my mind. That and the adrenaline generated by worries about my inadequate research.

  Nero presses another button on his desk, and the thing slides into a sitting position.

  He sinks into his mesh chair as though it were a throne, his eyes never leaving the screen.

  My nervousness slowly morphs into irritation.

  How long does he plan to keep me waiting like this?

  I take a calming breath and remind myself that he can keep me waiting as long as he wants. He pays my salary, and if he wants to pay me for sitting, so be it.

  Trying not to fidget, I look around the posh office. After all, this is possibly my last chance to see it.

  The size of my apartment, Nero’s office has a gym, a small library, and according to office rumor, a steam room.

  Both the gym and the steam room bring unwelcome images to my mind, most of which feature sweat gleaming on Nero’s naked body. I desperately scan the room for something else to think about. Something unsexy—like a lurking proctologist with hives, who also works for the IRS.

  A gorgeous painting of a surreal landscape catches my eye. At the bottom sprawls a silver Grand Canyon-like mountain ridge, while at the top are unfamiliar star formations with seven differently shaded moons. And in case it didn’t seem otherworldly enough, a magnificent aurora borealis completes the picture.

  Is this one of Nero’s legendary paintings?

  According to office gossip, Nero paints to relax—a story I’ve always found incredulous. I have a hard time picturing Nero, the very model of a Type A personality, ever relaxing.

  “This is some great research,” Nero says, his gaze still on the screen.

  “You’re finally talking to me?” I say, in part because I can’t believe he’s talking about my half-assed guesstimates, and in part because I still feel slighted at his treatment—boss or not.

  “You should learn to gracefully accept a compliment when given.” Nero finally deigns to look at me. His gray-blue eyes seem to hold a faint hint of mirth, which if true, would be the first time I’ve seen that. “Your analysis is in sync with my… intuition about these companies.”

  My eyes widen at the implication. I’m pretty sure his so-called intuition is a euphemism for material nonpublic information—or insider trading, as the SEC, the government agency that prosecutes that sort of thing, would call it.

  “Thank you,” I say, making a point not to clarify what Nero meant, so that if the SEC questions me later, I won’t have to perjure myself.

  “I want you to do the same great job for this portfolio,” Nero says and turns his screen toward me.

  “Sure.” I look at the list of stocks, make a quick mental estimate, and say, “I should get this done by the end of next week.”

  “I need it by five today.” Nero turns his screen back and types away for a second. My phone instantly dings.

  I pat my pockets to locate the device. Finding it, I quickly scroll through his email to confirm the impossibility of what he’s asking. Trying to make sure my voice doesn’t crack, I say, “There are about twenty stocks on this list.”

  “Twenty-six.” Nero looks away from the screen and straight into my eyes.

  I stare back, unblinking. He must be a staring contest champion, though, because I’m the first to look away. Keeping my gaze trained on his left ear (and noticing that, bizarrely, he has a very symmetrical earlobe), I say, “That’s not a lot of time.”

  “I’m confident you can handle it.” Nero looks back at his screen as though our conversation is over.

  I sit and wait for a few seconds, so I don’t jump up and slug him. When it’s clear Nero has forgotten I’m still in the room, I pointedly clear my throat and say, “What about Mentoring?”

  “I’ve been mentoring you since you started working here,” he says and looks at me again. “You’re one of the best analysts—”

  “I’m talking about being a seer.” The room around me feels uncomfortably hot, and before I realize what my hands are doing, I unbutton my top shirt button.

  “Ah. That.” Nero’s gaze falls to my exposed collarbone and takes on such a predatory expression that I instantly button the shirt back up and wish I could also cover it with a shawl. Bringing his gaze back to my face, he says, “I think you’re making great progress.”

  I firmly place my hands on my lap and wish it were appropriate work behavior to grab your boss by his starched shirt collar and give him a good shake. However, since violence is frowned upon on Wall Street, I even out my ragged breathing and say as fake-sweetly as I can, “What gave you that idea?”

  “The way you acquitted yourself in front of the New York Council.” He lets go of his keyboard.

  “What do you mean the New York Council?” I ask, frowning. “Don’t you mean the Council?”

  Nero lifts his eyebrow. “You didn’t think a ruling body for all the Cognizant in the world would care about a case such as yours?”

  “So there are other Councils?” I frown. “Then why did everyone talk about the Council instead of a Council?”

  “I imagine it’s for the same reason people call Manhattan ‘The City,’” Nero says.

  “Okay…” I decide to delve into that later and say, “So you really think I’ve made ‘great progress’ as a seer?”

  “Don’t you?” Nero’s blue-gray eyes acquire a steely gleam, making the dark rings around the irises stand out.

  “No.” I fight the urge to look away again. “I was
lucky to have had a psychic dream about the Council encounter, and if I hadn’t, I’d—”

  “You had a dream?” Nero’s eyes narrow intently. “Not simply a vision? Tell me everything.” He crosses his arms.

  “It wasn’t just one dream,” I say. “It was many.”

  I proceed to tell Nero about the time I passed out during my TV appearance, and how that fainting dream gave me a warning of an impending zombie attack. I then describe the dream that allowed me to eavesdrop on Chester and Beatrice’s conversation, the one where I saw the corpses that later tried to kill me. I move on to the dream where Beatrice reanimated a dying woman at a hospital, and how I saw a version of the encounter with the Council during a nap in a cab right after surviving that attack.

  The dream I don’t tell him about is the one in which I kissed him—or as it turned out, Kit.

  Nero’s expression is unreadable as I speak, but when I get to the dream I had after I passed out during a fight with Beatrice, the one in which I was actually stabbed to death, the muscles in his neck tighten and I notice a slight tick in his jaw. I guess he doesn’t like how close he came to losing his Sasha-shaped cash cow.

  In conclusion, I say, “Tonight, I had no dreams at all.”

  “So not a single awake vision?” Nero uncrosses his arms, a contemplative look appearing on his face.

  “I can have an awake vision?” I have a hard time suppressing my excitement. “Is an awake vision what it sounds like? A vision of the future where I’m—”

  “And every dream had something to do with a stressful event,” Nero says, as though to himself. He seems oblivious to my questions.

  “Well—”

  The door behind me opens, and Venessa storms in. “Sir”—she looks at Nero almost lovingly—“your 11:30 is here. It’s Mr.—”

  “Ah, right.” Nero shakes his head, as though to clear it of my plebeian problems. “Send him in.”

  Venessa gives me a baleful look and closes the door.

  Nero points at his screen and says, “I need that research by 4:45.”