Sleight of Fantasy

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

“Please have a seat,” Lucretia says when I enter her office.

I plop onto the brown leather chaise, stretch my legs out, and practice relaxing breathing as she herself had taught me.

She watches me with seemingly infinite patience.

When I calm down enough, I reexamine my surroundings.

Now that I know Lucretia is centuries old, the traditional feel of this office makes more sense. She might’ve owned that antique bookshelf since it was new, and watched her book collection turn yellow and pricey-looking over the years.

Then again, Nero is ancient too, yet his office is ultra-modern.

She gets up and closes the intricate curtains that cover the glass walls of her office.

“You think that gives us privacy?” I say. “Nero no doubt has monitoring equipment all over this room.”

“We have a contract, Nero and I.” She walks over to the bookshelf, grabs something, and approaches my chaise. “What happens in this room is private.”

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to assume that man is a liar and a cheat.” I look around but see no hidden devices—but that just means someone did their job well.

“It’s a written, binding contract.” Lucretia hands me the object she’s holding—some sort of an ancient doll. Am I supposed to squeeze it for stress relief? Before I get a chance to ask, she adds, “Such contracts cannot be broken.”

“He can steal your notes.” I squeeze the toy. Definitely stress relief. “He did it to my mom’s therapist.”

“Privacy of my notes is in the contract.” She lowers herself into her throne-like chair.

“Well, okay, but for all I know, you might report everything I say to him yourself.”

She exhales sharply, looking as though she’s been gut-punched.

“I’m sorry.” I drop my gaze to the doll in my hands. “I’m not exactly in a trusting mood today.”

“Why don’t you tell me about that,” she says softly. “Pretend like we indeed don’t have any privacy. Surely there are topics we can still discuss?”

“You’re right.” I straighten in the chair and look at her. “How much do you know about my situation?”

“Not much. Why don’t you run me through everything from the beginning?”

So I launch into my story—the TV performance gone wrong, the zombie attacks, the visions, the Council, teaming up with Ariel to deal with a necromancer named Beatrice, Nero’s orcs, Beatrice’s succubus girlfriend Harper, and Harper’s revenge.

I then start telling her about the mess with Baba Yaga, and she moves to the edge of her seat when I get to the part about the bannik.

Why does that, of all the horrific things that happened to me, get special attention?

“Do you know Yaroslav?” I ask, going on a hunch.

She fidgets, and a hint of color spreads over her cheeks. “When he had more autonomy, Yaroslav was a client of mine. We still meet from time to time, but less formally, given his new situation.”

“You still meet him?” The idea of the bannik seeing a shrink seems odd, but then again, I’m seeing her myself, so why not? In fact, if I were under Baba Yaga’s thumb the way Yaroslav is, I’d sure need loads of therapy.

“Why shouldn’t I meet him?” Her blush deepens. “I’m allowed to treat myself to a spa treatment from time to time, so why not chat with someone who happens to already be there?”

“I figure Baba Yaga might mind,” I say.

“She can’t mind what she doesn’t know about.” Normal (for a pre-vamp) paleness finally returns to Lucretia’s face. “We only converse when no one else is in his sauna. The banya is open to anyone willing to pay, and Baba Yaga takes pride in the profits the place makes. It’s actually very popular in the Cognizant community, especially with the vampires.”

“Seriously?”

“Why not?” She lifts her eyebrows. “Vampires like spas too. I saw Gaius there on numerous occasions, and some other Enforcers too. When I was there last week, there was a—”

“You were there last week?” I nearly get up from my chaise.

“Sure. But before your unfortunate adventure.” She bites her lip. “I can’t tell you more details, though—client confidentiality, you understand.”

“But—”

“Please, Sasha,” Lucretia says. “Let’s talk about you.”

I sigh. She’s clearly back in her shrink mode and won’t say more about this intriguing topic.

I can’t stop my mind from wondering, though.

Does Lucretia also have an inappropriate relationship? With a client, no less? Yaroslav was extremely easy on the eyes, so I can’t blame her for—

“Please tell me the rest of the story,” Lucretia says, leaning forward to gaze at me intently.

Oops. Did my emotions somehow betray what I was just thinking about?

She is an empath.

“I was almost near the end,” I say and proceed to tell her about the bannik’s vision-based plan for my escape and what followed it. I then conclude with how the search for my parents revealed Nero’s role in my life last night.

Though I don’t tell Lucretia about the kiss, I get the same feeling as with Rose: that the shrink might’ve deduced it somehow.

Her expression appears far too knowing.

“That is a lot to handle,” Lucretia says when I fall silent. “Your emotions are all over the map. Nero was right to suggest that you see me.”

“He didn’t suggest.” I squeeze the doll. “He commanded.”

“Well.” She gives me an enigmatic smile. “At least his heart was in the right place.”

“His heart is probably a hunk of metal he keeps in some underground bunker,” I grumble.

She chuckles. “In any case, you’re here, so you might as well get some benefit from the situation.”

“I guess.”

“Why don’t you choose a topic. Any topic. We can then simply talk about it as friends,” she suggests.

“I honestly don’t know where to start.” Somehow, she’s putting me at ease by just being in the same room—a strange effect I noticed the first time we met.

“I sensed a lot of guilt when you were telling me your story,” she says, “and guilt is a heavy burden to carry. So unless it has something to do with the forbidden topic of Nero, why don’t we talk about what’s making you feel that way?”

Do I have any Nero-related guilt?

I did spy on him using Felix’s gizmo, and I also broke into his house.

Nope. No guilt on that score.

If anything, I’m almost proud.

The only thing I may regret is kissing him back. Maybe. Still, I don’t feel guilty about it.

If anyone should feel guilty about the kiss, it’s Nero. Hanky-panky wasn’t part of the deal he made with my father, I’m pretty sure.

“We can talk about something else entirely,” Lucretia says when I remain silent. “There were some very complex emotions I detected toward the end of your story, and—”

“Guilt is a good topic,” I say quickly. No way am I digging into the emotions surrounding the kiss. “I feel extremely guilty about Ariel’s predicament.”

“Vampire blood addiction is a horrible affliction.” Lucretia steeples her fingers. “I actually worked at that rehab facility early in my career. It’s excellent. If Ariel really wants to get better, they will be able to help her.”

“I don’t know if she wants to get better.” I pull my legs to my chest and hug them. “I hope so.”

“Hmm.” Lucretia stares at me unblinkingly, as if she’s peering into my soul. “I know logic doesn’t fix situations such as this, but it might be a good place to start.”

“Logic?”

“You didn’t drag Ariel to fight Beatrice,” Lucretia says. “It was the other way around. She was going to face the necromancer, and you forced her to bring you along. Yet you’re acting as though she was hurt because you made her go.”

“She was protecting me from my problems.” I lower my legs and hug the squeeze toy against me, as I would Fluffster. “If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have gotten hurt and thus tasted vampire blood.”

“Do you realize that one drink from Gaius should not have made her an addict?” Lucretia says.

“No?”

“No.” She winces. “I know this from personal experience. I was hurt some time ago, and by coincidence, Gaius saved me in a similar fashion. I didn’t become addicted in the slightest. It’s a lot like getting morphine after a horrific injury; any chance of euphoria is miniscule.”

“Even if what you say is true, I suspect she got hooked because of her PTSD.”

“You say that as though that is your fault,” she says. “You didn’t send her to war. You didn’t—”

“Still, I could’ve done more.” I catch myself nearly choking the poor doll and loosen my grip. “I could’ve suggested that Ariel come see you, for example.”

“Do you think that would’ve worked?” she asks. “Isn’t she in denial about her PTSD?”

“It would’ve worked if I’d tried hard enough,” I say stubbornly. “Besides, the addiction is only a part of it all. I also failed to notice that my friend was kidnapped.”

“You said she’d stopped coming home before the kidnapping. How were you supposed to know that she wasn’t just out with Gaius?”

“I guess.” I lower the doll to my lap. “Still doesn’t make me feel that much better.”

Actually, that’s a lie.

Somehow, I do feel a little better.

“We can talk more about this later,” she says—no doubt sensing my relief with her empath powers. “Were there any other guilt-related issues you wanted to discuss?”

“Maybe,” I surprise myself by saying. “Or more precisely, my lack of guilt.”

She gives me an encouraging look, and I feel a strong compulsion to squeeze the damning words out.

“I shot and killed Baba Yaga’s men.” I grab the doll again. “And I didn’t feel any remorse about it. I kept on shooting them,” I whisper, recalling it with a shudder. “And I didn’t give their deaths much thought until this very moment. Beatrice and Harper’s deaths, too. Granted, I didn’t personally—”

“I can feel how much those actions bother you,” Lucretia says, frowning.

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Well… I’m worried I’m some kind of monster.”

“Don’t be. I’ve known real monsters in my life,” she says sharply. Then she inhales a big, calming breath and seems to shake off whatever oddness came over her. “You’re not like that,” she says in a steadier voice. “Your very questions demonstrate that you’re capable of remorse.” She smiles thinly. “Monsters don’t bring up their sins to their therapists. Monsters aren’t conflicted.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m conflicted.” I put the doll on the coffee table next to my chaise. “What you’re sensing is probably due to a certain someone I sometimes want to murder.”

The smile spreads to the corners of her eyes. “The source of your angst might feel the same way.”

I frown. “I’m not sure he—I mean, the source—is capable of feelings.”

“You’d be surprised,” she says, then glances at the drapes. “When it comes to feelings, the hypothetical person might be just as afraid as you, even if your reasons are different.”

“Afraid?” I’m tempted to reach for the doll again, but instead, I just stare at her in confusion, unsure of what I find more impossible: the preposterous things she’s implying about me, or that Nero can be afraid of anything.

“I think I’d rather you arrive at these insights over many sessions.” She looks down. “I’m not being a good therapist by bringing this up in the first place.”

“But now that you did, you have to elaborate,” I say. “As a friend.”

She glances at the door.

“You said we wouldn’t be overheard,” I remind her. “You can’t use that as an excuse when it suits you.”

“Fine.” She faces me. “You haven’t had a relationship for a long time. Nor did you ever have one where you felt emotionally vulnerable. Am I right?”

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.