Misfortune Teller

Chapter 2-3

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 what 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.