Okay, maybe only a small handful of faces show any hint of caring about my existence, and the class probably fell silent because they thought I might be Dr. Hekima—who, unfortunately, isn’t in the room yet.

The place still looks like a support group hangout, only now it also has the feel of a high school cafeteria—with all the horrors that implies.

There are about twenty teens of high-school age sitting around the room, split into what seems like thirty cliques.

Walking as though through poisonous molasses, I get a folding chair by the wall.

Most of the kids appear quite average. However, one clique consists of four girls who look more like actresses from some teen movie—far too mature for their age, and with clothes, hair, and makeup that should require a team of stylists and hairdressers.

I mentally dub them “the beehive.”

Clutching my chair, I scan my surroundings, trying to decide where to sit. If I were a teenager, that would be a life-defining choice.

Fortunately, I’m no longer a teenager, and the decision is easy. There are only two spots available, unless I’m willing to ask teens to move their chairs to make room for me—and I’d rather get a root canal.

One spot is next to a cute, petite girl with glasses who is sitting on her own, and the other spot is next to the beehive.

I turn toward the small girl with glasses.

“Is she in the right place?” one of the four bees asks in a hushed but quite audible voice as soon as my back is to them.

“I wonder what she is,” says another—this one not even pretending to be whispering. “Maybe a pre-vamp?”

“I doubt it,” says yet another, perkier bee. “They never look so frumpy.”

“O.M.G.,” yet another one of them “whispers” in a voice that sounds like she smoked five packs a day for sixty years. “Is she about to sit with the Psycho?”

I unfold my chair confidently next to the small girl they called Psycho and hang my messenger bag on the back of the chair, figuring I might be less tempted to use its contents this way.

My new neighbor doesn’t look up from her notebook, on which she’s scrawling something as though her life depends on it.

Poor girl.

I recognize her haunted behavior.

I was a late bloomer as a teen and it sucked, but this girl is probably always going to stay this tiny and young-looking—a blessing when she’s forty but a curse for her today.

Done dissing me, the beehive moves on to a discussion of my new neighbor—at least I assume that’s whom they’re discussing. From the not-quite-whispered comments I catch, you’d think they were talking about a zombie with leprosy instead of this cute-as-a-button girl. According to them, my neighbor’s horn-rimmed glasses are a hideous disfigurement, as are her clothes, her posture, her hairstyle, her bag, and everything else.

Of course, I think her glasses are stylish and make her look like a sexy librarian in training, or a hot hipster chick. But what do I know? Apparently, my nice pair of black jeans and leather-studded, Criss Angel-inspired top are “frumpy.”

My neighbor looks up from her notebook, staring at me with eyes so wide they barely fit into her spectacles. You’d think I just did that “appearing Sasha” illusion I’ve always dreamed of performing on TV.

“Hi,” I say in the friendliest tone I’m capable of. “I hope you don’t mind that I sat next to you.”

“It’s a free country.” The girl smiles sheepishly, exposing a set of braces and the cutest dimples I’ve ever seen.

“I’m Sasha,” I say, and battling the urge to pinch that adorable cheek, I extend my hand to her.

“Maya.” She gives my hand the limpest shake I’ve ever gotten.

There’s some snickering from the direction of the beehive, but I ignore them. As loudly as I can, I say, “It’s very nice to meet you, Maya.”

She blushes and resumes whatever she was doing in her notebook.

The mentalist in me can’t help sneaking a peek.

She’s working on a drawing—an eerily accurate caricature of the prettiest of the four annoying girls. We must share a brain, because she gave her subject the body of a chubby bee with a crown on her head.

The bee’s flawless perky nose looks more like a pig snout in the caricature, and the resting bitch face is more pronounced than in real life. However, the flowing healthy hair, the annoyed pout on those perfectly full lips, and the pointy chin leave no doubt as to who it is. As I watch, Maya writes “Roxy” underneath the caricature, flips the page, and starts drawing another member of the clique.

“Ma’am,” says Roxy exaggeratingly loud, and her three minions snicker at her wit. “Madam?”

Feeling a hundred years old, I pointedly ignore the summons.

“Excuse me,” Roxy says louder and stares right at me until I can’t pretend she’s yelling at someone else.

“Oh.” I raise my eyebrows at her. “You were talking to me?”

“The Psycho has chlamydia,” she says to the merriment of her friends. “I’ve read that you can get chlamydia even if you have lesbian sex.”

All of the kids except Maya laugh, though some might be faking it in the way people in the corporate world chuckle at their boss’s stupid jokes.

“Wow, that’s very helpful,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm practiced on the hecklers who’d at some point dared to disrupt my magic performances. “Though you seem to be an expert, I’ll share some more useful pointers with you.” I look at her rightmost friend. “You can easily get bacterial vaginosis that same way.” I look at the leftmost minion. “Human papillomavirus too. Not to mention trichomoniasis.” I look at the third minion before meeting Roxy’s seething gaze. “Also of note, even when you don’t have the blisters, your genital herpes are still contagious to—”

I stop talking because I notice Dr. Hekima standing in the open doorway, gray eyebrow raised to the middle of his forehead.

Roxy looks Grinch-gleeful, which tells me Dr. Hekima must’ve heard at least one mention of STDs.

“That is useful information,” Dr. Hekima says to the class, his expression deadpan. “Human ailments can affect most of the Cognizant, so you should always take care of yourselves.”

Roxy chokes on her disappointment and whispers something inaudible to her clique.

“Roxy,” Dr. Hekima says with a soft undertone of menace. “Please save the questions for the end of the class.”

To my shock, Roxy plasters an obedient mask on her face and bobs her head in agreement. Dr. Hekima’s Cognizant superpower must be to strike fear into whatever passes for the heart in the ample bosoms of entities like Roxy.

In dead silence, he walks toward the row of chairs, grabs himself a seat, and unfolds it in front of the class.

With a tiny frown, he looks in my direction.

The beehive eagerly follow his gaze.

“Maya?” Dr. Hekima says.

My neighbor jolts into alertness.

Caught up in drawing, she didn’t notice our teacher’s arrival.

“Please place that notebook at my feet,” he tells her. “You can pick it up after class.”

Clutching the notebook to her chest, Maya jumps to her feet and approaches Dr. Hekima. Bending over, she places it on the floor as though it were made of glass.

“First order of business,” Dr. Hekima says when Maya is back in her seat. “I’d like you all to welcome a new student, Sasha Urban.”

Everyone looks at me with varying degrees of indifference, and I smile and wave like a beauty pageant contestant.

“Good.” Dr. Hekima folds his arms across his chest. “We’re going to discuss heredity today. To start, when I call out your name, please mention the type of Cognizant you are, or as you like to call it, ‘your powers.’”

Everyone but Maya looks excited at the prospect.

“Roxy,” Dr. Hekima says. “Why don’t you start?”

Roxy gracefully stands and proudly raises her chin. “I’m a werewolf.” She looks to her right, and Minion One sits up straighter as she says, “So is Maddie.” She then looks to her left. “So is Ashley.”

Minion Two—aka Ashley—squares her shoulders.

“And, of course, Tiffany is also a werewolf,” Roxy concludes as Minion Three beams like she’s just won a medal.

So, Roxy isn’t a Queen Bee. She’s a Queen B, where the B stands for “bitch”—the proper term for a female canine.

“Sasha,” Dr. Hekima says, bringing me out of my impromptu onomastics. “Why don’t you go next?”

I gingerly get up. “I’m a seer.”

Everyone except Dr. Hekima looks as though I just claimed to be Santa Claus.

“Maya,” Dr. Hekima says. “Can you go next?”

The beehive, or more accurately the b-hive, all snicker for some reason.

“Psychometry,” Maya says so softly that I doubt anyone besides me heard it.

“Psycho-what?” Roxy says, feigning innocence. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“She said, ‘Psychometry.’” Dr. Hekima gives Roxy a measuring stare. “An ability to discover facts about an event or person by touching inanimate objects associated with them.”

“That’s really impressive,” I whisper to Maya when she sits back down. “I’ve faked that power during some of my restaurant performances.” When Maya looks at me in confusion, I add, “I am, or was, an illusionist.”

I look up to see Dr. Hekima giving me a warning glare. Realizing I’m talking in class—and missing some useful and interesting information about my classmates—I shut up and listen.

There are a few pre-vamps in the room, a couple of types of witches and warlocks, a telepath girl, a boy who can make humans do his bidding, a brother and sister who claim to be elves but look nothing like the ones I saw at the club, a tall kid who has telekinetic powers, and a few teens who can manipulate luck, just like Chester.

As I listen, instead of getting blown away by yet more impossible beings and abilities, I worry about something more mundane. My earlier idea of performing at Earth Club seems more and more like a bust. I might show them miracles, but the Cognizant would just shrug and say, “So you read his mind and/or bent that fork with the force of your will. So what? A kid somewhere can do that.”

“Notice how all of you mentioned only a single power.” Dr. Hekima crosses his legs. “Just to double check, raise your hand if you have more than one power.”

No one does.

“Now raise your hand if your parents are different types of Cognizant,” he says.

A few hands—including that of Roxy—go up.

I wonder what her non-werewolf parent is. Perhaps a harpy, or the unleashed kraken?

“This is not a coincidence.” Dr. Hekima steeples his fingers. “Multiple powers are exceedingly rare, though they do happen.”

I look around the room. Most of the teens appear as fascinated with this topic as I am.

“Does anyone know examples from history?” Dr. Hekima asks, his gaze sliding from student to student.

A member of the b-hive raises her hand.

“Yes, Maddie.” Dr. Hekima nods at the minion in question.

Maddie stands up and clears her raspy throat, as though getting ready to regurgitate a pack of cigarettes. “Loki could do witchcraft, like a warlock, and he was a trickster too.”

Dr. Hekima raises his eyebrows.

“I mean, a probability manipulator,” she quickly amends, glancing at one of the Chester wannabes.

“Very good,” Dr. Hekima says. “Anyone else?”

“Lilith,” Roxy says without raising her hand. “She was a trickster like Loki, but also a vampire.”

Okay, it’s official.

I am blown away again.

Loki? Lilith? As in, from mythology? They were Cognizant?

“Roxy, please raise your hand and use precise language,” Dr. Hekima says, his jaw tightening minutely. Turning away from her, he looks at the class. “I’m glad Roxy brought up Lilith, another probability manipulator. They are a special case. If a parent’s probability manipulation powers are strong, and he or she desires offspring with dual powers, the chances of that go up—as that is the nature of probability manipulation itself.”

Roxy looks like she ate a lemon. It’s obvious she’s itching to speak without raising her hand again.

Dr. Hekima gives her a preemptive glare, and she keeps her mouth shut.

“Ability to influence heredity is also why probability manipulation is the most common power,” he continues. “Having said that, there are a few examples of dual powers without probability manipulation being involved. For instance, Thoth was a seer, a rarity in and of itself”—he glances at me—“but he was also a shapeshifter.”

The kids murmur in awe while I catch myself with my mouth wide open, nearly drooling over all this new Cognizant lore.

“So, for the purposes of what comes next, I’ll discuss the simpler case of a single power,” Dr. Hekima says. “Just know it can be extrapolated to include multiples. Also, I should touch on the fact that while offspring from unions between us and humans are rare, they do happen—and sometimes even yield a Cognizant result.”

Roxy and the rest of the b-hive look pointedly at Maya, while I recall Lucretia’s sadness when she was reminded of her lack of children.

The union between her and her human lover clearly wasn’t one of the lucky ones.

“Because of that,” Dr. Hekima continues, “I’m convinced that only a few genes separate us from humans. Those genes must be the essence of what makes us Cognizant. Our abilities are literally encoded in our DNA.”

He stops for drama, but only I seem to be blown away by his statement.

If he’s right, someone could figure out the genetic combinations that give certain powers, and then use gene-splicing technologies such as CRISPR to create gods.

“Of course, research into this aspect of DNA is forbidden by all the Councils worldwide,” Dr. Hekima says as though he read my mind—and hey, maybe he did. “However, the New York Council approved for me to teach you all how heredity works, so the remainder of today’s lecture is going to be a crash course in genetics and how it applies to genes behind the powers.”

As the only college grad in the group, I’m severely disappointed when Dr. Hekima starts talking about Mendelian genetics, just to conclude that it can’t be used to predict Cognizant traits. He then launches into DNA structure and replication, protein encoding and folding, and by the time he gets to how Cognizant genes might propagate, I’m bored out of my mind. His explanation isn’t all that different from the way some other, less miraculous traits are passed on—something I aced so recently at Columbia University.

“Are there any questions?” Dr. Hekima says toward the end of the class, glancing at his watch.

Everyone looks down, but I raise my hand.

He grudgingly nods at me. I get the feeling he isn’t used to someone actually taking him up on the questions offer.

“How does human belief tie into this DNA theory of powers?” I ask, trying not to sound overeager and probably failing. “I was told the Cognizant of the past got stronger if they had believers.”

He rubs his forehead. “No one is sure about how such energy is transferred—or even if any energy is transferred. In the context of DNA, though, the new power information is likely controlled via epigenetics. Do you know what that is?” he asks, and a small smile forms in the corners of his eyes at the sight of dumbfounded teens looking from him to me and back.

“It’s when something in the environment affects our genes,” I answer. “One way it works is via DNA methylation. The example they gave us at Columbia was that of the agouti mice. Identical twin mice with this gene can be orange and obese or brown and slender based on how much folic acid the mama mouse ate when she was pregnant.”

“Exactly right.” He smiles at me full on and doesn’t check his watch—though something tells me he wanted to do so just then.

I raise my hand again, and he nods.

“What about creatures like orcs, or more ephemeral beings like the domovoi, who spend most of their time as either spirits or embodying a pet?” I rattle out. “Can that sort of complexity be encoded in the DNA?”

“I think it’s easy enough to encode something like ‘orc’ in the DNA, but what you’re asking about is more the how question. Specifically, how does our power manifest?” He looks at me, and I nod so vigorously my neck hurts.

“Power manifestation is a much less understood aspect of our nature. All Cognizant start out looking as human as everyone in this room, but at some point in their development, orcs become orcs, and some other subtypes of Cognizant lose their corporealness altogether, or go through even more miraculous transformations. My theory is that orcs have most in common with the wolf form of werewolves—without the option of turning back, that is—but it’s just a theory at this point. More research is needed to—”

“What if human scientists stumble onto the genes that make the Cognizant what we are?” I interrupt, eager to ask as many questions as I can while he’s giving answers.

This time, he does look at his watch. “The Enforcers have their tentacles in all major laboratories,” he says hurriedly. “Not just to prevent the extremely unlikely possibility you describe, but also to stop human scientists from creating a super-virus that can wipe us out.”

“But genetics research is getting cheaper by the day,” I say, this time without raising my hand. “Isn’t it a matter of time before a kid in some home lab might discover our genes?”

“I’d still worry more about that hypothetical kid creating a plague that wipes out both us and the human race,” Dr. Hekima says, checks his watch once again, and frowns. “I’m afraid we don’t have time for any more questions today, but something you should bear in mind is that this is an introductory course only. If you have a passion for knowledge, you might qualify to attend the Academy—something I urge you all to discuss with your Mentors.”

Great.

I’m sure Nero would be thrilled at the idea of his cash cow attending what sounds like Hogwarts University.

Dr. Hekima gets up, stashes away his chair, and heads for the door.

Maya leaps to her feet and rushes toward her notebook.

With a blur of speed that I wouldn’t have thought possible, Roxy beats Maya to her destination and snatches the notebook with her perfectly manicured paws.

She then opens the book and frowns.

Maya freezes in place, staring at the Queen B’s rapidly darkening expression.

She’s clearly not appreciating the caricatures for the art form that they are.

“You are so dead,” Roxy grits through her teeth, her eyes acquiring the yellow glow I associate with predators in a dark forest.

Maddie, Ashley, and Tiffany start to flank Maya like a pack of wolves—which I guess they are.

I leap to my feet, loop my bag over my shoulder, and place myself between Ashley and Maya.

Maya uses the opening I created to dash for the door.

The b-hive beeline after Maya.

I sprint after them.

Maya takes the stairs down instead of the elevator, and the hive—or the wolf pack or whatever—follows her there.

On a hunch, I summon the elevator, figuring I could follow them down the stairs if the car doesn’t arrive right away.

The elevator must’ve been on this floor already, because the doors open instantly.

I take it all the way down.

As the elevator opens, I see the whole crew exiting the building, with Maya still in the lead but the b-hive catching up.

Rushing for the door, I catch a glimpse of Maddie disappearing down subway stairs.

I follow.

When I’m halfway down the stairs, I see four flashes of lightning below—as though someone took pictures with some hellish camera.

There is a high-pitched shriek, followed by animalistic growls.

Crap.

When Roxy told Maya she was dead, I thought she was referring to some kind of a catfight—or wolf fight or whatever. Those sounds, however, make me wonder if the Queen B meant it literally.

Goosebumps roughen the skin on my arms as more guttural growls emit from below.

Must not think about my recent encounter with a big dog.

Must not think about dogs—or wolves—in general.

Hand shaking, I reach into my messenger bag and pull out the enormous Magnum revolver.

Fear is tempting me to go down there guns blazing, but I probably shouldn’t kill any teenage Cognizant today.

“Come on, day visions,” I mutter to myself. “Now would be a great time to show yourselves.”

Day visions do not oblige.

Hoping I don’t regret this in the afterlife, I take out the bullets from my gun and put all but one into my pocket, an insane plan gelling in my mind as I continue down the stairs.

When I’m halfway down, I trip over the b-hive’s designer clothing. It’s strewn all over the stairs, like some sexual predator’s wet dream.

Breathe, I remind myself as I leap over a stack of shoes. If dogs can smell fear, so can werewolves in wolf form.

Unfortunately, my recently reinforced fear of large canines kicks into third gear with every new growl.

My palms are sweating under the gun handle, so I clutch it tighter—my plan depends on having a weapon.

When I reach the bottom stair, I finally see them.

The station is empty but for petrified Maya and the four enormous, shaggy beasts that look like a cross between a wolf and a donkey.

The donkey-wolves surround Maya in an ever-tightening circle.

The biggest specimen of the pack wiggles her ears, then turns toward me.

Our eyes meet, and her snout seems to turn into an evil grin.

Without any warning growl, the b-hive beasts charge at me.