This is it.

If he can bite a gun in half, those teeth will tear through my skull like cotton candy.

Only the orc doesn’t get a chance to close his mouth.

His hands looking normal again, Nero grabs Bogof’s jaws in a maneuver applied to crocodiles in cartoons, and—with barely any strain—rips the orc’s mouth in half.

Blood and brain matter splatter all over me.

Still moving too fast for me to fully register, Nero does something else with his hands.

Bogof’s huge arms fall on the ground around me with a loud splat.

The orc spews gallons of blood from the empty sockets where his arms and head used to be, then falls to ground—where Nero’s kick breaks through his massive chest cavity and squishes the giant heart that was still beating there after all the abuse.

My paralysis breaks and I back away, ignoring the blood covering my face and dripping into my eyes.

“Are you okay?” Nero asks, his voice so unnaturally low it vibrates my internal organs.

I wipe at my face with my sleeve—though I might as well try to clean a gun wound with a Q-tip. All I succeed in doing is smearing blood over my face.

Continuing to back away, I stare at the carnage around us, as though the answer to Nero’s question might be divined by inspecting orc entrails.

“Why are you here?” With a smooth motion that looks almost practiced, Nero wipes a thick layer of blood and gore from his face.

Does he rip up orcs on a regular basis?

I finally find my voice. “Why am I here? What about you? Why are you here?”

Nero cocks his head and takes a step forward.

I take another step back but slip on a bloody orc remnant. Frantically, I flail my arms, trying to keep my balance.

Nero blurs into motion again, catching me before I can plop into the bloody muck around me.

His arms are incredibly strong, his body warm as he holds me against his chest. My insides squeeze strangely, my heartbeat kicking up another notch as he carefully lowers me to my feet.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, looking down at me.

My legs are unsteady, but I manage to push away from him and step onto a piece of pavement miraculously untainted by orc remains.

To my relief, Nero doesn’t follow.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says, his voice back to its normal deepness.

“Uh-huh.” I look around me for another oasis, but I’m standing on the only piece of orc-free real estate.

Gore or Nero? I don’t know what’s worse.

“I’m not coming near you,” he says, correctly divining my dilemma. He reaches into his inner pocket with a blood-soaked hand.

I’m not sure what I expected him to take out, but a phone was very low on that list.

“One second,” he tells me.

My eyes bulging from my head, I watch as Nero casually dials a number.

“Yes. This is Nero. I need you now,” he says imperiously. “By the dumpsters near my building. Five supersize orders. Platinum rate is fine.”

I inhale the metallic-scented air and try to organize my thoughts.

I can’t help but feel there’s something huge I’m supposed to be thinking about—something on the tip of my tongue.

Something that would be obvious if I didn’t have adrenaline coursing like acid through my veins.

Then it hits me.

“He was going to say, ‘He just did what you told us to,’ wasn’t he?” I say, my voice barely louder than a whisper. “The dog walker orc.” I point at a mound of intermixed body parts. “It was me they weren’t supposed to harm, wasn’t it? I’m the one with the bruise that sent you into that… frenzy, am I not?”

Nero frowns. “Sasha—”

“Don’t you Sasha me.” My voice spikes before I recall that I’m yelling at the man who just recreated a scene from Texas Chainsaw Massacre with his bare hands. Taking a deep breath, I revert to a semi-calm tone. “Tell me you didn’t hire these orcs to come after me.”

Nero remains silent.

I ball my hands into fists. “Why?”

I can almost see the gears in his manipulative mind turning.

“Have you seen The Karate Kid?” He gently kicks aside a large chunk of Bogof, as though to create a cleaner path in case he wants to leap at me. “Or was it before your time?”

“What?” I’m so flabbergasted I forget to be angry. Then I realize that might be his goal, so I narrow my eyes and cross my arms. “This better be leading to these orcs.”

“In that movie,” Nero says as though he didn’t hear me, “a boy wanted to learn karate, and his master had him complete various chores that seemed to have nothing to do with fighting yet actually turned out to be teaching the movements of attack and defense—”

“Wax on and wax off,” I say, my feeling of entering The Twilight Zone intensifying. “My roommate made me watch it. But I still don’t see what—”

“I knew you were a seer as soon as I laid eyes on you,” Nero says, and as I reel in shock from that informational kick to the stomach, he continues. “I also knew you’d want to master your power, but that there would be a problem: your deep-rooted skepticism.”

I stare at him, my head threatening to explode like that of the hapless orcs.

“So, I’ve been Mentoring you.” Nero kicks another orc chunk out of the way. “I gave you stocks to research, but less and less time to properly research them.” He folds his arms across his chest, mirroring my stance. “My goal was to have you rely on your seer power in order to keep up with my increasing demands—and you’ve done that beautifully.”

“Wax on and wax off,” I mutter, beginning to understand.

“Exactly,” Nero says. “Except the bigger picture never materialized. You never believed in yourself. Never accepted that you’re a seer. Instead, you attributed your financial successes to luck, your cleverness, and anything but what you needed to believe. Which is why your powers can only manifest when you’re asleep—when your ever-vigilant conscious mind is at rest.”

My mouth is open so wide a trickle of orc blood gets in and causes me to gag. I spend a few seconds spitting viciously while Nero patiently waits.

By the time I’m done nearly puking, his words register fully.

Like some damn Peter Pan, I need to believe in my magic to be able to do it. Such self-delusion didn’t come to me naturally, so he tried to nudge me in the right direction by having me perform purely instinctive stock picking—the success of which I still attributed to luck, even after I found out I have seer powers.

“You were frustrated you didn’t have day visions,” he says when I finally stop trying to get the taste of orc blood out of my mouth. “And you made it clear to me that stressful situations help you tap into your visions—dream ones at that point.”

No.

He can’t mean what I think he’s saying.

The orcs were part of some insane training to get me to have day visions?

He stares at me, his gaze unreadable.

“Are you seriously calling those near-death experiences ‘stressful situations?’” The incredulity in my voice doesn’t do justice to the tornado of confusion inside my mind. “Do you know the definition of the word ‘understatement?’”

“You were never in any danger.” He takes a step toward me.

I back as far away as I can without leaving the clean spot. “I nearly drowned—”

“Bogof was an excellent swimmer.” Nero glances at what’s left of the orc. “He would’ve saved you—if it were necessary, that is.”

“A brick nearly caved my head in.” I realize I’m shouting.

“Carefully aimed to land ten inches from you,” Nero retorts.

“That car—”

“I dropped twenty grand to customize that car.” Nero takes another small step toward me. “It would’ve swerved if you didn’t step away—which is something you need to ask yourself about. How did you know to jump away?”

I ignore his question, even if it’s a damn good one. “What about the dog? Are you going to stand there and tell me it was a robot dog? Or did you have a bomb inside it that would’ve allowed you to blow it up if I was in danger?”

“Max is a well-trained, flesh-and-blood dog and wouldn’t have hurt you even if you hurt him first.” If I didn’t know better, I’d think Nero looks offended—the nerve of that guy. “I wouldn’t kill a dog like that. What kind of a monster do you think—”

My laughter is borderline hysterical. He is a monster, though I have no idea what kind. “The last guy had a gun to my head—”

“It was empty.” Nero clears yet another piece of bloody orc debris from between us. “But, because you were not alone, the imbecile went off his script. I hope we agree that he and his kin have paid for it dearly.” He casually gestures around the carnage.

I don’t look around lest I start gagging again. “I still could’ve died. I could’ve jumped under the brick instead of away from it, I could’ve jumped in the same direction as the car would’ve swerved, I—”

“You were safe,” Nero says, his tone steely. “Darian owed me a favor, and I had him divine the outcome of this exercise.” His expression darkens. “He assured me you’d be fine.”

I fight the urge to pick up a juicy chunk of orc meat and throw it at Nero’s head. “Even if this little story about Darian were true, his visions do not guarantee my safety.” Then some imp makes me add, “For example, did you know that your good friend Darian saw himself as my lover in the future?”

Nero’s eyes glint readiness to shred something or someone else into bits.

Is he jealous?

And if so, do I actually care?

“As you can guess,” I say as I make myself look around the bloodbath, “if Darian had anything to do with this, the rosy future he saw isn’t happening.”

“That we can agree on.” Nero’s face looks nearly as terrifying as during the slaughter. “You and Darian are never going to happen.”

The possessive note in his voice sends my simmering anger into boiling territory.

“I had my own visions,” I tell him, my fists clenching. “As soon as you get the darn thing, it can change. The mere fact of him telling you that I’d be fine could’ve led to my death.”

Nero’s face smooths out, returning back to its cool lack of expression. “With all his faults, Darian is much better at prophecy than you. He considers his own vision’s impact, and even the effect of visions by other seers. His life was on the line when I called in the favor, so he wouldn’t have gotten this wrong.” Nero sounds like he’s trying to convince us both.

“Does this look fine to you?” I drag aside the collar of my shirt, flashing him my bruise.

His eyes glint dangerously at the sight. Is he about to sprout those talons/claws again?

Then it clicks. He already knew about my bruise—that’s what seems to have led to this massacre. I told him I was hurt on that video conference, but not the details, so the only way he would’ve known specifically about the bruise is if those rumors about cameras at the office (where I examined my shoulder) were true.

I can’t get much angrier than I already am, though. A violation of privacy is nothing compared to what he’s already put me through.

“Even if I wasn’t in danger—though I was—you had no right to do this to me,” I say, glaring at him.

“As your employer, I had every right to give you work to do,” Nero says, taking a step toward me. “And as to the test of your mettle, that’s well within my rights as your Mentor.”

“Is that so?” I’m so pissed now I actually advance toward him—and instantly step into a bloody puddle. The grossness of body parts squishing under my shoes sends bile surging up my throat, and before I can think better of it, I tell Nero, “In that case, I quit. I quit this job”—I stab my thumb at the hedge fund building behind me—“and I definitely quit you.”

He closes the distance between us, his big body looming over me. “You don’t mean that,” he murmurs, and the intimate note in his voice further quickens my pulse.

Battling to keep my breathing steady, I step back onto the bloodless oasis. “Oh, I mean it. I’ve never meant anything more in my life. Find yourself another seer to abuse.”

“I don’t want another.” He steps up to the edge of my respite.

“Your wants are not my problem.” I’ve never been this proud of saying something calmly.

Did Nero just grow in size, or has he always occupied so much three-dimensional space? It’s as though a much bigger creature is trapped in a man’s body and is now threatening to rip its way out. “You’re making rash, emotional decisions right now,” he says, and though his tone is icy, his minty breath is warm on my face. “You will change your mind.”

A roar of motors interrupts my blade-sharp retort—likely for the best.

No matter how tempting, it’s not wise to antagonize this supernatural Jack the Ripper, or whatever Nero is.

One of the arriving cars is a hearse, while the other looks like a cross between a food truck and one of those armored cars banks transport money in.

The cars park on the edge of the gore, and their doors open all at once.

I’m not surprised to see Pada—the man who cleaned up a similar mess of zombie body parts for Vlad, as well as one very animated zombie for me.

His guys look like younger versions of him, right down to black leather jackets and grumpy expressions on their faces.

“Jik, grab the bone saw,” Pada yells at an Asian guy who looks to be the youngest of the bunch. “Wen, you’re working the pump today,” he yells at another guy, who looks vaguely Native American.

The crew attack the mess with uncanny efficiency.

“What about her?” Pada asks Nero, pointing at me as though I were a bloody carcass that falls under his purview.

“She’s to be taken home,” Nero says. “Can you take her while your colleagues finish up here?”

Pada grunts, reaches into the back of the hearse, and brings out a large red raincoat.

“Put that on,” he says to me, his voice a little kinder than usual.

Still at a loss for words but relieved at the prospect of going home, I put the hideous contraption on over my head, smearing blood everywhere.

Pada reaches into the bigger car and comes back with a large white towel. Before I can protest, he dabs at my face with it. My eyes sting and the smell of something chemical makes me want to sneeze and retch at the same time—a dangerous combination.

Is he trying to chloroform me?

No.

I’m still painfully conscious.

When Pada finally takes away the towel, it looks like a tampon from a slasher flick.

Opening the hearse door, he catches my gaze. “Please get inside.”

I do as I’m told, cognizant of Nero’s eyes following me all the way from my spot to the car.

“I meant it.” I turn back to look at Nero as I grab the door handle. “We’re done.”

Nero starts to reply, and I take great pleasure in slamming the door before he can get any words out—not that anything he might say would change my mind.

“Great idea,” Pada says when he gets inside and closes his own door. “Why not antagonize the devil while you’re at it?”

“Are you sure Nero isn’t actually the devil?” I ask, only half-joking.

“If I knew what he was, I don’t think I’d be among the living,” Pada whispers, as though Nero can hear us inside the car—and for all I know, he can.

I don’t say anything else, so Pada starts the car and puts it in reverse.

The hearse backs out of the alley, and after some initial struggles, Pada maneuvers it onto the street.

“I never got a chance to ask you,” I say when we’re cruising down Broadway. “What kind of a Cognizant are you?”

“An honest working one,” he says, his eyes still on the road.

“Seriously?” I turn to him, my raincoat making rubbery rustling noises.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say.” Pada signals a turn. “The myths about my kind are rather unflattering.”

“I don’t really care about that.” I take off the raincoat hood, get a glare from Pada, and put it back on.

“If you insist, I’ll give you some examples,” he says with an exasperated sigh. “Jik’s ancestor, for instance, went by the name of Jikininki in Japan.” He looks at me for a reaction, gets a blank stare, and adds, “Wen’s great-great-great-grandpa was named Wendigo—perhaps you’ve heard of that?”

Wendigo does ring a distant bell, but I have to take out my phone and google both names—an action I regret as soon as I spot descriptions such as “spirits who eat human corpses” in reference to Jikininki and “mythical cannibal monster” in reference to the Wendigo.

“Unflattering?” I study some of the human-drawn images of the two beings. “You don’t say.”

“We serve a critical purpose.” Pada viciously cuts off a yellow cab and nearly runs over a pedestrian in a single maneuver. “We certainly don’t give a damn about anyone’s delicate sensibilities.”

“I appreciate you,” I say reassuringly, in case he’s talking about my sensibilities—which appear to be far from delicate. “Sorry if I’m acting a bit testy. Witnessing Nero play Shredder tends to bring that out in me.”

“That was a fine mess,” Pada says as he makes another turn.

“Yeah.” I rub my eyes, as though that will somehow erase the snuff film burned into my retinas. “Do you mind if I make a quick phone call?”

“Go right ahead.” Pada reaches into the depths of his leather jacket, pulls out a pair of headphones, and puts them over his ears. Louder, he adds, “I should probably focus on the road anyway.”

I reply with a thumbs-up and take out my phone. I still have that eleven p.m. appointment with Baba Yaga, and I figure I better reschedule it for a night when I didn’t just pull an all-nighter and survive an orc bloodbath.

I pull up the phone number of Baba Yaga’s place and dial.

The pleasant female voice answers me in fluent Russian again, and when I ask for the owner, she puts me through to the manager, like before.

“Sasha,” Koschei says in his signature Crypt Keeper voice. “I didn’t expect to hear from you until your allotted time later today.”

“That’s actually why I’m calling.” The car goes over a pothole, so I grip the phone tighter. “I’d like to reschedule my appointment for another day. If that’s all right.”

There’s a graveyard silence on the other end of the phone.

“Hello?” I say. “Did we get cut off?”

“No,” Koschei says, his voice a couple of notches creepier.

“No, we didn’t get cut off?”

“No, it’s not ‘all right’ to flake on your commitment.”

“Fine,” I say as politely as is possible under the circumstances. “Then I shall see you at eleven, as per our earlier agreement.”

“Make sure you’re here on time,” Koschei says flatly and hangs up.

“What a charmer,” I mutter under my breath.

Pada doesn’t seem to be aware of me. Instead, he’s humming to the tune that escapes his headphones—No One Loves Me and Neither Do I by Them Crooked Vultures.

Instead of disturbing Pada’s peace, I close my eyes in the hopes of dozing off and maybe getting some useful dream vision intelligence on the meeting with Baba Yaga.

Unfortunately, despite how much my brain craves it, I don’t fall asleep.

“This is you,” Pada says, and I open my eyes to see that we’re indeed next to my building. “Let me walk you up.”

He opens the door and leads me to the elevator.

“You can use cold water to loosen the blood stains,” he says conversationally after he presses the button for my floor. “Afterward, you can apply some hydrogen peroxide, wait for a while, and then rinse with warm water.”

“I’m not keeping any blood-soaked clothes,” I say with a shudder. “I just hope I can wash it off my skin.”

“Warm water and soap should get you as good as new,” he says. “If you don’t want to keep these clothes, it might be best if I take them with me.”

The elevator dings its arrival.

“Sounds good,” I say, and we step out.

I’m walking when I hear an exaggerated feminine gasp.

Looking back, I see Rose drop her garbage bag. Her gaze is on the blood stains I just left behind me.

“I’m fine,” I tell Rose quickly. “This isn’t my blood.”

“I’ll clean up this mess,” Pada says. “Hello, Rose.”

“Hi, Pada,” she says, glancing at him dismissively before refocusing on me. “Sasha, dear, you better go clean up, and then I expect you to stop by my place and explain what’s happening.”

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Nine-thirty,” Pada says after glancing at his watch.

“In that case, I should have some time to stop by for a quick cup of coffee,” I tell Rose. “I do have an appointment in Brighton Beach at eleven.”

“Go,” Rose says. “You’re dripping blood all over the place.”

I walk briskly to my apartment and unlock the door.

“Hello?” I yell when Pada and I get inside. “Anyone home?”

Fluffster and Ariel come out to greet us. Ariel’s face turns stark white, and Fluffster’s is probably doing the chinchilla equivalent—I’m not as good at reading rodent faces.

“I’m fine,” I rattle out. “The blood isn’t mine.”

They pepper me with a barrage of questions, but I dodge them all, heading straight for the bathroom.

“Ariel,” I shout when I reach my destination. “Can you please bring me a couple of garbage bags?”

When she does, I get into the tub, close the curtain, and strip, throwing all my bloody clothes into the bags.

The poor tub looks like someone cut his wrists in it.

“Can you give this to Pada with my thanks?” I put the bags out, and not waiting for a reply, I turn the shower knob to the maximum water flow.

Grabbing the body wash, I smear myself with a thick layer and let the hot streams of water carry red rivulets into the drain.

The bathroom door closes but soon reopens.

“Start talking,” Ariel says over the sound of running water.

“Seriously,” Fluffster adds mentally. “You can’t make such an entrance and then not spill it.”

“Fine,” I say as I slather myself with another coat of soap. “It was the orcs.”

I tell them what happened, focusing on how and why it was Nero’s fault.

“That explains the odd CPR,” Ariel says when I’m done. “As well as how those orcs got to Earth. Nero certainly has enough pull to bring them here and get away with it.”

“Especially now.” Though my skin is rubber-squeaky at this point, I apply another thick layer of soap on myself. “They effectively disappeared.”

“You know,” Ariel says, “you did mention you felt something before the attacks. Maybe Nero had—”

“Can you escort me to this appointment with Baba Yaga?” I ask to change the topic. The last thing I want to hear is her making any excuses for that manipulative bastard.

“Of course,” Ariel says. “I’ll go get my car ready.”

“Can you prep Fluffster’s carrier before you go?” I pour another big handful of soap into my right hand. “Buddy, I assume you’re okay coming with me. I figure the witch might need you there for the amnesia cure—assuming she has one.”

“Can’t wait to finally jolt my memory.” His mental reply is overflowing with eagerness. “I’ll be waiting in the cage.”

They leave, and I rinse and repeat the soap treatment a few more times before my skin starts to burn.

Reluctantly getting out of the warmth of the shower, I towel off and brush my teeth with the same thoroughness as my skin.

Dressed in a towel, I sneak into my room. After a very short deliberation, I decide to dress comfortably and forego makeup.

Heading for the apartment door, I find Fluffster already in the special cage I got for him when I took him to the vet.

“I need to swing by Rose’s apartment for a moment,” I tell him. “Do you want to come with?”

“I’ll wait here,” Fluffster says, no doubt remembering about Lucifur, Rose’s cat.

I make my way to Rose’s door.

When she opens it, her makeup is as impeccable as always. She’s also wearing new earrings and a stylish summer dress that shows a lot of skin—skin that looks healthy enough to belong to a woman half of Rose’s age. Or the age I assumed she was when I thought her human.

The cat leisurely saunters out to see who’s at the door. With a huge look of disappointment on her flat, furry face, she deigns to notice my existence, then scampers to the living room.

“Come in,” Rose says and leads me in. “Let me get you your coffee.”

In the living room, the cat is lying on the carpet in the middle, so I walk around her and sit on the couch.

Rose leaves, and to my utter shock, Lucifur gets up, jumps on the couch next to me, and cuddles against my leg, actually purring.

“Is Hell about to freeze over?” I ask the cat. “Or is this because I saved your life?”

She gives me a cold stare that seems to say, “You’re warm, and Our Majesty needed to cuddle up to something. Don’t let your head grow too big all of a sudden.”

Rose comes back and hands me a warm mug of coffee, which I sip as I repeat my tale—this time starting from orc accidents and ending with orc meatgrinderfication.

“I think I need you to start even earlier,” Rose says, leaning back in her lounge chair. “You never told me how you joined the Cognizant and ended up as Nero’s Mentee.”

“I’ll have to tell you that one another day.” I absentmindedly rub Lucifur under her chin—and she doesn’t bite my finger off, which means she likes it. “I’m going to have to run in a moment.”

Rose raises her perfectly trimmed eyebrow, and I wonder how hard that gesture must be to execute with all that Botox.

She continues looking at me, so I quickly explain how my search for my biological parents led me to the upcoming meeting with Baba Yaga.

Rose listens to my story intently. Perhaps, as a witch, she finds the project of restoring Fluffster’s memory fascinating?

“You have to be careful when it comes to Yaga,” she says when I finish. “Like I told you, witches can be dangerous, and this goes doubly so for her.”

“Well,” I say, a sudden burst of hope lighting a bulb of an idea over my head. “Do you think you might be able to restore my domovoi’s memory?” I take a gulp of my coffee. “I wouldn’t need to see her if you could.”

“Sadly, no,” Rose says, her heavily mascaraed blue eyes downcast. “My specialty is power manipulations. If you wanted me to make your domovoi stronger for some time, or better protected, I’d be able to oblige, but what you’re looking for is Baba Yaga’s purview.” She looks thoughtful for a second, then says, “I think I can do something for you, though.” She takes off a ring from her pinky finger and hands it to me. “Put this on.”

I put on the ring. It’s a simple silver band with a tiny jewel on top.

A jewel that looks familiar, I realize.

It’s a miniscule cousin of the stone Nero turned into a polygraph exam when the Council interrogated me—the stone that was also on the necklace I wore to my Jubilee and still have stashed in my room.

“Take in a deep breath,” Rose says and points her index finger at the ring.

I pointedly inhale, which is when a blush-pink stream of energy beams from Rose’s finger into the little ring.

The held breath whooshes violently out of my lungs as tingly energy spreads through my body, leaving me surprisingly reenergized—though that part could be due to the coffee kicking in.

“What is this?” I examine the ring.

“Protection,” Rose says, getting up from her chair. “Now you better go. You don’t want to keep someone like Baba Yaga waiting.”

Suppressing a dozen questions, I carefully move Lucifur to the side and get to my feet.

“No matter what happens, do not sign any contracts,” Rose says. “Contracts tend to be quite binding in our world.”

I nod just as the doorbell rings.

Rose’s lips curve in a knowing smile. “Come. I’ll walk you out and let him in.”

We make our way to the door, and when she opens it, I’m not surprised to find Vlad standing there.

His gaze slides over me almost without notice and then hones in on Rose appreciatively.

The perfection of his usual dark and brooding look is marred by a hint of a smile as elusive as that of the Mona Lisa.

He saunters in and—before I can say hello and goodbye—his pale hands grab Rose into a tight embrace.

I head for the exit as though the apartment is on fire, but I still see him kiss her.

Passionately. On the lips.

I can’t help but stare, dumbfounded.

Yes, intellectually I know that Rose and Vlad are an item, but it’s still shocking to witness this public display of affection—like your-parents-having-sex kind of shocking.

“I better run,” I mutter, then see serious tongue action and beeline for my apartment to get Fluffster as quickly as I can.

Cage in hand, I make my way outside, get in Ariel’s car, and tell my roommate all about what I just saw.