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.”

“You said five just a few minutes ago,” I say. “Now I have a quarter hour less?”

Nero stands up, presses a button, and his desk slides into a standing position. “That’s right,” he says coolly. “If you have a problem with it, you’re welcome to join the vampires at Goldman Sachs. They’re much more laid back there.”

I want to ask if he means the vampire bit literally—with my new life, you never know—but I confine myself to a “Yes, sir,” combined with a military-style salute. Unfortunately, he’s no longer looking at me, his gaze on the monitor once more.

I know I should leave, but I can’t resist. “If you care so little about teaching me anything about the Cognizant world, why did you become my Mentor? Was it to make sure I can’t quit this job?”

Instead of answering, Nero riffles through the papers on top of his desk. Locating a ratty business card, he hands it to me and says, “Call that number for Orientation.”

“Orientation?”

“I’m late for my meeting.” He pointedly glances at the door.

I jackknife to my feet and stomp out of the office.

When I see who had to wait until Nero and I finished talking, my anger noticeably subsides. Nero’s visitor was mayor of New York City at some point, and is currently one of the richest people in the world.

Why did he come here instead of having Nero come to him?

Not for the first time, I wonder how rich and influential Nero really is—in the regular human world, that is. Because this meeting shouts “very.”

I also wonder if the billionaire visitor is the reason why I have all this speedy research to do. If Nero is doing some kind of custom portfolio for him, the pressure makes a lot more sense.

Still unsettled, I make my way to the cafeteria.

The food here is heavily subsidized and is of five-star restaurant quality. Today is a French cuisine day, so I fill my tray with a couple of gougères (tiny cheese puffs) and a baguette to go with my ratatouille. After a brief deliberation, I also take a banana-stuffed crepe for dessert and five tiny cups of noisette (the French equivalent of macchiato).

Given how tired I feel, if they had an IV with coffee available, I’d probably put that on my tray too.

As I stand in the long, rush-hour line to pay, I strategize how I’m going to research twenty-six stocks in a few short hours. Then a familiar voice calls out my name behind me.

I jump slightly, the tray nearly tumbling to the floor before I catch it.

Turning, I recognize Lucretia, the psychologist Nero keeps at the fund to ensure all his minion-cogs are in optimal working order. Like me, she’s a Cognizant, but unlike me, she’s a pre-vamp—something I learned when I saw her last night at my Jubilee.

“I hope I didn’t startle you,” Lucretia says in her soothing voice. She leans in close to my ear. “I just sensed so much dissatisfaction in you that I had to say something.”

I pull away from her pink lips. “You what?”

My tray shakes a little, so I steady my hands. Adrenaline from Lucretia’s hello must still be muddling my brain because I could’ve sworn she just sounded like a Jedi, sensing—

“Oh, you didn’t know.” She leans in again and whispers, “I’m an empath.” She looks at me expectantly, but must see a completely blank expression because she adds, “I can sense emotions, particularly when they’re strong.”

My mind races for the best question out of millions, but all I can muster is, “But you can’t read my thoughts, can you?”

“Sadly, no.” She looks around to make sure we’re not being overheard and clarifies in a low voice, “Just emotions. Still, it’s a boon for my job.”

Of course.

A shrink empath.

No wonder her skills are so legendary. In a world of normal human psychologists, being an empath is like being the only sighted art critic, or the only gynecologist with arms, or—

“So what troubles you so?” she asks, this time without leaning in.

The line advances and I follow suit, wondering if she’s bound by the confidentiality agreements we discussed before.

“This would be between us,” Lucretia says as we stop again. I sure hope she didn’t just read my mind, despite her earlier assurances to the contrary.

“Nero gave me a lot of work to do.” I shift from one foot to another. “That’s all.”

“I can tell there’s more to it,” she says, her blue eyes filled with concern. “You really should come in for a session.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, and it’s not a complete lie. I think about it right after I say the words and decide against it. She stands there, watching me patiently, so I add, “Right now, I don’t have the time.”

“I can talk to Nero if you—”

“No,” I say, perhaps too forcefully. “Please let me deal with my own problems.”

“Of course,” she says, looking at me with such compassion that I feel like confiding in her right here and now. I resist the temptation, though. I’d have to be a lot more desperate to spill my guts in a cafeteria line.

In the uncomfortable silence that follows, I notice two guys staring at us from the nearby line and overhear one say to the other, “No, I don’t think they’re related.”

Not this again.

Just because we’re both pale, blue-eyed, slim, and have black hair doesn’t mean we look alike.

Then a wild thought occurs to me.

“Lucretia,” I say, my heartbeat speeding up. “Do you have any children?”

She freezes for a second, then shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”

There goes that crazy idea. For a moment, I’d wondered if she could somehow be my biological mother. Despite her youthful looks, she’s centuries old and could’ve easily had a child my age—or my great-grandmother’s age. But then again, she isn’t a seer, so I should’ve known better than to ask.

As we continue to stand in line, I realize something about my question discomfited her. Did I just touch on a sore subject?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” I say softly, leaning in. “I hope I didn’t—”

“It’s fine.” She gives me a tight smile. “You probably don’t know this yet, but it’s not easy for us to have children with humans.” She lowers her voice further as she says this, and I read between the lines.

She must’ve had a human lover at some point, and they couldn’t have children together.

I want to apologize for my insensitivity again, but we’re already at the register and the cashier loudly says, “Cash or credit?”

I place my tray by the register and pull out my card. “I’m paying for both of us,” I say, indicating Lucretia’s tray.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to,” she starts, but I wave away her protests.

“No, please, I insist.”

She shakes her head and smiles. “Now you really have to come see me for another session.”

“Maybe,” I say, figuring it’s not a lie to say that, even if the chance of my going is a fraction of a percent. “Right now, I physically can’t. Too much work.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want me to talk to Nero about that?”

“I’m positive,” I say and move out of her way. “Please excuse me. I have to go make a dent in my work.”

“Bon appétit,” Lucretia says. “Hope to see you soon.”

“Thank you,” I say and make my escape from the cafeteria.

When I get to my desk, I bring up a bunch of articles on my screens and read them as I devour the delicious food mindlessly and without any real pleasure.

In the time I have, I can only learn the basics about each company. So I methodically divide my remaining time into twenty-six equal slots and don’t give any single stock more than that tiny amount.

By 4:30, my eyes feel like they might be bleeding P/E ratios and P&L numbers.

I begin to write up my suggestions for Nero. I did the best I could, but under the circumstances, I’d call my recommendations guesses—and not even educated ones.

A blindfolded monkey throwing darts at my monitors might be just as accurate. Then again, there’s research out there that in general, monkeys throwing darts can be as accurate as financial experts. Of course, this is more of a testament to the stock-picking skills of financial experts—one of the many reasons I’ve always felt rather useless doing what I do.

At 4:44, I email everything to Nero and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s an unwarranted relief, considering I might lose my job—or at the very least, my year-end bonus—in a few minutes.

By the time I walk to the water cooler and back, a message from Nero is waiting in my inbox.

This is it. Poverty, here I come.