The feeling of danger doesn’t go away.

I instinctively jump back, nearly tripping over the brick’s carcass.

A bucket with paint lands where I stood, splattering all over the pavement to create a modern art painting.

What the hell?

I force my stunned brain to work and make my body move toward the building.

As soon as I take a step, a wrench smacks into the paint blotch; then more instruments follow in a deadly metallic hail.

I look up as I start running. On the side of the scaffolding is one of those rope elevators that window cleaners and construction workers use, only this one is slanted toward the ground. Clearly, the hazardous materials slid from there.

I bet they’re breaking a million regulations by using that thing without fencing off the work area. Is Brighton Beach exempt from NYC laws?

Furious, I rush into the building and run up to the floor parallel to the source of the accident. I’m determined to give someone a piece of my mind.

An enormous man lumbers toward me, and I slow down, wondering if running in was the best idea after all.

According to modern science, most Europeans and Asians have approximately two percent of Neanderthal DNA. This guy seems to have gotten at least fifty times that. He has a short, sloping forehead, deep-set eyes, and a skull so huge that the yellow construction helmet looks like a Jewish yarmulke on the tip of his head.

“How can I help you?” he roars in a bass that almost rivals Nero’s, minus any sexy undertones.

Not that I notice Nero’s sexy undertones.

I call on every ounce of my anger to give me courage. “I nearly got killed by that.” I point at the loose rope elevator.

He looks where I’m pointing, then back at me.

“That couldn’t have happened,” he says, as though he didn’t just stare at the tilted equipment. “We’re extremely safety conscious.”

“What do you mean it couldn’t have happened? It happened,” I say, outraged, and notice something else about the guy. He looks to have a heavy layer of foundation on. Maybe he’s gender fluid? Alternatively, he could be covering up horrible scars.

“Impossible,” he says, and as he opens his mouth, I see his bottom teeth. They’re so prominent they look like filed-down tusks.

Pushing that weird observation aside, I focus on the issue at hand. “It’s right there, with all the junk missing,” I say, jabbing at the elevator in frustration. “I didn’t try to kill myself.”

“I’ll have to investigate this,” he says and flashes me the top of his teeth—a jagged mess that would give any orthodontist nightmares. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention.”

His eyes gleam malevolently as he says this last part, and I suddenly recall my lunch plans.

“You’re welcome,” I say, carefully backing away. “We wouldn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

He bobs his head, and the yellow helmet almost flies at my face.

I back up into the stairway and run down as fast as my legs can carry me. Something about the guy just felt wrong, especially toward the end of our chat.

To my relief, the rest of my walk to the restaurant is uneventful.

I slink inside and look around. There’s a definite Middle Eastern look to everything, which I guess makes sense for Uzbek food. The smells of fried onion and fresh bread make my stomach growl.

Felix waves at me from a large table to my right, where he’s sitting by himself.

“Take a seat,” he says as I approach. “My parents just let me know they got out of the train. Sorry about this. Mom is always late.”

“It’s fine.” I wonder which seat says “Not Girlfriend” to his folks, and plop into a chair that’s two over from Felix’s right. “I almost got killed a second ago.”

“What?” He nearly drops the menu in shock. “When? How?”

“A brick to the head,” I say and proceed to tell him what happened.

His frown deepens as I speak, his fingers nervously fiddling with the menu. “Maybe I was wrong this morning,” he says when I’m done. “Maybe it is Chester behind this. If I understand his power correctly, if he wants you harmed, he can increase the probability that accidents happen when he’s near you.”

Lovely. “I’ll have to talk to Nero, won’t I?”

“Definitely,” Felix says, his gaze shifting from me to the door.

I sigh and decide to focus on something more cheerful. “Did you ever have Orientation?” I ask when Felix looks back at me.

“Sure,” he says. “We all did.”

“What does it entail?” My stomach growls again as I smell something doughy and fried.

Felix grins. “Is Nero sending you to Orientation?” At my glare, he starts laughing and explains, “It’s like Sunday school for the Cognizant. You learn some basics about our kind there…”

“So what’s so funny?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, though I’m beginning to get a clue.

“Nothing. It’s just something we do as teens, that’s all. You’ll probably be the oldest student there.” He laughs again, shaking his head.

I recall Gaius talking about his job as a Herald, and how he lets Cognizant younglings know who and what they are. Orientation must follow that.

“Please don’t tell me I’m going back to high school.” I look at Felix with only partially feigned horror. “I barely survived the first time.”

“It’s just one day a week,” he says reassuringly, then glances at the entrance. “They’re here.”

I study the newcomers.

Taken separately, it’s not immediately obvious that these people are Felix’s biological relatives, let alone parents. His dad is predominantly of Russian heritage—he looks like a tanned white guy, with Slavic facial features. His large beer belly, in particular, is a stark contrast to Felix’s slenderness. However, the biggest difference lies in the way his dad looks at me and other female customers—like we’re sex objects, not people.

Felix’s mom, on the other hand, doesn’t look European at all. Her features are a strong blend of Middle Eastern and Asian characteristics, her face much rounder than Felix’s.

“Kotek,” she says, and from prior experience, I know this means “kitten” in Russian—something I’ll tease Felix about later.

Felix’s family is among the five percent of Uzbek people who speak Russian instead of (or in the case of his mom, in addition to) Uzbek. This is why they live near the Russian-dominated Brighton and why Felix speaks such good Russian himself but almost no Uzbek.

I feel a pang of jealousy as I watch his parents hug and kiss their son on each cheek in the Russian style. My mom and dad are a lot more reserved when it comes to displays of affection.

“Sashen’ka,” Felix’s mom says, using one of the many Russian diminutive versions of my name—which itself is a diminutive for Alexandra. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Hello, Ms. Fokin,” I say, getting up to shake the woman’s hand.

“Please.” She grabs my arm in an Aikido-like maneuver, but instead of flying to the ground, I end up in a big hug, my face nearly buried in her ample bosom. She then kisses my cheeks, no doubt leaving thick lipstick prints that match the ones on Felix’s face. “I asked you before. Call me Zamira.”

Smiling sheepishly, I extricate myself. “Right. Sorry, Zamira.”

“And call me Ruslan,” Felix’s dad says and steps closer, as though to pull me into a hug as well. To my relief, Zamira gives him a narrow-eyed stare that causes him to downgrade his hug to a business-like handshake.

His hand is calloused and damp, so I let it go quicker than etiquette probably dictates.

Everyone takes a seat and opens their menus.

I scan the unfamiliar words, but before I have a chance to decipher them, I get swamped with suggestions of Uzbek delicacies I “must try.”

For the first course (you “must” have at least three courses at this place), I choose a soup called lagmon—after Felix and his dad both assure me there’s no horse meat in it. (Because horse meat is part of traditional Uzbek cuisine. And hey, at least it’s not kitten livers.) For the appetizer/second course, I settle on steamed dumplings called manti, and for the main course, I go with a type of pilaf called plov. A lepyoshka—a yummy tandoor-style bread—will accompany all of this.

Our waiter is a tall, good-looking man who seems to be Russian rather than authentically Uzbek.

He notices me staring and winks at me.

Zamira gives him the narrow-eyed stare she gave her husband, and I cringe. Why would she mind me getting male attention? Unless Felix is right, and she still thinks we’re together despite his denials.

Felix’s dad gives our order in rapid-fire Russian, and the waiter hurries away to escape Zamira’s glare.

“Sasha and I are on our lunch break from work,” Felix says after making sure the waiter is out of earshot. “So perhaps we start with the business at hand?”

Without giving his parents a chance to agree (because they probably would disagree), Felix launches into the explanation about Fluffster.

“That’s interesting,” Ruslan says after his son is finished. “I can tell you right away that the domovoi isn’t Felix’s. My grandfather did have one, but that domovoi lives with my father in Russia.”

The waiter brings our drinks, and we pause the conversation. Felix, Zamira, and I get teas in a bowl instead of a cup. Ruslan opted for something stronger—an alcoholic drink called bozo. When I start snickering, Felix assures me that the fizzy concoction is made from boiled and fermented millet, and that no clowns, especially ones named Bozo, were harmed in the making of this drink.

“So.” Felix sips the tea from his bowl and puts it down. “We know that the domovoi isn’t mine, nor is he left from one of the neighbors. He must be Sasha’s.”

“True.” Ruslan puts down his bozo. “But that doesn’t mean he’d lived with her biological parents.” Facing me, he asks, “What nationality are your adoptive parents? Are they Cognizant?”

“No, they’re just American,” I say, ashamed I never inquired much about this subject. “Felix and Ariel met my mom, and she had no Mandate aura. I haven’t seen my dad since the Rite, but I’m pretty sure he’s not a Cognizant either. In any case, I’m going to meet up with him soon and verify for certain.”

“Aren’t all Americans immigrants from somewhere?” Zamira says sagely. “At least if you dig back a few generations.”

“Yes, and by the second generation, they often forget their heritage.” Ruslan gives Felix a piercing glare that seems to say, “Make sure your offspring doesn’t do this—assuming anyone would want to have kids with you after you couldn’t keep two perfectly good wives.”

The waiter brings the soups and the lepyoshka bread, so I hold my reply until he’s gone.

“I can ask my parents if they have Russian roots.” I rip myself a piece of bread and examine my soup. It has thick noodles and fatty chunks of beef and lamb, and is garnished with leeks and dill.

“If they do have Russian blood, ask them if they had pets,” Ruslan says, blowing on his tushpera soup.

“Speaking of which”—Zamira holds her spoon next to her mouth—“did you have any pets growing up?”

“No.” I gingerly pick up a spoonful of my lagmon.

“Maybe when you were little?” Felix asks.

“Maybe,” I say. “But I doubt it. Mom is allergic to taking care of things.”

Felix chuckles—he’s met my mom. His parents, though, look very somber, and I belatedly recall the emphasis on respect for one’s parents in their culture.

To cover my faux pas, I put my spoon into my mouth, and the spicy, savory flavor makes it hard to focus on anything else for a few moments. I chase the soup with a nice bite of lepyoshka and resist the temptation to moan in pleasure. When I finally catch my breath, I ask, “Do you know of any way to have Fluffster—the domovoi himself—recall where he comes from?”

Ruslan fishes a dumpling out of his soup. “Each time a domovoi puts on the guise of an animal, he forms memories, but when that animal dies, the memories don’t carry over into the next shape the domovoi assumes. I think amnesia is the English word for it. I know this happened to my granddad’s domovoi, at least five times.”

“So,” I say slowly, giving myself a chance to apply logic to this strange idea. “If I had no pets, the last set of memories Fluffster had before becoming a chinchilla would be as whatever pet he was for his last owners—who might be my biological parents.”

“Exactly.” Ruslan swallows the dumpling.

“So is there a way to allow him to recover from this amnesia?” I poke my soup with my spoon. I suspect the answer will be no.

“No,” Zamira says.

“Maybe,” Ruslan says at the same time.

“Are you talking about that tall tale?” Zamira frowns at her husband. “Your grandfather could’ve made that up, plus we don’t know if she is the same Baba Yaga as—”

“Can I speak, woman?” Ruslan says sternly, putting down his spoon.

In my opinion, the way he banged that spoon borderlines with a temper tantrum, but Zamira stops speaking and, what’s worse, looks chastised.

The waiter brings the second course, so everyone sits in that uncomfortable silence for a few long seconds before Ruslan speaks up again. “My great-grandfather’s domovoi was a dog,” he says. “Then one day, my grandfather found his father and the dog dead. So when he got a cat—which the domovoi immediately took over—my grandfather wanted to ask the domovoi what happened. However, he faced the same problem you do.” He looks pained at the memory, and I wonder if he was around for all that family drama.

Zamira puts a reassuring hand on her husband’s shoulder as he says, “My grandfather consulted Baba Yaga, and she helped him recover the memories—”

“At a price,” Zamira says.

“It’s true,” Ruslan says morosely. “He couldn’t control his beloved sand for a decade after he saw the witch.”

I consider that and shrug. “Given how unreliable my prophetic dreams are, being without them for ten years wouldn’t be that big of a burden.”

“Don’t even say such a thing out loud.” Zamira looks around as though the witch from the tale might jump out from behind the corner.

Felix swallows his food and says, “You don’t mean to suggest that the Baba Yaga in this story is the same person who has that restaurant a couple of blocks away from here? Izbushka Na Kurih Nojkah?” He looks at me. “That means ‘a hut on hen’s legs.’”

“I have no idea,” Ruslan says and stuffs his samosa into his mouth. “Doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

“Baba Yaga is a witch from Russian fairy tales,” Felix explains to me again. “And it just so happens that there’s a Cognizant witch in New York by the same name. She has a bad reputation.”

“With a name like Baba Yaga, you’d think so.” Zamira daintily slices off a piece of her kebab. “Even if she’s not the Baba Yaga, just think about what kind of person would take such a name. What would you think of someone who takes an alias like ‘Nasty Witch from the West?’”

“It’s the Wicked Witch of the West,” Felix says and is rewarded with a glare from both parental units.

“If I were you, I’d find another way to learn who your parents are,” Ruslan says to me.

“Then why did you tell her that story?” Zamira asks.

I expect another temper tantrum from Ruslan, but he just sighs. “Everyone deserves a chance to know where they come from.”

A long silence follows. I spear my manti/dumpling and ponder if I would be willing to see someone who calls herself the Wicked Witch of the West if it meant learning more about my biological parents.

“So,” Zamira says, looking sternly at Felix, “if you’re not with Sashen’ka or Arielechka as you claim, how am I supposed to get grandchildren?”

I nearly choke on my dumpling, and Felix turns such a deep shade of red I worry someone will want to make borscht out of him.

“It just so happens that I did meet someone,” Felix says when his color subsides to the hue of the old Soviet flag. “I just don’t want to jinx it by talking about it.”

I’m tempted to ask him for more details but abstain in case he just made this up to appease his parents—which is probable.

I eat another dumpling and notice Zamira staring at me. Is she examining me for signs of jealousy at Felix’s revelation?

The waiter comes just in time to spare Felix from having to elaborate on the mysterious—and possibly imaginary—girl.

“If you’re not with Felix, do you have a man in your life?” Ruslan asks in a tone I’d use to say something like, “Are you sure you really saw that Chupacabra under the train?”

I feel myself blush. “No. I’m very single.”

Felix reddens again. He probably just recalled what Ariel revealed to him the other day: that I haven’t gotten laid in two years.

Our waiter brings out the main course just in time. As soon as he leaves, I turn the conversation to the city of Samarkand—a topic I know Zamira and Ruslan would not be able to resist.

As I eat my plov, I learn all about their hometown, which is “one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in Central Asia.”

We manage to stay on those types of safer subjects for the rest of the meal. When the waiter brings the check, I point at the remnants of my plov and say, “This was the best rice dish I’ve ever had. In general, the food was outstanding.”

My words please the Fokins more than they do the waiter, and they insist I come over to their house in the near future to try homemade versions of the dishes I just had.

“Sounds like a great idea,” I say as noncommittally as possible and put my credit card on the check.

“What is this?” Ruslan looks at my card like it might sprout fangs.

“The lunch is on me,” I say. “You’ve been so helpful and—”

“No.” He grabs the card and plops it in front of me. “Not in my lifetime.”

Shrugging, I take my card back and decide to send them a nice gift for their next anniversary.

Ruslan pays the check, and we say our goodbyes.

I have to head back to work, but given that it’s mere blocks away, I decide to check out the restaurant where this Russian witch of legend lurks.

Thanks to my phone, I locate it easily on Yelp. The evil witch runs a tight ship (or hut)—the place has pretty much unanimous five-star reviews.

As I walk over the two and a half blocks, I spot the place. I didn’t really need the address. I could’ve located it visually, given what the Fokins told me.

Made to look like a giant, multi-story wooden hut, the restaurant has chicken legs where most other buildings would put columns.

I approach and touch the legs. They feel as though they’re made from real chicken skin. Creepy. Must be some special latex material or something.

Running up the creaky wooden stairs to the “hut” entrance, I pull on the doorknob.

It’s locked.

Then I see the sign with the hours of operations. The restaurant is closed right now and will only reopen at five p.m. I program the phone number written on the sign into my phone and ask it to remind me to call this place at six—which should give them an hour to open up.

Summoning an Uber, I lean against a street light and use that minute to check my work email.

There are a couple of messages from Nero, but before I can read them, an impossible-to-describe but familiar sensation creeps over me.

It’s that same sense of danger from before, when a brick nearly hit me, only much stronger.

A spike of adrenaline skyrockets my heart rate, and I look up from my phone.

A black minivan is hurtling toward me at racing-car speed.