Storming by an outraged Venessa, I barrel into Nero’s office unannounced.
He has his sit-to-stand desk in the standing position and is blissfully typing away, seemingly unaware of my arrival.
He’s dressed in a striped shirt and has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows—a lot like magicians do in order to prove we have nothing up our sleeves.
What a load of crap.
I would trust Nero as much as anyone should trust a magician. As in, not at all.
I clear my throat.
He doesn’t acknowledge my presence.
“Where is my desk?” Though he’s fully clothed, I can’t help but see the image of him naked—no doubt his exposed forearms are to blame. “How am I supposed to work without a chair or a computer?”
“You’re finally gracing us with your presence?” Nero stops his typing and looks me over, his gaze lingering on my leather pants. “Is there such a thing as a casual Monday?”
“Is fashion advice part of your famous Mentorship training?” I plop into his visitor’s chair without an invitation. “If so, I could use some makeup tips.”
“You don’t need any makeup.” Nero’s eyes scan my face as though he’s making a 3D printer plan for it.
I frown. “Was that a compliment?” If he meant to distract me with that statement, he succeeded admirably.
Nero lowers his desk and sits down in his own chair, bringing our eyes to the same level.
“Tell me everything,” he states imperiously.
“42,” I say. He raises his eyebrow, so I explain, “That’s the answer to life, the universe, and everything.”
“I’ve met Douglas Adams, you know—the author of the book you’re now referencing.” Nero’s lips curve sardonically. Before I can pepper him with questions about such a bombshell, he says, “Let me make myself clear. How did you get into that mess with Baba Yaga?”
“That doesn’t seem to be work related.” I slowly cross my leather-pant-clad legs—channeling Basic Instinct.
My maneuver works as intended. The limbal rings in Nero’s eyes seem to grow, and for a moment, he looks like he’s about to leap at me from his chair.
Wait. Why would I want that? My heart rate speeding up, I uncross my legs and sit forward belligerently. “Why should I tell you?”
He gets himself under control in an eyeblink and with annoying calmness asks, “Because you don’t want to piss me off?”
I’m about to give him a wholehearted, “Yes, I do want to do that,” but he must realize my intent because he gives me a knowing shark’s smile and says, “Never mind that. I’m your Mentor. It is my prerogative to know such things in that capacity, so you will answer. Is that clear?”
Sighing, I explain how the search for my heritage led me to Baba Yaga—and what the evil witch wanted in return for giving Fluffster a memory of belonging to Rasputin. When I get to the part about her wanting me to have sex with Yaroslav the bannik, Nero’s face turns so dark I worry his orc-tearing claws might come out.
I rush to explain how said bannik sex did not happen, and wasn’t ever going to happen to my conscious body, and Nero relaxes slightly. I then mention my escape, and how I learned about Ariel’s kidnapped state. Finally, I tell him about the rescue all the way to the part when I called for his help.
“It was all your fault,” I say in conclusion. “You’ve always known who my father is. If you’d just told me that, I wouldn’t have met Baba Yaga.”
“You’re going to see Lucretia next.” Nero pulls out his phone and looks at the screen. “In two minutes.”
“You’re changing the subject, just like that?” I resist the urge to leap to my feet.
“Seeing Lucretia is going to be part of the Mentorship, and therefore, the time you spend with her isn’t going to be subtracted from your work allotment.”
Work allotment? Is he kidding? What about giving me some answers?
“Who is my mother?” I demand. “And where is—”
“Lucretia will be seeing you in her office.” Nero puts his phone away.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me about my parents.”
“We made a bargain,” Nero says coolly. “When it comes to Mentorship and your job here at the fund, you will do as you’re told.”
“Is it the secrecy clause in that stupid contract?” I cross my arms. “Can’t we figure out a way to bypass that? Maybe you can write me an email; that wasn’t invented in 1916.”
Nero looks at me, then pointedly gazes at the door.
“Please, Nero.” Dropping the attitude, I make puppy eyes, hoping he’s susceptible to the trick that always works on Felix. “Imagine if someone hid your family from you. If—”
I stop speaking because Nero’s face turns terrifyingly dark. The skies above Mordor didn’t look this bad. Then he blurs into the supernatural motion that preceded the orc massacre, and a fraction of a second later, he’s standing by the door.
“Out,” he growls, jabbing at the exit with his thumb. “Now.”
Something in his voice makes me obey without question.
Leaping to my feet, I sprint out of the office as though something extremely dangerous is about to chase me.
And for all I know, that might’ve been the case.