Kursed by Lindsay Smith

long,” I say.
    Al twirls the lighter between his finger and thumb. “Just so we’re clear.” He speaks low, though the café is nearly empty now; no one’s within earshot of our table. “Is this a sales pitch, or a threat?”
    Bozhe moi, I wish Andrei were here, with his silver tongue and slippery disguises. “We’re offering our services. We get out from under the NKVD, you get to deprive Uncle Joe of his crown jewels. No threats.” I spread my hands, fingers wide, on the table.
    Olga nods. “We want out. It’s as simple as that.”
    Another crackle of flame, lapping at my skin from a too-near future.
    â€œThat’s very touching. I might even shed a tear.” Al cups his hand around Olga’s cigarette and helps her light it, earning a sarcastic smile from her for his efforts. “But I know how you slippery Reds work. You play the long con. Sleeper agents. Hidden communist agendas. How do I know you’re genuine?”
    â€œWell, depending on what kind of psychics you have, you could always force us to tell the truth,” Olga says with a bat of her eyes.
    Al arches one brow. The good humor is gone from his mouth, which has been slowly twisting downward.
    â€œWhat, don’t have one of those?” I ask. “No matter. I suppose you may never have any real proof—like with any asset you might run.”
    Olga issues a thin stream of smoke from her mouth. “Feel like taking a risk on us?”
    Nina. Be careful. Andrei’s thoughts are interspersed with brassy chords from “The Internationale.” I think there might —
    But his words are buried under a cascade of white noise, jammed into my brain as if by a hot poker. I cringe, biting into my own tongue, waiting for the agonizing noise to subside—the world edging into a white haze—
    And through the haze, a man in an SS officer’s uniform appears in the café’s doorway, just like in my vision. Andrei. My lungs swell as I move to stand, fighting gainst the crackling in my brain. But then the man in the officer’s uniform turns.
    Instead, SMERSH officer Anton Ivanovich Rostov smiles at me.

Chapter Six
    â€œA setup.” Al swears under his breath, something English and prickly. “I knew it. What are you dames trying to pull—”
    â€œGuten Tag,” Rostov purrs, striding toward us. “Antonina Vasilievna. What have you caught for me?” His stare skewers first Al, then Doctor Stokowski. Al flinches as Rostov scrapes against his mind. “An American? That’s quite a catch. Ahh, and another scientist as well. You’ve been busy!”
    The Firebird spins its whirling, chaotic dance around my thoughts. I can’t let Rostov know what we were trying to do. He’ll kill all of us—make us dance on his strings. But how do I get them away from him? I twist toward Stokowski and give him a knowing look. “I suppose they’d better learn to speak Russian.”
    Stokowski’s jaw hangs open, for a few moments, then he clamps it shut. The sorrow that’s hung over him since we met ossifies into grim determination. Learn to speak Russian, LSR—the nickname Olga told us for the air raid shelter. I hope it’ll be enough to keep him safe.
    Al, however, isn’t privy to such a clue. He flicks the lighter open and closed, eyeing Rostov like a cut of meat that’s started to spoil. “So what’s your special power, comrade? Being an asshole?”
    Static crackles through the room as Rostov seizes control of Al, but it’s a moment too late. The rising heat curls my eyelashes and singes the hairs on my forearms. Flames engulf the Bavarian wooden columns that dot the café. Al slumps forward as Rostov releases control of him; Rostov hisses as though he’s been burned.
    â€œSo you Americans have gifts, too.” Rostov takes a step back; Olga and I scramble up from our chairs. “But