Kursed by Lindsay Smith Page A

mine is better, I think. You should come with us.”
    â€œNo way in hell.”
    Flames wreathe around Al, surging, reaching toward our side of the café. The columns subdivide Al and Doctor Stokowski from Olga, Rostov, and me; soon, they’ll form a wall, cutting the café in half. I don’t have long to make a decision. It has to be right now.
    I close my eyes and fling myself into the future—whichever future gives me the best chance of survival. But not survival for survival’s sake, this time.
    This time, I want to live another day so I can use this gift for something more than the Party’s whims.
    If I try to go with Al and Stokowski now—I see Rostov, holding me back, pinning me in place, letting flames consume me. He’s not strong enough to stop the rest, but he’ll turn all his hatred and SMERSH training straight on me, and I won’t survive. Olga, too—I see her face, contorting with screams, Lyubov trying to pull her away, but the flames eat at them both.
    No. No, no, no.
    If I surrender now, if I keep up the lie that we were only trying to lure another scientist into Rostov’s web, and an American spy besides—then what? The first image is of Andrei, lip bloodied and swollen, and I cry out. But, no, he is alive. I am alive, kneeling beside him, no burns, no Rostov inside my head. Again, I see us standing on the bridge, the Moskva River flowing beneath us, everything awake and alive and bursting with spring as victorious airplanes soar overhead. We toss a bouquet of flowers, together, into the pile outside Novodevichy Monastery to commemorate the atonement I have made.
    And the dark-haired girl—I see her, too, sitting in the classroom, her face turned away from me.
    I step back, into Rostov’s circle. Olga narrows her eyes at me, assessing, but then does the same.
    â€œCome, quickly, poshli, this place is going to come crashing down,” I say to Rostov, forcing an authority that I don’t feel. “Let the American burn.”
    â€œWhat, and give up your prize? Don’t be foolish.”
    Again, the air warps with the force of Rostov’s power, drilling into Al’s brain. Al is pinned in place; I want to cry out, but I can’t. I can’t blow my cover. In a moment’s time, I’ve been transformed into a sleeper agent—the very thing Al accused us of being. But I’ve seen what the future holds—it has to be done.
    Flames roar in my ears, curl the ends of my eyelashes. I nudge Olga toward the door while Rostov is focused on Al; if we don’t move soon, we’ll be engulfed. Lyubov is screaming at us to get out, get out, but the pop and hiss of the fire catching drowns out her screams. Olga narrows her eyes and stares straight ahead.
    With a fierce creak, one of the oak pillars tears free of its mooring under Olga’s power and swings straight toward Rostov.
    â€œGet out, get out!” Lyubov howls. The pillar plows through the wooden planks of the floor, just before Rostov, breaking his concentration and sending a column of flame up between us and Al and Stokowski. They lock eyes with us, then turn and run for the air raid shelter. The floor buckles inward. I can’t wait here to see what becomes of Rostov—we have to get out, now.
    Olga staggers out the door and down the stairs of the cafe; the pants leg over her prosthetic leg is singed and charred, and I wonder if the prosthesis is damaged as well. I offer her my arm and help her down to the curb while Lyubov shoots us dirty looks. “Come on. We have a car waiting around the corner.”
    I let go of Olga. Andrei. I have to get Andrei from the alleyway. “Wait—what about—” But as I round the corner to the alley, it’s deserted.
    Andrei isn’t here.
    He was never here.
    Andrei! I scream, inside my head, desperate for him to hear, though I’m almost certain he won’t. The Andrei I foresaw in a vision,