Page 2 of Cryptic Dreams
That’s what stares back at me from the once-empty canvas.
Pain. Loss. Devastation.
Unmatched and profound.
Hurt and fear—heartbreak like I’ve never known before rips through me and explodes through my sobs; sobs that wrack my body and bring me to my knees. I simultaneously clutch a hand over my heart and my stomach, both fluttering with unbearable grief, and while I try to silence the howls of agony that continue to push themselves from my body, I know beyond a shadow of doubt that what I see ismyfuture.
After two hundred and thirteen years, I have finally dreamt of what I fear most and it’s staring at me with all the ferocity and finality only the Gods of Old can conjure.
I have seen my future.
I have painted my fate.
This is the end.
1
Swiftly Now
ZEPHYR
Six Months Later
With my head bowed and eyes glued to the pavement, I rush down the sidewalk, pull my sweater tighter around my shoulders, and pray I make it to the house in time.
Time.
I internally roll my eyes at that ridiculous thought. Not time itself, it’s ridiculous to scoff at something like that, but the fact that I am relatively incapable of keeping track of time even though doing so is critical to my very existence… that’s what has me nearly shaking my head.
I swear it’s like I have a death wish or something.
Not that I can actuallydieper se, but losing track of when I’m supposed to leave and staying later at work than I should have would definitely test my given status as a so-calledimmortal. And doing so is relatively dangerous, unintentional or not.
There are two very good, very serious, reasons my lack of ability to keep track of anything could prove to be fatal, and I’d really rather not tempt either. Not now and preferably not ever.
I pick up my pace, taking it from a brisk walk to a slight jog—my flats not at all meant to run any marathons—but it’s too close to sunrise, too close to whenhewill wake and if I’m not locked in the attic by the time he does, I will most definitely pay for staying too late at the library.
To be totally honest, I wouldn’t ever leave the library if I didn’t have to but I do because, well, I simply can’t live there. I’d love that though, absolutely love living in a place surrounded by incredible knowledge and beautiful words. Those things alone are enticing enough but you throw in the peace they bring and the safety provided, it’s not surprising I never want to leave.
I’ve worked at the New Orleans Public Library since it opened and watching the way it’s changed and grown has been rather magical. Seeing how the city I was born in embraces a thirst for learning and seeking truth as equally as it embraces the need for an escape; how the hunger to live lives some of us could never actually imagine, or educate themselves in things behind their normal scope has made me love it that much more. If I could live in the library, I absolutely would, and not just because I would happily live anywhere other than where I’m forced to callhome.
And I really hate where that is.
But that thought has me nearly running toward the sorry excuse of a house, the fancy shack that does nothing but provide shelter from the sun. I desperately need to get back or else I’m going to be in a lot of trouble, bigger trouble than the rapidly rising ball of fire in the sky could provide all on its own.
My long strides eat up the sidewalk and just as I turn down my street, I collide with a body, my shoulder hitting hard against it. So hard I drop the books in my hands and send my purse toppling toward the ground.
“Fanger!” an angry voice bites out. “Goddamn filthy leech!”
“Watch where you’re going, blood sucker!” another spits.
I flinch as I quickly get to my knees and start scooping the contents of my purse back inside, and when I’m almost done, a black running shoe comes into my line of sight seconds before it proceeds to stomp on my outstretched fingers as well as the travel pouch of O- I brought along in case I needed a snack. My fingers throb as the dark red liquid explodes all over the sidewalk, the spray fanning into an elaborate pattern under my palm and even manages to splatter against the gray tweed of my pencil skirt.
Damn.
I’m never going to get that out.
And it looks like I’ll have to place another order with Clean Drip—which is fine since I needed to go shopping anyway—but at the rate I’m going, I’ll get to the house and discoverhewent bananas on my groceries again so that snack bag was the last of my food until I shop, and now I’ll have to wait hours before the store opens again.
