Page 2 of Fated Protector

The night sky sparkles in an incandescent battle between city lights and forgotten stars. I nervously tap the window frame, staring down at the ‘city that never sleeps’ and knowing I probably won’t sleep either. I stayed at work long past when I should have been in the office, but I couldn’t help worrying that I’d be judged by others if I’d left early. I’m in charge now, yet even more so, I feel like I’m on a tightrope. And if I fall, who would catch me? Dedicating myself to my career hasn’t won me many friends, and the thought of a boyfriend is almost laughable. The only people who would be there for me, as they always have been, would be Mom and Aunt Sasha.

Fear spider-walks down my spine again, and I dial Sasha’s number with trembling fingers. She doesn’t pick up at any of the three phone lines. I text Mom a short message, telling her that I hadn’t reached her sister yet, but I would try again in the morning. It’s nearly two in the morning in London, but she responds with a simple ‘thank you.’

I change into my pajamas and slide into my queen-sized bed. It is the end of my first day at the top of the world, but all my thoughts are filled with a loud woman with a closet full of wild clothes, a head full of radical ideas, and a heart full of love.

Oh, Aunt Sasha,I think with desperation.Where are you?

CHAPTER2

The sweet, thick scent of magnolia and honeysuckle is what wakes me up from a restless sleep. When I open my eyes, the night sky greets me, a blue velvet blanket embroidered with stars. My head lays on something soft and warm, but my bare arms and legs lay against the cool metal.

“Hello, honey child,” says a familiar voice as long fingers rake gently through my tangle of hair.

“Aunt Sasha?” I murmur in surprise. I tilt my head up to see my aunt smiling down at me as I lie in her lap. I sit up quickly and nearly knock my head against her chin.

“Whoa there,” she scolds, but there’s no anger in her voice, only warmth and kindness and a light lilt of New Orleans charm.

“How did I get here?” I ask, whipping my head around. I’m in Sasha’s garden, if you could call it a garden. Since she lives above her bookstore, she removed the unneeded gravel parking space behind it. She covered it in grass and flower beds, making her own mini-landscape. A single magnolia tree stands over us, its shadow casting long fingers across the grass. Above it, the moon hangs, heavy and full and alive. It’s the kind of night that made me think that perhaps magic was a real and tangible thing.

She brushes a wisp of dark hair from my forehead. “You listen to me now, Annabelle,” she says, urgency in her tone. “I may not have been your Mother, but I love you like one. I’ve done many amazing things in my life, and I’ve had a lot of adventures, but nothing—nothing, you hear me, child?—was ever as wonderful as loving you.”

My eyes prickle with hot tears. “I love you too, Sasha,” I murmur. “But why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye?” She isn’t, is she? There’s no reason to say goodbye unless–

Her eyes flash with emotion, and her hand grips mine tightly. “Hush now. You know there’s no such thing as goodbye. There’s only —”

“See you next time,” I mouth along with her, repeating her mantra. “Why are you telling me this? I don’t understand.”

“Because danger is coming, and I won’t be there to help you, not physically anyway. Adventure is coming for you, too.” Her mouth quirks with humor. “And more.”

“I don’t want adventure,” I plead, gripping at her fingers. “I’m happy where I am.”

“Want and need aren’t always the same, sweetheart. Right now, I think you need adventure more than you want it. That will change.” She glances up at the full moon, closing her eyes, the lashes fluttering against her sun-browned skin. Blue-white moonlight sparkles on her cheeks. She has a reverent, peaceful countenance that makes my eyes water with unshed sorrow.

Her eyes blink open, the moon’s reflection captured in those big brown eyes. “It’s time, child.” She presses a tender kiss to my forehead, and when I grasp for her, I feel only the crisp, cool sensation of my rumpled bedsheets.

When I fully wake up, I’m crying for a future that I know is coming all too soon.

* * *

After the tearsfade and I am able to compose myself, the first thing I do is reach for my cell phone. By this point, it is morning in London, but I’m not going to call my mother. What would I tell her? I had a dream, and Sasha is going to die? It would only scare and confuse her.

Instead, I call my personal assistant. Kelly answers the phone immediately, her voice low and groggy. “What’s happened?” she asks. “What’s wrong?”

I freeze for a moment, embarrassed that I need her help for something that should be a basic life skill. “I need an airplane ticket,” I say in a somber tone. “It’s an emergency.”

“What can I do?” The warm urgency in her tone tells me that she understands; at one point or another, we’ve all received a phone call like this in the middle of the night–except, in my case, it was a dream. Nothing more than glimpses into something that could be or already has been.

I start packing my suitcase, but it doesn’t feel like my body is making the motions. Hands I don’t feel are mine fold up traveling clothes and tuck them inside. Shaking fingers that belong to someone else zip up the bag, the whirring sound the only noise in my bedroom.

The ride to the airport is thankfully quiet. The rideshare driver doesn’t try to engage me in conversation, as if she can sense the solemnity that wraps around me like a winter cloak. I check into the airport, zombie walk onto the plane, and stare at the window for four interminable hours.

Landing in New Orleans begins the reverse process. I leave the airport and grab a ride to Sasha’s bookstore. Once there, I smile at the driver, thanking him for the ride. It is my first smile in many hours, and I can’t help but feel it is my last for a long while.

The bookstore looks the same as it always has–simple red brick and shiny white trim that constantly needs to be touched up. As a sullen teenager, it used to be my job to paint the trim every summer. By the following summer, it would already be starting to yellow. The store windows are dark, and the sign on the door is flipped to “CLOSED.” The window display shows a sale on herbal gardening books. I twist the doorknob, but it is locked, and my fervent knocks go unanswered.

I don’t keep a spare key to the store on my own keyring anymore, so I dip around to the back of the shop. The perfume of the magnolia tree and honeysuckle bushes greet me like old friends. Still, their familiarity is nauseating after last night’s portentous dream. The metal garden bench where Sasha and I spoke – in a dream, I remind myself, not in memory as it seems – is empty. The raised garden bed, just big enough to grow tomatoes and the occasional zucchini plant, sits against the building’s brick exterior. I curl my fingers underneath the frame, dry soil dusting them as I feel around for the spare key.

It isn’t there.

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