Renhala (6 page)

“Kailey, is everything okay?” It’s Evan’s voice. The door slowly opens, and I see his head peek in. “You slammed your door pretty hard there.” I see another coworker standing behind him, attempting to peek in my office. No fog. “You know the open door policy here.”

I think fast. “I just had to make a personal call—woman issues,” I whisper. “Sorry.”

“Uh, okay... Just checking,” he squeaks, in an embarrassed sort of way. “Hey, get some air freshener for your office. It smells like rotten eggs in here.”

He leaves and I sit straight, looking forward, wondering if I should tell
anyone
what’s happening to me. I choose to keep it to myself. Lunacy is not taken lightly with employers.

Chapter 6

Excited

After a swift walk past the gangbangers, who are still lingering on the corner—and a snide remark about me being as white as they come, despite Joe’s blonde hair and blue eyes—I get home from work, and my Kioto waits open-eyed for me. She’s a big comfort, especially after the nightmare I had at my desk today.
That’s gotta be what happened
.
Note to self: No more food before work naps—especially stale office doughnuts.

I hug her for a good five minutes, gathering from her stiff body that the hugs aren
’t going to do it. “I know, your bladder’s going to explode, isn’t it, girl?” I say. “Let’s go for a walk—” Her ears perk at the word, “—before I leave again.”

So we walk to
South Lakeview Park and I let her empty her bladder. The guilt of leaving Kioto alone this evening gets the best of me, so I take a quick glance around, and then let her off the leash to chase squirrels, thinking that maybe the exercise will tire her out and she’ll sleep soundly tonight while I’m gone. Stupid move on my part. I should know better. She’s an Akita—a prey-driven animal originally bred to hunt bear, and protective to a fault.

I never see the man and his dog, a beautiful Irish setter, enter through the gates. The moment Kioto makes
eye contact with them, I scream at her as loud as my lungs will let me. I know the possible outcome all too well after a fight with a Rottweiler last summer. Kioto won, but I suffered for months after paying both dogs’ vet bills. She does not get along with other dogs.

She takes off with the speed of a jet and runs toward
the slim and graceful Irish setter. I run after her, yelling again for Kioto to stop.

The man steps in front of his dog and says some word to Kioto I barely hear. Instantly, to my surprise, Kioto stops and turns to me. I stop running and start walking briskly toward her before she changes her mind and attacks. I grab her collar and put her leash back on, apologizing up and down to this stranger while, reveling in the fact that my dog did not shred his like a piece of chicken jerky. Dog-fights are the worst ever. You don’t know what to do because you fear for your own safety, but want to stop the snarling and squealing and the madness you can feel overtake them. It’s so raw and feral. 

“It’s okay,” says the stranger with a bit of an Irish brogue. At least I think it is. “Nothing happened. Except I think you may fall over from that rush of adrenaline. Do you need to sit?” 

“No, I’ll be okay,” I say. “I just may throw up my lunch.” 

“I won’t look.”

“What did you say to my dog? How did you get her to stop?” Kioto is sitting now, just staring at the Irish setter, perhaps telepathically daring the dog to move.

“Oh, I took some strict guard-dog obedience classes long ago, before I got Cherry here,” says the man. “The word I used is the most stern-sounding German word I know, so I used it, and it worked. Yeah, I know, Irish man speaking German—kind of funny. The instructor taught in German so that your typical stranger wouldn’t be able to give commands to your dog.”

“That was German? Di
dn’t sound like it to me,” I add. But I must have been too far away. “Your dog is so beautiful. I’m glad Kioto didn’t get to her—him?” My head turns, trying to peek at where I may find the answer myself. I let the dog sniff my hand before petting it.

“Her. I have this thing for redheads, I guess.” He says it without breaking his stare, embarrassing me slightly,
and definitely satisfying his manhood, but it’s non-threatening. It makes me feel...good.

I giggle girlishly. He’s attractive—tall and muscular, with glowing blue eyes that make me hold my breath as I decide whether he’s looking into my soul or just plain through me. My fingers want to reach out and sail through his sandy brown hair.

I collect myself, clearing my throat. Flirting is usually Amber’s arena, not mine.

“You live around here?” My mind tries to replay what I’ve just said, hoping I spoke English and not girly boy-intoxicated gibberish.

“Just moved to the city from the south suburbs, but I’ve lived in the Chicago area since I was twelve,” he answers. “I was born in Waterford, Ireland, though—land of four- leaf clovers, barley, and hops. Do you live close by?”

“You are stranger-danger. Can
’t tell you that!” I tease. “Unfortunately, I have to get going. I have a dinner date—not like a date-date, but like a friend date.” Pretty sure that was English.

“Sure, don’t mean to keep you,” he says. “We will see you around?”

I stand motionless, and examine him in my special way. Intrigue. It’s definitely intrigue I feel from him. “Probably,” I say.

“What’s your name?”

“Kailey, and yours?” 

“Conner,” he replie
s, “and it’s nice to meet you—and Kioto.” He extends his hand, and I shake it. His hand is much warmer than mine, and softer, if that’s possible—definitely not a manual labor kind of guy. Feeling like a scaly alligator, I try to withdraw my hand—it’s time for a change in lotions—but he holds on as a small static shock travels up my arm. 

“Ow,” I yelp
as I pull my hand away.

“Oops, sorry. Did I do that, or was that you?” We both laugh as Kioto allows him to pet her head, without a shock.

“See you around, Conner.” My turn to leave is slow, but with a twist of the head—my best attempt at a model’s hair swish.
Amber’s perfected it, so maybe I can?
I only end up with a mouthful of hair.

After a few feet, I turn back to
see that Conner and Cherry are already gone.

“Let’s go, my good girl,” I say, genuinely smiling—maybe for the first time in months. Kioto leads the way home.

Chapter 7

Nonsensical

Could I be any more nervous?

As dinner approaches, I keep asking myself all sorts of questions—questions like, did I wear the right clothes? Did I wear the right shoes? Is it all right that my hair is pulled back? When did I accidentally eat the hallucinogenic mushroom? What the hell am I doing?

The one thing that makes me decide to go is the pendulum. I have to give it back. I’m not a thief—never stole anything in my life, well, except that one bag of Big League Chew, but I chalked that off as a youth’s rite of passage.

I call a cab, making sure it’s a different company than the last I used. It arrives promptly,
I take a deep breath, and direct the driver as I enter the vanilla-scented cab. We arrive in Chinatown, and I pay him, tipping him well, since we actually had some decent conversation on global warming. It was important that I take my mind off the trip or I might have opened the door while driving and just rolled out of the cab to avoid setting foot in Gunthreon’s place.

When I get out, I see the sign above the bar, which I conveniently failed to notice the other day: “
Spirit Cave”. The neon sign of a champagne glass with tiny bubbles floating up to the roof flickers as I approach the door. But the ten steps to the door are absolute hell as I find myself fighting my better judgment. It’s practically screaming at me to turn my bony ass around and go home, where I’m guaranteed safety with Kioto as my guard. My palm might now have a permanent indentation of my silver ring as I grip it with all my hand strength. The “Closed” sign seems the perfect excuse to run back after my cab, letting my better judgment be the winner of this round, but instead, I touch the handle of the door and turn. It opens. I force my feet forward. 

“Hello?” My voice echoes through the deserted bar. I don’t want to walk in any further, so I yell a bit louder, still hoping for an excuse to turn around and leave:
“Hello!”

“Kailey, I
’m back here. Come join me.” Gunthreon’s voice comes from the kitchen, along with some yummy smells. When I enter the kitchen, I swoon from the tantalizing aroma of sautéing mushrooms and onions and cream. I see a pot of noodles cooking and a quick glance in the oven reveals beautiful gargantuan lamb shanks. I think maybe I’ve died and entered heaven through a set of pub doors.

Gunthreon works on hand-rolled dinner rolls, speckled with oregano and garlic slices. He pats each one lovingly—like a baby
’s bottom—before placing it on the cookie sheet.

“And I thought you were Asian,”
I joke. “Turns out you’re Italian?” I nervously smile at him. I keep my distance from him and the large chef’s knife beside his cutting board.

“Can’t help it—I like good food. I learned to cook from the best. Go ahead and put your purse down on a
chair.” Again, he exudes a strong and solid sort of confidence.

I walk to a chair and place my purse on it, slowly, not really wanting to leave my pepper spray beyond my reach. After I put it down, I sneak over to the small, hot saucepan on the stove—I could always use it as a weapon if things went awry.

As my nose sniffs the concoction in the pan, I can’t help but dip my finger in the cream sauce and bring it to my tongue. I instantly want to cry. It has a touch of tangy lemon, sending my heart aflutter. On the counter is a filled wine glass. I start to speak, and Gunthreon, without looking up, tells me to drink.

I grab the glass without argument and slowly tilt it up, letting the wine barely touch my lips, and I slowly open my mouth, letting the deep, dark wine glide over my tongue and slide down my throat. It’s warm, and it makes me tingle all over.
I gulp the whole glass. It’s not like any wine I’ve ever tasted, including the 1994 Cabernet Sauvignon—at forty-five-dollars a bottle—that I splurged on while I was a hermit in my mom’s house.

“Hmm,” mumbles
Gunthreon, looking at my empty glass, “you downed that a little fast.”

“No worries.
Thanks for sharing it with me,” I say, aware that he’s worrying over nothing. “Can I help you with anything? I’m actually no stranger to the kitchen. My mom got sick when I was younger, and I did a lot of the cooking at home. She taught me many a trick.” I expect him to ask about her, but he just nods while he slices a few strawberries and throws them in a bowl. Out of the blue, I suddenly feel a bit lightheaded and unsteady.  “Whoa,” I groan.

“
Too fast,” he jabbers under his breath. “How about you finish setting the table for me, please.” He points toward the door I followed him through on that first unforgettable evening, then hands me two silverware settings.

When I walk through the door
a bit unstable, I see the room that we entered on Friday, in which a lovely urn had sat atop a small table, but now the room is set up as a dining room. In the center is an extraordinarily long dinner table with several chairs set around it. The chairs are upholstered in a lovely fabric, which I determine I have to admire closely. The fabric feels like silk, and there are tiny little hand-embroidered hydrangea and buttercup flowers sewn randomly throughout it. The table’s runner matches, and includes larger versions of the flowers.

On the wall are what seems like hundreds of lovely photos of different people of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some are happy, and some just seem sad. But there is one thing they have in common: They all hold an urn—in fact, the same urn I saw when I first entered this room several nights ago, and the same urn now set upon the center of the table, embraced by plumes of hydrangeas. As I start to examine the pictures on the wall, I notice the urn seems to fit magically into each person’s hands, perfectly.

My mind suddenly registers that the dining room table is already set with plates, but not for two—for three. The chair for the unknown guest is covered in plastic, and sitting on the top plate is a rather large piece of raw meat.

Turning around quickly—quicker than I should be moving right now—
I practically run over Gunthreon and the bowl of au gratin potatoes he’s carrying. He dodges me and shuffles the plate as if he just stepped out of a Jackie Chan flick.

“Kailey, please sit.” 

“No way!” I sit despite my spoken rejection. “What’s on that plate? It’s disgusting! And you never told me there would be another guest. Why am I really here? Surely not just to eat a good meal. Did you drug me?” It’s the only possible reason why I’m feeling so shaky.

“Our other guest may or may not show up. That depends on you. You must trust me, please. All questions will be answered later.” He then looks right in my eyes and I trust him, but not without
thinking some choice words. “I did not drug you,” he states.

“
My
damn lamb had better be cooked, because I don’t feel like ending up in the hospital with salmonella,” I prattle.

He proceeds to carry in each lusciously ladened dinner dish, one at a time. The dishes are an unmatched set, but each is lovely and distinct in its own way. My great aunt—Numa—we called her, had teacups and saucers that she gathered from around the world, and these remind me of her collection. As a child, I was mesmerized by their beauty. I
always wanted to play tea party—Bear would have loved it—with them, but was forbidden. So now, I make sure to touch each one, satisfying the once-deprived child in me.

He serves me from each plate, almost knowing that I will not say no to
any
of it.

As he then fills his own plate, he very briefly glances toward our guest’s. His frown scares me a bit, as well as the sense of nervousness I feel from him.

I decide it’s time, so I reach in my purse and take out the pendulum. I move to put it in his hands, but he pulls them back. “Kailey, you are now the rightful owner. You cannot give it back to me,” he says. “Please keep it and enjoy.” 

“For real?”

“For real.”

“Thanks, Gunthreon,” I say. “I was beginning to get attached to it.”

“That’s what I was hoping for,” he says. “Did you learn anything?”

“I learned who my spirit guide was. Can you have more than one?”

Surprise flashes across his face. “Yes, you can,” he says. “You learned fast, didn’t you? Perfect.” He smiles at me as he see my reaction—one of caution. As we stare at each other, I take a quick bite of the lamb, and it’s the most tender my mouth has ever touched. The homemade gravy is to die for.

As I think about what I want to say next, he speaks before I can. “Enjoy your meal in peace first, and then we will talk about why you are here,” he says. “Let’s just talk some small talk. Tell me about your mother.”

Finally—something I can go on and on about. I tell him all about my childhood and my mom and all the great things she’s done in her life for others. I tell him about her debilitating kidney disease, how the doctors are amazed at how she’s still alive and breathing, how she’s the most important person in my life, and how I don’t know what will happen to me if she passes away before me. I end my dialogue with how my mother has taught me about every living creature’s connection to each other and how we should all treat each other with respect and love.

I never feel the tears flowing until Gunthreon hands me my clean napkin. I wipe my face, and I notice the napkin is so white it appears to be glowing. He takes it from me, then holds both my hands.

“Thank you, Kailey.”

“For what?” I ask
.

“For trusting me. It’s very important that you do.”

“I have plenty reason to not trust strangers.” I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. “But you feel like a long lost friend... Does that make any sense?”

“Those before
you have felt the same,” he tells me with a gentle shyness. He pauses a bit, then asks, “Would you be willing to join a quest...for a friend? Simple question, and not a request.”

“A quest?” I forget about my mom, intent on deciphering his words.
Why would anyone want me in a quest? And who even uses the word
quest
these days.

“Let
’s just say you might be helping to save the world.”

I stand up and walk towards the door. “No need to play with the vulnerable, Gunthreon. Thanks for the delicious dinner.”

“You have not realized your power yet, have you?” he says, quickly, just as I walk into the doorway. I stand with my back to him. “You have to let her go,” he says matter-of-factly. “Just know that she will never be gone forever.”

I turn back around, suddenly angry. “Let who go, where? And power?” I laugh, a bit maniacally. “I don
’t think so.” I laugh again.

“You must concentrate and think about what I am going to tell you. I can guarantee it will be tough to grasp, but please listen, at least.”
He stares at me, longingly.

“Ugh! Fine! Try me. This is your last opportunity to get in my head.”

I catch a brief lift of the corner of his mouth before he says, “Sit then”. I sit, despite the lingering feeling I may have missed a joke of Gunthreon’s. “During your unfortunate attack you let out a scream that was heard around the world,” he hesitates, “and into other ‘realms,’ if I may call them that.” My mouth opens to say something, but nothing comes out. “It was a cry for help to anyone who could hear.” As my eyes fill with tears, he continues, knowing he has my full attention. “I am told you captured a certain entity’s interest, and they, in turn, fully awakened something in you—something that hides in your brain—something that retreated when you were younger.” He pauses enough for me to shake my head no. “In return for the help you were granted, you were given certain powers back, as well as a job to go with them: a quest. You have
such
potential, Kailey.”

“Stop!” I yell. “If you expect me to believe any of this crap you are trying to feed me, you are indee
d in need of mental help. Who put you up to this? Is this a cruel joke? Was it
him—it
? My heart thumps violently as I begin to shake; the synapses in my brain attempt to make logical connections, but get nowhere—I don’t know what to do.

Gunthreon presses forward, ignoring my questions.
“You are now what we call a karmelean—an energy manipulator of sorts, if you will. A deliverer of karma,” says Gunthreon. “You help dish out what people truly deserve by
reading
them. You use people’s energies.”

“Tha
t is nonsense, Gunthreon,” I grunt, shaking my head.

“Everyone emits sorts of vibrational energies, and you my friend, can read or
feel
these energies.”

“This is insane,” I say as I bite my fingernails, the anxiety wreaking havoc on my cuticles. I squirm in my seat, not finding comfort in
any
position. My body just wants to get up and run. And he’s so sure of himself, only heightening my anxiety.

He continues, despite my complete di
scomfort in his words. “Every living creature’s body exudes energy, it’s been scientifically proven. This energy that’s expelled stays close to our bodies, and karmeleans, like yourself, can feel or sense it. And depending on the individual being read, the energy can be good or bad, happy or sad,
good
and
sad
; the possible combinations of emotions are infinite, really. There are so many personality traits that are reflected in one’s energy, too.” He smiles at me, then amazes me by continuing to talk, without any concern of my thoughts, or so it seems. “The extent of your powers, though, we will learn as time progresses. And who, exactly, is still listening for
you
, particularly, is currently a mystery.” He leans close to me and whispers, “The word ‘coincidence’ isn’t in my vocabulary.”