Destiny Calling

by Maureen L. Bonatch

  I looked at the alley where my warm oasis had awaited. It looked like all the rest of the streets. Dark, dreary, and teaming with snow. “But...”

  “You were standing there in a daze.”

  Griffith looked perfect. I drew my hood over my head, then took a swipe under my watery eyes and sniffed to still my runny nose. His ears remained their normal color instead of the beet red mine probably were.

  “I was thinking of what I needed at the store.”

  Turning toward the intersection leading to the corner convenience, I tried not to think about the book I’d kind of borrowed.

  “You’re not trying to avoid me?”

  “No.” I cringed. That didn’t sound convincing. “Why would I want to avoid you?”

  I walked across the street with Griffith slowing his pace to match my stride.

  “You were in such a hurry to leave my house. Acting odd when I brought you back to your car.” He studied me. “You want to talk about it?”

  “About what?” Unsure if he meant discussing the book, his freak of a brother, or him not being human and claiming I wasn’t, either. Kind of hard to narrow down the topic, and none worthy of discussing in the middle of the street. “Besides, you don’t know me, so how would you know if I’m acting odd?”

  He linked his arm through my elbow, drawing me closer to him and slowing my pace. “I’d think you’d be grateful to the man who rescued you.”

  I squirmed at his assertiveness in taking my arm the way he did, but liked it nonetheless. “I don’t need rescuing. I can take care of myself.”

  Despite wanting to get information out of Griffith, my emotions battled like the push and pull of a tide. My desire to cling to him fought with my usual response of rejecting getting close to anyone. My head told me I should put as much distance between us as possible, but my heart wanted to stay. My head usually won these battles.

  “But I’d like to. Get to know you, that is,” Griffith said. “Or rescue you, if you need it.”

  He almost smiled, then seemed to realize his lips were about to betray him, and stopped. “Can I take you somewhere? Maybe we could talk.”

  I stopped and faced him. “I don’t...no.”

  His jaw tensed and he scowled, but his expression quickly cleared.

  “It’s not that I wouldn’t like to, but I just moved here and need to get settled.” I turned away. “Besides, I’m looking for someone.”

  I wasn’t sure why I told him, practically a stranger. Not practically, he was a stranger. Just because I’ve had dreams about him didn’t mean I knew anything about him.

  “I can help you.” Griffith’s jawline tensed and he tightened his grip on my arm, as if claiming possession.

  “Why?” I took a step back as anger radiated off him. “I don’t know you and…” I thought about the book and the scene at his house with Drake. “I’m not sure I want to.”

  Griffith’s face smoothed, and the annoyed expression evaporated as if it had never been there.

  “I’m sorry, I’m a little impatient.” He lifted my chin so I looked into his eyes sparkling like the gray mist shimmering around his head. “I can’t keep you out of my mind. I worry about that.”

  I tensed when he stroked my head with his other hand. Petting me like an animal. I began to pull away but stopped, the sensation of well-being and relaxation drew me in.

  Perhaps I was being difficult. Maybe it was a good idea to go out with Griffith.

  “It’s a good idea,” Griffith said, his voice as soothing as his touch.

  My eyelids were heavy, as if I’d awakened from a long, restful sleep.

  Griffith’s unusual, intriguing gray eyes caught my gaze, and sinking into their depths, I forgot about the cold and why I didn’t want to go out with him, yet. It was inevitable. What was I waiting for? The shimmering lights around him were beautiful.

  Griffith continued to smooth my hair, murmuring.

  I rested my cheek against his chest. The cool leather of his jacket felt like a balm. Heat radiated from him, enveloping me. I could get used to this.

  “Well, if it isn’t the two lovebirds.”

  Startled, I jumped back into the man behind me who was twirling a tendril of my hair.

  “Hello, Ginger.”

  I tried to turn, but his grip on my hair restrained me. When had it gotten so dark?

  “What?” I wrapped my arms around my waist. “I’m sorry.” I took a step back. “I didn’t see you there.”

  The rail-like build of the man surprised me, because he hadn’t even budged with my impact. The man, creature, or whatever he was, from Griffith’s house, Drake loomed behind me.

  “Of course not, but you will. I would’ve loved to have met you sooner, but Griffith called dibs.” He lifted my hair to his nose, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. “Delicious.”

  I yanked my hair so it dropped from his grip, running my hand over the strands, fearful the oily residue oozing off him had gotten on me. “My name’s not Ginger.”

  “It’s not. But that’s what you are. Why cover it up with a hideous dye job.” He held out his arms in a welcoming embrace. “You haven’t properly introduced us, brother.”

  I glanced between Griffith and Drake. The gray mist darkened around Griffith but couldn’t compete with the blackness surrounding Drake like a cloud.

  “Don’t call me that.” Griffith’s fists clenched and unclenched, as he glared at Drake.

  I needed to think and couldn’t seem to do that when I was around Griffith. As I backed away, neither man paid me any attention. Their focus locked upon each other, as they circled like dogs sizing each other up. I wanted answers from Griffith about the dreams, the book, and what in the hell kind of power he had over me, but they’d have to wait because there was one thing I wanted more than any of that...to get the hell out of there.

  Chapter Six

  His attention never left me the whole time I was in the store. He didn’t approach, but watched every move I made. In an effort to avoid Griffith and Drake, I’d encountered yet another peculiar man.

  My wet shoes squeaked against the tile in the narrow aisles. With my dwindling funds and the strange man staring at me, I cut my shopping short. I tried to catch his eye, but he averted his gaze, pretending to concentrate on the different brands of toilet paper. With two brands to choose from, he was either the worst decision maker in the world or a terrible stalker. I was betting on the latter.

  I still wasn’t sure what Ruthie meant about being able to tell the difference. Everyone in this town seemed a bit different, to say the least. Although seeing black fog accompanied by crushing despair clinging to many of the people living here and Ruthie declaring herself a witch did make them appear different than I was accustomed to.

  With my bags in one hand, I opened the door a few inches to survey the parking lot. Neither Griffith nor Drake were anywhere in sight. When they’d started their testosterone stand-off, I should’ve gone directly to my car and back to Ruthie’s, but I refused to let them scare me. I was made of stronger stuff, or at least I hoped I was.

  Running my arm over the trunk to brush the accumulated snow aside before I popped it open didn’t prevent some from falling in with the bags I tossed inside.

  “Hello, don’t I know you?”

  I spun around. The man from the store stood a foot away. In my preoccupation with Griffith and Drake, I hadn’t heard him come up behind me. He needed to learn something about personal space.

  “I don’t think so.” I shut the trunk and started toward the driver’s side, shaking off the snow clinging to my coat sleeve.

  “Wait, don’t go, yet.” He held his palm up. “Please, I need to talk to you.”

  He looked harmless, kind of like a big kid. After he ran his hand through his already unruly hair, pieces stood up at odd angles. I resisted the urge to smooth it into place. His other hand clutched a bag of groceries. I glanced at his bag. No toilet paper, as suspected. Either that was a ruse, or he must have a
difficult time deciding between types of ply.

  I hesitated. He seemed innocent enough with his lop-sided grin. But then again, I’d watched far too many of those television shows where neighbors of serial killers start by saying, He was such a nice, quiet guy.

  But I didn’t know Ruthie either, and I’d moved right into her lair. For all I knew, she had a whole coven living downstairs waiting to use me as a human sacrifice.

  I’d survived this long in life on my instincts. I was done running.

  He extended his hand. “I’m Chance.” The smile he gave me could melt butter.

  I kept my car keys in my free hand, ready to use them as a weapon, if necessary. At least that’s what all those self-defense emails always recommended. Seems you’d have to get pretty close to poke with a key, and it wouldn’t do much but irritate your attacker.

  I tried to remember what it said—something about going for the eyes. I wasn’t certain I could stick a key into someone’s eye, then pop it out and use it to drive my car, not with eye goo adhering to the key. But I guess it would depend on how much peril I was in.

  He was still holding his hand out. I looked at his hand and then to him. No black fog, floating gray lights or desperation clinging to him, only a friendly smile.

  Here goes nothing.

  I clasped his hand, and waited. Nothing. I didn’t feel anything. His gaze locked on me. Staring, unblinking with green eyes that looked a lot like my own, he said, “You ought to come meet my sister. I think you’d like her.”

  I pulled my hand back. My unease grew with the way he talked to me, so slowly and deliberately, as if trying to hypnotize me. He reminded me of Griffith without the patting and the sparkling fog. “Sure, maybe another time.” I edged the rest of the way to the driver’s door without turning my back. His eyes were too pretty to poke with a key.

  “Wait, don’t leave.” He looked baffled and pleased at the same time, which made him just look constipated. “I didn’t know if it would work on you.”

  I slid into the seat, but he grabbed the door before I could close it.

  “Please, I don’t know how much I’m allowed to explain. Here let me show you something. Then you might understand.” He dropped his grocery bag and unbuckled his pants. I smacked the door into him as hard as I could, and he stumbled away from the car.

  Great. A pervert.

  “Sorry, buddy, I don’t think so. I’ve seen one of those before, and I don’t have any desire to understand it.”

  “No, it’s not what you think.”

  I sped out of the parking lot, watching him jog after my car while holding onto his pants, before stopping in defeat.

  I needed answers from Ruthie and a second go at the book.

  ****

  “Here kitty, kitty.” The calico kitten walked toe to toe on the windowsill with her tail pointed straight in the air. When the cat didn’t flee at my outstretched hand, I picked her up. Must be one of Ruthie’s, even if she wasn’t black. She flattened her ears and fixed on me with a green-eyed glare.

  The kitten’s soft fur was soothing against my sore fingers. After repeatedly trying, and failing, to open the darn book, I succeeded in nothing more than scorching my fingers, even with gloves on. Hopefully Ruthie could give me insight about how to open it. Once she pulled in the driveway, darn, no broom, I started down to her house.

  “You’re a tiny thing.” I flipped the tag over on the cat’s collar. “Tercet?”

  Her unblinking eyes didn’t display any recognition to her name—not that cats ever did. “Better take you back down to your house, girl.”

  I winced when the kitten’s claws dug into me. She struggled as I held her while descending the stairs. I didn’t want her to escape. The kitten provided an excuse for going to see Ruthie. I never was good at apologies.

  The overgrowth and shrubbery practically concealed Ruthie’s house, designed like a rustic log cabin with three masks hanging outside the door.

  Them again? The dog, horse and snake trio were a big hit in this town. I made a mental note to ask her about their significance. Otherwise, why anyone would want the ugly as sin masks hanging around baffled me.

  Pots of various herbal-looking plants and the fragrance of flowers filled the porch and overflowed into the yard. The flowers were beautiful. Anyone who could keep anything alive, let alone thriving, especially this time of year, impressed me.

  Despite the thick trees, the sunlight filtered easily through them, giving Ruthie’s home a bright, charming appeal. I’d expect dwarfs to emerge, except Ruthie didn’t quite fit in that fairy tale.

  The trees began to sway, dancing in rhythm. A light breeze tinkled the numerous wind chimes, and I tensed. Tercet escaped and bounded off the porch.

  Damn, there goes my excuse.

  I rapped on the door, jumping when a large black cat sprung from the wooden rocking chair, tearing off in a blur of fur. Fitting, I thought, and then frowned at my haste to stereotype. A foul odor overwhelmed the scent of flowers. I was perplexed at the source, but relieved the stench wasn’t cinnamon.

  When the door opened, I came face to face with a large, white handlebar mustache. There was a face attached to it, but I had trouble taking my eyes off the mustache. The rest of his features paled in comparison. It seemed as if he wanted to make the most of his facial hair. What was left on his head was thin, and the comb-over barely concealed the pale skin on his scalp, littered with brown age spots.

  I recovered my manners. “Is Mrs…ahh, Ruthie here?” I’d never gotten Ruthie’s last name and wasn’t sure if she was married or not. I’d pictured her a spinster living in a dark, spider-web infested shack with a big ole black cauldron in the middle of the kitchen.

  “You must be Hope.” Mr. Mustache enveloped me in a hug. My arms flailed uselessly at my sides, and the air rushed out of my body during the unexpected attack. My face crammed into his soft, white pocket t-shirt smelling of garlic and onions.

  “I’m George, Ruthie’s husband.” He released me, and I stumbled back, greedily inhaling air into my deprived lungs.

  “Come in, come in. We’ve been waiting on you long enough.” He tottered in front of me, his weight shifting side to side on bowed knees in an awkward crab-like walk.

  I followed behind, taking in the organized clutter of their home. George chattered nonstop. I wondered how either of them got a word in with each other, or else perhaps this provided him an opportunity to talk without Ruthie’s non-stop prattle.

  George led me into the living room. I tensed as hundreds of eyes fell upon me. Granted they were mostly glass, porcelain, or painted, but eyes nonetheless. Dolls filled the shelves, corners, and occupied much of the furniture.

  George must’ve sensed my unease. “Don’t mind the girls.” After glancing toward the kitchen, he leaned in toward me. “You see, Ruthie and I couldn’t have children.” He shrugged. “The girls here.” He gestured around the room. “They gave Ruthie something to dress up and take care of, seeing that Stinker wouldn’t let her put clothes on her. Now that I think of it, that’s when Stinker got her new name.”

  “Stinker?”

  He pulled on his mustache thoughtfully. “Maybe she developed that as a defense mechanism against those horrid sweaters Ruthie knits for her.” George shuddered. “Can’t blame her.”

  He took in the question in my expression. “Oh, Stinker’s our cat. You probably met her on the porch. That’s where she’s usually lurking if she’s not in here. The woods make her nervous, so she doesn’t venture too far. Don’t ask how she got the name. It’ll be obvious soon enough.” He glanced back to ensure Ruthie was still in the kitchen. “Don’t tell Ruthie what I said about the sweaters.”

  I realized I’d identified the source of the odor on the porch when I’d frightened who must have been Stinker.

  I sat on the faded, worn couch. The cushion sank in so low I pondered whether I’d be able to get back out as the fabric sealed around my waist. Apparently, Ruthie and George believed in gett
ing their money’s worth out of furniture. The two dolls occupying the corner of the cushion tilted precariously toward me, and I cringed away from their glassy stare and porcelain grasp.

  Ruthie’s voice became louder as she made her way to the living room.

  “George. I said, did you offer Hope iced tea?” When he didn’t immediately respond, she raised her voice a few octaves. “George. How come you ain’t never listening when I’m talking to you?”

  George held on to the armrests as he lowered himself into the recliner covered in a multi-colored afghan. As he leaned forward, the afghan abandoned its perch on the back of the chair and slid partially into the depths of the cushion.

  Tapping on the hearing aid occupying his left ear, he whispered, “That’s ’cause I turn this thing off when I’m tired of listening.” His round cheeks and ginormous mustache rose up as he unsuccessfully attempted to contain his mirth. The sound escaping was comparable to the giggle of a small child. He covered his mouth with a large paw-like hand as his giggling subsided.

  I smiled. If I hadn’t liked George instantly, his giggle would’ve clinched it.

  “What’s that you say, George?” Obviously, Ruthie didn’t have any problems with hearing loss.

  “Nothing, sweetie.” He smirked.

  Ruthie burst into the room, balancing a silver tray baring an assortment of baked goods and a delicate silver teapot. She set it onto the coffee table and nodded to the small china plates. Being a slave to sweets, I didn’t need to be told twice.

  “Since George here didn’t ask you—” She smacked George’s hand, which was making a beeline for the tray. “Guests first.” She gave him a narrowed look, and he returned one of his own. “Would you rather have iced tea?”

  “Hot tea is fine.” Picking up the cup, I wondered if it would be as good as the coffee this morning. It was. The first cookie melted on my tongue as if liquid sugar. It was official. I was in heaven. “Ruthie,” I mumbled, very unladylike, around a mouthful of cookie. “These cookies are delicious. Where did you buy them?”

  “Buy?” Ruthie glowered. “I made them this morning. Of course they’re delicious—I told you about my gift.”