Ren Series Boxed Set (Book 1 - 4)

by Sarah Noffke

  “Really? You’re with her? I pictured you with someone your own size,” she says to me.

  The remark is so off the cuff and similar to something I’d say. It catches me off guard. Maybe it’s for that reason that I don’t respond.

  When Pops and Adelaide, who is thankfully carrying her offspring and hasn’t left him in a city trash bin, arrive the woman clasps her hands behind her back. The street is fairly busy but still she manages to make a path around us like a wolf circling its prey.

  “My name is Stephanie Colman. I go by Ephanie. Don’t call me Steph or any other version of my name if you want to live with both kidneys. I go by Ephanie and I get enough name-calling on these streets that I don’t put up with anyone’s shit. Now this tour is approx—”

  “You want me to go on a tour with a woman who misspells her last name?” I say, pointing at the cap on Ephanie’s head.

  Dahlia actually laughs at this. The woman, Ms. Colman, doesn’t.

  “As I was saying, this tour is approximately sixty-eight minutes long. There are no breaks for the potty or refreshments and I don’t take questions. If there’s any problems with these rules then leave now,” the tour guide says.

  “Wow, way to find the guide overflowing with charm,” I say to Dahlia.

  “You want charm? Go take the rainbow tour down the block. Wesley will even braid your hair at the conclusion of the tour. If you stay on my tour then count yourself lucky if I don’t throw you in the bay or push you out into traffic,” the woman says.

  Dahlia turns and even under her disguise I spy the raised eyebrow and tentative look. I shrug and acquiesce to these dreadful plans she’s made. She wants to be a tourist, fine. Hopefully she’ll realize how horrid it is and get it out of her system. The only reason anyone ever seeks a tourist experience is because they think their own life is underrated. Usually waiting in a queue and having a commercial experience shoved down one’s throat makes people retreat from the notion for a year. That is, until their faulty memory forgets and they find themselves lined up for something ridiculously expensive that comes with a matching T-shirt. I shiver at the idea. T-shirts are the absolute worst. Another dumb idea the masses clung to instantly.

  “All right, this is a walking tour, so keep up or get left behind,” Steph says. She turns and begins trotting down Marina Boulevard. The woman throws her hand at the building on our right.

  “We start this tour of San Francisco at the Grand Ole Opry,” she says, indicating a brand new bank skyscraper. “This is the oldest building in San Francisco or as the city is commonly nicknamed, Papillon Escargot,” she says, her last words flaring with a French accent.

  “None of that is true,” I say, flatly.

  The crowd in front of us begins to part as we walk on the wrong way of the busy thoroughfare. A cursory glance at my back tells me that unfortunately Pops and the other monsters are still in tow. I take Dahlia’s hand, sensing she’ll like the dumb gesture as I turn back to the lady still babbling on.

  “There’s roughly two hundred and seventy million people who call San Francisco their home,” Stephanie says.

  “That’s absolutely false,” I say over the rush of traffic on the street.

  “The city was founded by pioneers who were trying to escape the oppression of the English crown,” she continues.

  “Nope,” I say.

  “The Chu-Hoe Indians were its original inhabitants,” the Amazon woman says, charging ahead, almost knocking people over.

  “Wrong again.”

  “It’s known for its corn fields and wide variety of licorice,” she says.

  “Are you even hearing yourself speak this bullshit?” I say.

  The tour guide spins around. “Not really. You’re not actually paying attention, are you?”

  “Why? Don’t most people?” I say, now a bit curious.

  She doesn’t grant me a response. “We will cross here,” she says, indicating the middle of an intersection. An oncoming slew of cars are hustling down the road when the woman steps out, making the first lane come to an immediate halt. The other lanes quickly follow suit, realizing that manslaughter would really delay their day. I follow behind the guide, slightly impressed by her brazen nature and then also strangely entertained. Most people act out because they’re dumb. I get the impression this woman is doing it out of pure apathy.

  “Over here you’ll see San Fran is also host to a wide variety of exotic animals. Many find our streets to be like a modern rain forest,” she says, indicating a flock of flea-ridden pigeons pecking leftovers off a bum sleeping on the curb.

  I turn to Dahlia, sure she isn’t having the glamorous tourist experience like she thought she was going to. To my shock she’s smiling up at a building, and then turns her head to the gray sky above it. The fog has drifted in, coating us all in cold moist air. It actually transports me back to London for an instant and those youthful days I had there with Dahlia so long ago.

  “And over here we have—”

  And then a commotion down the block cuts off the woman’s words.

  “He’s having a heart attack,” a woman screams. “Someone help!”

  The guide turns for the crowd and then back to us. “I’ll be right back. I’ve got to help.”

  “How?” I say, wondering what she could possibly do to aid a bloke with cardiac arrest.

  “I’m an EMT on the side,” she says.

  “How is that your side job? Shouldn’t it be tour guiding?” I say.

  “Well, I make more taking tourists’ money and giving them bullshit tours,” Ephanie says. Then she’s gone, sprinting into the crowd of onlookers.

  “What a strange woman,” Dahlia says, staring after the tour guide.

  I turn now to gauge Adelaide and Pops, who is playing with Lucien, holding him high above his head. The image reminds me of a memory I don’t have, but can envision, of him doing the same with me. Adelaide beside him reminds me distinctly of my mum and then of her love. She never withheld. Never gave me less than I deserved and usually more. My mum was a woman who most aspire to be and fall short of, realizing they don’t have the patience for such things. Like Jimmy, more than him, I miss her every-god-damn-day. They say those losses recede with time, but those fuckers are wrong. You never stop missing the people who were there in the formative years. The ones who shaped who you became.

  The tour guide rushes back over to us. “All right, where were we?” she says, staring around like searching for her script full of falsitudes.

  “Wait, what happened to the bloke with the heart attack?” Adelaide asks.

  “False alarm,” Steph says. “He had indigestion. Common mix-up people have and confuse the condition as a heart attack.”

  “So what did you do?” Dahlia says.

  “I sent him to the pharmacy down the block for an antacid and told him to stop eating crap for lunch,” she says. “Now where were we?” she repeats.

  “I think we were done,” I say, pulling out my wallet to tip the woman who knows zero about this city.

  “Oh no, the tour isn’t done until I say so. If you weaklings have sore feet then I’ll take you back to where we started, but I always finish every tour with where I began. Things need to circle back around,” the tour guide says, and then she boldly hooks her arm through mine, pulling me back the way we came.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “Stella, I—”

  “You’re excused,” the woman says, a smile in her voice. Her arm is sleeved and for that I’m glad, since I don’t want to hear her thoughts.

  “Now I don’t know you, but I wanted to tell you something,” she says, releasing me, but I still stay walking beside her, the others following dutifully behind us. Dahlia is lost in images of the city.

  “I’m listening,” I say, a bit curious.

  “Well, I’m not sure why this set of words occurs to me. I meet people every day, most of them worthless shits, but it seems to me that you could use…I don’t know, some advice maybe,” Stephanie says.r />
  “That’s atrocious,” I say. “I’m the last per—”

  “Well, it’s just that back there when I returned I noticed this look in your eyes. You looked stuck somehow. I don’t know. Maybe I’m overstepping my boundaries,” she says.

  “There’s no maybe about it,” I say but then nothing else. This tour guide/EMT spotted me when I was recollecting old memories of my mum. She probably did see something trace itself on my face, but what, I’m not certain.

  “Well then you can file a complaint with my supervisor,” she says with a devilish smile. “But like I said, you seemed like you had time traveled for a second to the past. Like you weren’t here with us. And I suspect, because I’m also a private detective on the side, that you’re never in the present. Maybe you spend your time fretting over the past or worrying about the future. There’s definitely a heaviness to your eyes, like you see more than most.”

  “What’s your bloody point?” I say as we near the avenue where this festival of foolishness started.

  “My point is that the present is a bitch until you realize it’s all you have. And when we agonize less over the past we are able to enjoy where we presently are,” she says.

  “Well, I was going to tip you but not now that you’ve bestowed worthless advice on me. Do you want to read my palm now since you’re probably also a psychic on the side?” I say.

  “How did you know?” the woman says, stopping and turning directly to me. “And just think about what I said. Maybe paired with other advice you’ve gotten it will make sense.”

  “I doubt it,” I say, thinking of Leen’s words. Of the old gypsy woman’s forecast of the three wise women. What’s the bloody point in all this? It must be my imagination. I don’t believe in coincidences but this makes zero sense.

  “Thanks for the lovely tour. It was very informative,” Dahlia says, extending a hand to Stephanie. She must not have been paying attention. That’s usual these days.

  Pops and Adelaide mutter their own bit of gratitude to Ephanie.

  The tour guide holds up a hand and waves to us as we turn, making our way down to our car. I suddenly get the strangest impression that the woman and I have met before. I then turn back but she’s gone. The pavement where she stood is empty.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The high street shop smells of fresh linens and dry-cleaning chemicals. From the second story there’s a view of Market Street below where homeless people in sorry states of varying grossness are parked against a shiny building. Businesswomen in pressed suits and sneakers hurry on their commute to work, where they’ll sit behind desks and give zero thought to the bums they passed in the morning. They’ll make deals so they can increase their paycheck and buy expensive heels that are too uncomfortable to wear on the five-block walk from the transit station. People don’t baffle me anymore. I used to chalk up half of the dysfunction to stupidity. Now I realize that most people just don’t know any better because logic isn’t engrained into our culture. Convenience and greed are the staples of our society.

  “Son, why don’t you just buy one of these shirts and a pair of khakis?” my pops says, indicating a short-sleeved polo shirt hanging on a display rack.

  “I actually don’t think that question deserves a real answer,” I say, continuing to the back of the shop where I have an appointment with a tailor to have measurements for a new suit taken.

  “Do you have to wear a suit? This is your vacation,” Pops says.

  “I do,” I say, not even acknowledging the tiny old man with the measuring ribbon draped around his shoulder. I simply take a spot on the measuring pedestal and hold out my arms, legs separated.

  “You should be comfortable. It’s not like you’re working at that job of yours and need to keep up appearances,” Pops says.

  I shake my head at him. “Appearances aren’t something you keep up. They are a reflection of pride and I’m most comfortable when I look my best.”

  He nods, probably realizing beforehand that would be my answer. My pops has always been casual in comparison to me, having worked most of his life in the tiny town of Peavey. It is mostly farmers and simple blokes who covet the ways of a small town. Pops always remarked that in his bookkeeping business he would have made his clients feel uncomfortable if he dressed too formally. For all my life my father has worn the same starched plaid shirts and khakis.

  “That job of yours,” my pops says, standing tall, arms crossed. “Well, I never asked about it because I know you don’t like me to pry.”

  My pops wouldn’t question a lion as my constant companion if he sensed a comment on the matter was going to be discouraged.

  “What about it?” I say as the old tailor quietly goes to work taking measurements of my inseam.

  “Well,” my pops begins, scratching the back of his neck nervously, “I usually subscribe to the philosophy of ‘don’t ask the question if you might not like the answer.’”

  “You want to know what I do?” I say.

  He nods as the tailor dutifully returns to the back to fetch the suit I picked out.

  “Currently, I’m a rogue agent for the Lucidites,” I say.

  “Oh, that’s a private society of Dream Travelers, isn’t it?” he says and although he’s trying I still hear the disapproval in his voice. I don’t fully know the extent of the experiences my pops had with Dream Traveler societies, but I know that he never appreciated that they usually maintained a division between themselves and Middlings. He fails to understand that this was to preserve our already small race. Our population of Dream Travelers wasn’t always tiny. However, once Christians feared us as witches we were slaughtered by the thousands. Preservation of the race rested in our ability to stay a secret. But explaining that to my pops would only be a headache. There’s no way I can convince the man in front of me that his religion is responsible for his race’s near extinction. This is because now he’s more Christian than he is Dream Traveler.

  “Yes. The Lucidites are a secret society of Dream Travelers,” I say, slipping on the unfinished suit jacket the tailor has just returned with.

  “Do you…well, what kinds of things do you do in this job? I mean… you don’t have to tell me if—”

  “I don’t hurt people,” I say, cutting him off. That’s what he thinks. I know it.

  He blows out a breath of relief. “That’s good. But… well… Do you do other things? You know… bad things?”

  He’s looking at me with that old expression. The one where he was constantly trying to bolster himself against the disappointment I was about to cause. He still thinks I’m a scammer and a thief.

  “I don’t cheat people, Pops. The Lucidites save lives. They use clairvoyance, strategy, and technology to see future events and prevent disasters. It’s because of them that this bloody planet is still spinning on its axis,” I say and this gains me the first curious look from the tailor. I’m not worried about what he will overhear though.

  “Oh,” Pops says, the tension from his voice suddenly gone. “Well, that doesn’t sound all bad.”

  I shake my head at the man before me whom I know thoroughly and have never understood. “It’s not bad at all. The Lucidites are the most upstanding and powerful organization in the world,” I say.

  “And you’re an agent for them,” Pops says, almost smiling now with pride. “Like you work on cases to save people? That’s something to be proud of, son. You should have told me that.”

  “You know I never sought your approval,” I say. I thoroughly believe that other people’s judgments of me are none of my concern and that goes for my pops. I don’t need to prove myself to him or make him proud. What’s the bloody point anyway? As soon as I subscribe to others’ endorsements of me then I set myself up for failure when they undoubtedly disapprove of me one day.

  “Yes, I know, but for all these years I thought you were… well, you know,” he says.

  “Working in a shifty business,” I say.

  “Well, yeah,” he says with a
relieved chuckle. “Actually even worse than shifty at times. When you disappeared for all those years, well, I thought the worst. And then you returned but had changed so much. However, to know you work as an agent helping people. Well, that’s nice. Do you think you’ll continue to move up the ranks in the company?”

  I now regard him with a great deal of annoyance. “What do you think the most powerful position in the world is?” I say.

  He thinks for moment. “Well, it has to be leader of a free nation.”

  “Wrong,” I say. “Those blokes are fairly useless. They work for us and don’t even know it,” I say, pointing at my chest. “And for twenty years I held the second most powerful position in the world as the Head Strategist for the Lucidites.”

  “Wait… what?” he says, his eyes growing large.

  The old tailor’s red eyes do the same as my pops when he looks up at me.

  “Well, it could be argued I was in the most powerful position, but the Head Official probably doesn’t want to hear that,” I say, thinking of Trey Underwood and what a great team we made together. His moral fiber and my superior logic.

  “Son, you’re kidding me, aren’t you?”

  I lower my chin and regard him with a dull expression.