Marked for Vengeance (16 page)

He gestured for him to
continue.    

"But some of them
are recurrin’,” he said and pointed toward the studio, “I’ve been paintin’ some
of them over there.”     

His head pivoted to
where Isaac pointed and smiled. “That’s a start. And these dreams, they aren’t
a coincidence. They are more of a premonition, if you will, and I figured I
would eventually be in one of them. That's why I assumed you would have known
who I was.”     

Isaac brought his fist
to his mouth and cleared his throat. “So what you’re sayin’ is that I dream of
the future?” he asked with a heavy cynicism.      

“More like premonitions
will come to you in dreams, and it can be a literal translation of what’s to
come, or it could be symbolism for something. That’s where I come in.”     

 “So you’re a dream
interpreter?” he asked, and as the words tumbled from his tongue, he felt
foolish for even saying them, as though they suggested his belief in this
nonsense.   

The old man chuckled
from deep within his chest. “In a way, but I’m called a Spirit Guide. I do a
lot of things.”     

Isaac shook his head with
closed eyes. “This is too much. I must be dreamin’… I have to be,” he said and
pushed from the couch, waving his hand toward the door. “You have to go, I’m
sorry. This is too weird.”   

The old man snatched
his walking stick and stood, his eyes darkening. “I don’t have
time
for
this nonsense!” his voice boomed. The vibrations from his words bounced off the
concrete walls and trembled through Isaac’s chest, weakening his knees and he
fell to the couch with a helpless plop. He sat motionless with his hands on his
thighs, realizing how serious this man was now despite his initial pleasant
demeanor.     

“Forgive me, dear boy,
but time is of the essence and we don’t have much longer, I’m afraid,” he said
as he eased back into the chair. “My name is Oman. And why any of what I’ve
just told you is important is for a larger reason than you could ever imagine. My
purpose for visiting you today was to tell you that I will be working with you
on your special abilities. I will help you to interpret your dreams and to
possibly harness them while awake.”    

“You want to mentor
me?” he asked sheepishly, still stunned by the power in his voice that had
crippled him.    

He raised an index
finger. “Precisely. Except, I 
will
 mentor you.”   

Isaac still wasn’t sure
if any of this was real, but knew he better play along if he wanted to avoid
his fury. “Oh, I don’t know how that would work. I have a son to take care of
and two jobs.”     

His amused expression
returned, the crests of his smile disappearing within the wrinkles of his
cheeks. “None of that will matter soon, so do not plague your heart with worry.
You have been selected and your destiny chosen. This is not something you get
to decide.” He pressed the bottom of his walking stick to the concrete and
hoisted himself from the chair. “Our work will not begin here, not at your
home, or even this city. Our work will be somewhere you have never been. It’s a
place that nobody’s been, actually.”    

“Please don’t say
you’re takin’ me away,” he said, now enraptured with the old man’s story.    

“No, dear boy, I won’t
be the one to take you. Your arrangements have been made. And believe me, when
that time comes you’ll want to go,” Oman said and turned for the door. “I will
see you shortly, until then, take care of yourself.”    

“Don’t go! W-what about
my son?!”     

“That’s not my job to
know,” he replied as he drifted away from him, “I was assigned to you only, and
that is all I know. Its actually
you
who is the only one who can tell us
what will happen.”     

Isaac stared after him
with a sense of bitter vulnerability. Everything this man had said painted a
bleak picture, and apparently there was nothing he could do about it either.
Halfway to the door, the old man stopped. His head turned to the side, his eyes
never meeting Isaac’s, but the intensity within them was palpable. “I also need
to warn you.”      

Isaac’s heart stopped. “
What!? 
Warn
me about what?”     

“You are being watched,
and you need to keep a low profile.”  

Isaac shot up from the
couch, his mind racing with images of Alyx’s face. “Why are they watching me?”

“I don’t mean to alarm
you, but the one’s who want to see our efforts fail are also the one’s who are
targeting you. Be careful and keep that room locked tight,” he said while
pointing toward the studio with his stick.    

His thoughts then raced
to Micah and what all of this would mean for him
. How can I keep him safe?
      

“Again, that’s not my
area. We can only believe that everything will work out in the end and that
Micah will fit into the plan somehow. I must go now to make my preparations.
Remember, low profile.” And with a flick of his robe, he disappeared into thin
air.     

Isaac stared at the
floor with glazed over eyes and sank onto the couch. He couldn’t move, he
couldn’t breathe, and he still wasn’t convinced that his sanity hadn’t flown
away from him.
What did he mean it will all happen soon? What did he MEAN,
I’m being watched? What about MICAH?! 
     

His eyelids flew open,
and he bolted from the couch with a terrified gasp.
Oh God, please tell me
that was all a dream!  
His eyes searched the living room. The TV remained
on, as though Oman had never touched it, and the cable box read three o’clock.
Micah
will be home soon. I need to get it together. 
   

He staggered to the bathroom
and turned on the shower to let it steam. With his head between his legs, he
sat in the floor and ran his trembling fingers through his hair. Drawing in
deep, heavy breaths, the steam calmed his racing heart, and he hoped that as
the night went on, he would be able to shake off -- what he determined -- was
another haunting dream.

*
* *

Alyx left in such a
hurry, she didn’t realize that it was only three thirty, and none of the clubs
were open yet.
The pub
, she thought. She could go back and drink until
eight o’clock rolled around.        

She crashed through the
door to the still-empty pub and made her way to the bar. “I’ll have a rum and
coke, please,” she said to the bartender and pulled her ID from her wallet. She
hadn’t ever had anything but wine, so she wanted to try something new tonight
to commemorate her emergence as a single girl. Plus, if wine had served to
drown her sorrows before, she wanted to make sure they were thoroughly, and
effectively, silenced for the night. “And you can start me a tab,” she asserted
as she slid onto the high back stool whose foam peeked through the threadbare
seat.     

The bartender studied
her ID and nodded. “Coming up!” he said and tossed it onto the bar.    

His cultured tone
caught her attention.
Italian?
As he mixed the drink, she took notice of
his appearance. His long, black hair had been pulled into a slick ponytail, and
his lightly tanned skin and elongated nose reminded her of an Italian client
she met at the office last week.
He has to be Italian.
     

She flipped her hair over
her shoulder and looked around the restaurant. Minus an elderly couple sitting
at a table by the window, she was the only patron there. They appeared in love,
holding hands across the top of the table while waiting on their food, watching
passer bys through the cloudy glass as they that sat in comfortable silence.
The imagery tossed a soft blow to her stomach. She grimaced and turned around
to the bar.     

“Starting early, huh?”
the bartender asked as he placed a lowball glass filled with dark liquid on the
beverage napkin in front of her.   

The corners of her
mouth struggled to rise into a smile. “It’s been a
long
couple of days,”
she replied and tilted her glass forward to cheer. She took a small sip and
winced into her shoulder.
Ugh! Nasty.
     

The bartender chuckled,
exposing his chipped front tooth. “You didn’t look like a ‘rum and coke’.”    

She wiped her mouth
with the back of her hand and sat the glass on the napkin. “You’re right about
that, I usually drink wine.”     

“That makes more
sense,” he said with a wink.     

He grabbed her drink to
change it out when she playfully swatted his hand. “Hey now, I’m going to
finish what I started!”     

The bartender flashed
an approving smile. “Now
that’s
what I like, a little rebellion.”     

As they beamed at each
other, her brown eyes took him in. He had lived the bar life awhile, and she
didn’t base this solely on the way he moved around the counter with ease, or
his tacky shirt that read, “Wrap your hands around my can”. Wisdom shined
behind his eyes, the kind that came from constantly studying people and their
idiosyncrasies. Which is why despite her ‘club’ attire, he knew exactly what
type of woman she was, and it was
not
a ‘rum and coke’ kind of girl.    

He pulled his hand back
and leaned against the counter. “Tell me, Ms. Rayer, what has you drinking this
early in the evening?”   

Along with his innocent
words, another blow hurled into to her stomach, and she held her breath as she
stared at the glass.     

 “Never mind, dear. That
was too forward of me,” he said, patting her wrist.     

She bounced her leg on
the dowel of the stool. “Sorry, it’s still kind of fresh.” To change to
subject, she glanced at his name tag.
Agnosio.
“Are you from Italy,
Agnosio?” she asked and took another sip.     

He grinned deviously as
she went for it, waiting for her to wince again.    

She forced the swallow,
and when her eyes cut back up to him, she caught him studying her every move.
“Oh, stop it!” she snipped, holding a chuckle back.   

He covered his grin
with a hand. “Well, sweet lady, I am from Florence.”     

Her eyes twinkled. Just
the mention of where he was from lifted her spirits. “Oh I’ve heard that’s a
beautiful city!”

While they chatted,
another patron wandered in and sat three stools over, immediately motioning for
Agnosio’s service. She glanced in the man’s direction and nodded politely, even
though the interruption aggravated her. A bevy of questions about Italy waited
on the tip of her tongue.

The man Agnosio served
appeared to be in his late sixties and wore a long, khaki trench coat, and a
look of aged depression. His stringy, white hair rimmed the sides of his bald
head and fell around his ears.
I’m definitely the youngest one here,
she
concluded.
Not exactly how I imagined the night starting.
    

After serving the stiff
drink, Agnosio made his way back to Alyx so they could finish their
conversation. Her head swam with the effects of the bitter alcohol, and she was
only a third of the glass in. Maybe she
would
find the peace she sought
at the bottom of the glass, after all.    

“So you’ve never been
to Italy, eh?” he asked as she took another sip.     

Alyx shook her head as
she swallowed. She had always wanted to visit, but was unable to of course.      

“
Quindi lei sa la sua
bellezza cant confronta alla vostra,” he said with a slick smirk.     

Alyx didn’t know what he said, but assumed by the nature of his
tone that the words were flirtatious. She swirled the glass full of dark liquid
and rested her back against the stool, raising an eyebrow while crunching on a
piece of ice. “Does that work with all the ladies?”    

He threw his arms up in defeat as he laughed. “It was worth a
shot, no?”    

She couldn’t help but flash a smile in return. “What was it you
were saying, or do I
want
to know?”     

He grabbed a rag from a bucket beneath the counter. “Just that you
were more beautiful than the city itself.”    

Alyx’s shoulders bounced as she chuckled. “You’re something else,
you know that?”     

“So I’ve been told,” he said as he wiped the bar.     

“Tell me, though, what is it like over there? Tell me about the landscapes,
the people, the food… tell me everything!”    

He tucked the rag into his back pocket and set a bowl of mixed
nuts on the counter. “We don’t have time, mi amore. There is too much to
tell.”     

“Tell me about the landscapes at least, I
beg
you!”     

He reached across the bar and cupped her cheek with the palm of
his hand. “For you, I will.”

With his forearms rested atop the counter, he told her of the days
he would sit on the roof of his home and look over the terra cotta rooftops to
the purple mountains in the distance, recalling that the butterscotch and
crimson sunsets in the summer could rival any others around the world. “It was
truly a charming place,” he said with distant, faraway eyes. “Sometimes I
wonder why I ever left.”