The Beckoning of Bravelicious Things (The Beckoning Series Book 3) Page 4

  “Yeah, that’s what everyone says. But I feel as if I’m following it in the chaotic wilderness. It’s not a straight path by any means.”

  “Nor is it meant to be,” Marta says, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “That’s the cool part. You follow it into the unknown and learn and grow. It’s a pretty cool ride. That’s how I ended up in China. I met this guy…”

  She proceeds to share her story with me. When we finish lunch, stories told, problems shared if not solved, I do, in fact, feel better. Do I have more answers than when I arrived here? Nope. But I don’t care. I’m ready to head back to my squabbling boyfriends, lovers, whatever they are to me, and head into whatever mysteries lie ahead. That’s the cool part about having a good friend like Marta. She helps me accept my life. “Ready to go?” I ask her.

  “I am,” she says, standing from the table, glancing at Adam and smiling. “Are you?”

  “More than ever, thanks to your good friendship. Let’s go.” Who am I kidding? I’m insanely fearful, even if I’m high on gossip and friendship at the moment. Daniel, Rafe, and me? We’re heading into the freakish unknown.

  Chapter 4

  I arrive home a couple of hours later, park my smart car in the garage, and let myself into the mudroom where I remove my coat and shoes. I missed my cozy west Seattle home while in Brazil. It’s modest, features modern furniture (a la Scandinavian Designs), has bold, bright prints on the wall (a la me and my mad art skills), and everything is kept sparkling clean, the way I like it. And, thanks to a certain demon—El Demonio de la Muerte—who bequeathed me a fortune, as well as a coffee plantation, the house is now mine, all mine. I’m a wealthy woman. Still, my tastes lean toward simple.

  The house backs up to an old growth forest which I love—I’ve explored every inch of it and still discover new places. I sigh with contentment, then head through the living room into the kitchen and the screened-in back porch where my magical brown and black Doberman, Sober Dober, is crated. When he sees me, his tail whirls like a helicopter propeller—I couldn’t bring myself to crop his ears and tail when he was a puppy so he sports a full length tail. When I release the latch, he’s out in a flash; his translucent wings unfurl and he leaps and hovers at my face, his tongue merrily covering me with slurpy kisses.

  “Gah! Sober! Get down, on the floor, dog!”

  He flutters to the floor, sits, wagging until he can’t contain his joy, then leaps, and he’s once more in a flight pattern at face level.

  “Sit. Sit,” I command. “I love you and I’m excited to see you, too,” I tell him. “I know it’s been a long day for you, but I’m the alpha.”

  He sits.

  “Wings,” I say. He’s stirring up a wind in the back porch, causing the red, brown, and gray winter scarf I left out here to oscillate in the air.

  The wings fold neatly at his side, disappearing into a shimmering blur.

  “Who’s a good demon slayer, huh? Who’s my good boy?”

  He gazes at me with adoring eyes, tail thumping on the hardwood floor, knowing he’s the boss dog. Sober’s a goofy canine, scared of his own shadow at times, but he’s done amazing things to save me from death’s icy clutches.

  I pat his head. Pat, pat, pat. Scratch his ruff. Every good light rebel needs a demon slayer by her side, and I’ve got Sober. And Sober has to relieve himself, no doubt. I open the back door and he bolts into the misty yard. The grassy ground’s wet, as usual, but blue sky peeks through the clouds. He’s got this funny run and fly thing that he does. I laugh, settling into a deck chair on the covered porch to watch him. It’s a galloping lope, interspersed with short flights. He lifts his leg against a tree, flits skyward, dousing the trunk with yellow sprinkles, then drops to the ground and races around and around the yard in a mad dash.

  A small see-through Chihuahua ghost-dog appears from around the corner and joins him in his frolic.

  “Anybody home?” A southern-twanged voice calls.

  “Out here, Betty,” I call back.

  She unlatches the side gate and shuffles through the opening. She’s dressed in a flowing, red, orange, and blue print dress. Orange galoshes cover her feet. A matching orange rain-hat keeps her head dry. “I came to check on you. Daniel’s a mite worried, which means Tom’s a mite worried. How’s my adopted daughter, the Lux Rebellum?” She tromps up the stairs to the deck and stands next to me, pinching my cheek. “I should have said how’s my baby Light Rebel?”

  “Light hasn’t diminished, if that’s what you mean. Still flowing ever since it was restored. Don’t have control of it, though.” I smile at her wrinkled, time-worn face. “You?” She and Tom, her hillbilly sorcerer boyfriend, kind of adopted me in a magical ceremony a couple months back. I still can’t get used to it, of course. I mean, I had a great Mom and Dad—until they died in an airplane crash. But Betty—or Crazy Betty as she’s commonly known—felt it best to assume tutelage of me. So now they’re my sacred guardians, schooling me in magic arts. “How was your vacation?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Vaycay was good! You know me. I love a good time. And you can drop the pleasantries with me, you know that. Daniel told Tom you’re scared. Come here, girlie girl, and let your magical guardian mama comfort you.”

  I rise obediently, she wraps her arms around me, and I’m instantly enveloped in a squishy “cookies and milk” kind of embrace, the kind that makes you feel safe and warm, like there’s nothing in the world that can harm you. My eyes even tear up a little as she holds me. A sniffle betrays me. I don’t like to show signs of fear or weakness, but she brings it out of me, especially with hugs.

  “That’s it. That’s my girl.” She pats my back like I’m a tiny infant. “Everything’s going to be all right,” she soothes. “Or else it ain’t and there’s nothing you can do about that except change your course.”

  I push away from her lightly. “What kind of comforting statement is that?” I demand, wiping my eyes with my sweatshirt sleeve.

  “It’s just the truth. No sense walking into the wilderness with false hope. That’s why we’re working you so hard. You might not make it through this ordeal. No one has before—no one we know of, that is. Could be someone from far back made it, but they’re not here to tell the tale. So you gotta be strong for it.”

  “You’re no more reassuring than Daniel.” I stare at the dogs, my bird-like one and Betty’s dead Chihuahua, Buddy, as they continue to race around the yard in a zigzag fashion.

  “Sober’s wings have sure grown,” Betty says, distracted from the conversation. “I remember when they were pint-sized protrusions, like a cherub’s.”

  “Yeah, we were both pretty cherubic—I got my light back, he got his wings, and neither of us knew how to wield them.”

  “Look at you now.” She beams at me like she’s prouder than proud. “You’re about to embark on a dangerous journey.” She says it as if it’s a wonderful opportunity.

  “Now that I think about it, it does seem rather foolish. I could make a decision about which man to choose without finding the sisters.”

  “Lord, Lord, child, you don’t think you’re heading off to find the sisters who forged your sword so you can make a choice about which man to be with, do you? After all we’ve taught you, that’s what you think?”

  “Well, sort of,” I say, feeling suddenly young and small.

  “Seems sort of elaborate, don’t it? Choose, don’t choose. They’re men. They’ll get over it.”

  “They do have hearts,” I say in a huff. “And desires. And preferences.”

  “So do you. This journey is about you.”

  “Okay, so why am I going, then?”

  “Honey girl, you’re going to find a missing piece of your soul.”

  A shiver catapults up my spine like a Chinese acrobat, twisting and turning as it goes. “What do you mean, find a missing piece of my soul?”

  “Lord have mercy, child. There’s so much about life you don’t know.” She pats my back. “What a disservice your aunt and Armand
o did by erasing your young memories. You should have started your studies in earnest, not have your memories taken away so you couldn’t start at all.”

  My jaw grows rigid, like baked clay. “Tell me about it. It still makes my gut burn. Let’s move on. That topic only makes me mad.”

  The dogs lap water from the trough in the back, looking happy as dogs can be. Both of them flop in the wet grass after they’re done hydrating.

  “Does Buddy know he doesn’t need food or water anymore? Now that he’s, um, dead, you know.”

  “Mind your tongue!” Betty snaps. “My Buddy is an angel. Dead is when you no longer exist. He chose to drop his body is all. And as for your smarty pants comment, he sips and chews the essence of nourishment.”

  “Sorry, Betty.”

  “Just one more thing you failed to learn when you should have been accelerating through your studies.” She sighs. “But never you mind. I know you’re a good girl and you don’t mean harm to Buddy. Speaking of Buddy, he’s the reason I stopped by. He found something you might want.” She pats her side. “Where did I leave my purse? I must have left it in the truck. Run and get it for me, will you?”

  “Where are the keys?”

  She runs her hands along her generous hips and waist. “Probably same place as the purse. Go along now and get them. I’ll sit right here and watch the boys.”

  “I don’t think they need watching.”

  “Well, go anyway.” She waves a hand at me.

  When I return with her ginormous flowered purse—I swear she could fit a small child in here—I set it next to her with a thump. “What the heck do you keep in here? It’s heavier than the last time I had to get it for you, and I didn’t think that possible.”

  “Things,” she says evasively. “Stuff. Goods. An eclectic Appalachian granny witch like me has to keep all kinds of things by her side. Put that on the table there, will you? She likes to be up high.”

  “She, who?”

  “My purse, of course. And retrieve my glasses for me.”

  “They’re hanging from your neck.”

  “Why, thank you very much,” she says smoothly. “I figured they were nearby.” She places the pink and orange polka dotted glasses on her nose and peers into the maw of her bag of mysteries. She pulls out a deck of her beloved Tarot cards. “Sit,” she tells me, like she’s the alpha here.

  I sit. “You’re doing a reading? I thought you were giving me something from Buddy.”

  “Not yet. All in good time. We’re going to have a chat.”

  She plucks a card from the pile and shows it to me. “Tell me what you see.”

  I lean toward her to get a closer look. “This isn’t your usual deck, is it? I’ve never seen this image.”

  “It’s a Deck Dynamica, some new-fangled thing I just got. Are you seeing the image in 3D?”

  “No, but it’s moving.”

  “Here, give it to me.”

  I hand it over and she proceeds to tap the card in the corners in a distinct pattern. “There. I had to turn it on.”

  “Turn it on?”

  “Look at it now.”

  I stare in wonder as it comes alive. A woman, dressed in black except for a lightning bolt across her chest, sword in hand, steps from the card and shimmers in front of me. “Is that me?”

  “You tell me.”

  She’s got softball sized holes piercing her body, letting me see all the way through. “What happened to her? She’s like a piece of Swiss cheese.”

  “Them’s her holes, all right. Those are the places where bits of her soul took flight. Trauma will do that to a person. You’ve experienced a lot of trauma in your life, child. Keep looking. Tell me what you see. It’s your image so I can’t see it the way you can.”

  The face of a familiar, menacingly evil man appears, bobbing about her head, causing me to recoil instinctively. It’s a cruel, vicious face, lined with hate. His teeth snap like a dog’s trying to reach a tasty treat. The woman snarls and seizes the head, stuffing it into one of the holes before burping and growing larger. “Um, she stuffed the head of a demon into one of the holes and grew bigger.”

  “Like you did, when you took down that sorcerer, El Demonio de la Muerte. That’s the past. Keep looking.”

  The woman crouches slightly, sword drawn. She lunges and parries at a blurred-out enemy. She appears to be confident as she moves in an aggressive, offensive manner. “She’s fighting. She looks good. She’s got this.”

  “Keep watching, girl. The reveal will happen in a few seconds,” she promises.

  “What’s the reveal?”

  “Outcome. These cards show the past, present, and the possible outcome.”

  I smile. “I can tell you the outcome. The bad guy’s going to be dead.” I slash my hand in front of my neck confidently.

  The woman continues jabbing and striking until the vague shape of the enemy makes one swift move, killing the woman. She pops and disappears, complete with blood splat, like a video game. I gasp. “She’s dead! That’s impossible! How did that happen? She looked so confident.”

  Crazy Betty slowly shakes her head from side to side. Her jowls and neck waddle and sway with each turn. “That’s what I was afraid of. Your training with males can only go so far. Men are good at what they do, but they know nothing about subtleties.”

  “What kind of subtleties?”

  “The hidden weaknesses of enemies,” she says, her flesh still swaying to and fro.

  “I thought men were badass strategists, too.”

  “Oh, they are. They just don’t have the same cunning as us women folk. Hand me the card, will you please?”

  I give it to her, catching movement out of the corner of my eye. I look up to see Sober flutter-leaping around the yard, holding Buddy by his ghostly scruff. “Those two are sure having a blast, aren’t they?”

  “Oh, my, yes. Buddy loves his pal. Probably as much as I love you.” Her face grows serious and she holds my gaze. “I’m rooting for you, missy. Don’t break my heart. Tom and I—we’d be devastated if any harm came to you.”

  My eyes grow leaky again, despite my resistance, and I quickly turn away from her. “I thought that’s what we’re doing today…figuring out a way so that doesn’t happen.”

  “Don’t run from what I’m telling you—this is important.”

  I look at her, scrunching my face and wishing she knew how to be clearer. “What?” I say, childishly, like I’m about to be reprimanded.

  “None of us want to lose you, dearie. You’ve got to give this every ounce of attention and will you’ve got to find reserves you don’t know you have…you’ll be tested every step of the way.”

  I consider her words, my body suddenly tense with fear and trepidation. My life’s been a wild ride, ever since I went to Las Vegas with Marta. Being with the sexy Thunder from Down Under dancer Chris King kick-started a whole new life—for me and maybe even for him. Then, knowing he was being put in Witness Protection and I’d never see him again, I dated a creepy surfer dude, Jason Brown. Giving him the heave-ho was the best thing I ever did—it cleared my life so I could meet Daniel Navid. That’s when I really began to grow and come into my own. I’ve grown enormously at an accelerated rate. I have so much more to learn, so many people to love. I don’t want to leave either. I take a deep breath, my face relaxes, and I meet her gaze, golden amber to pale blue. “I’m ready. Teach me, Betty. Teach me everything.”

  She nods, satisfied. “I will,” she says solemnly. “But first—do you have any sweet tea?”

  Chapter 5

  “We’re leaving in seven days. Why’d you wait until the end to teach me whatever you have to teach?” I ask Betty as we make our way into the living room.

  “I did work with you before I left, don’t forget. You were in a good place when I departed. You’re a quick study, but now I’ve been on vacation and I want this material to be fresh in your mind when you leave. Fresh as new growth on the vine.” She eases into my comfortable red and
gold chair, putting her feet on the hassock. “My dogs is tired, that’s a fact,” she says. “Got any liniment?”

  Pronounced “lin-a-mint,” she makes foot salve sound like a breath freshener. I ignore her request. “Isn’t new growth vulnerable?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Good point. Well, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” She swishes her hand dismissively. “To learn what I’m going to teach you, it’s important to be immersed in a familiar place—one you cherish,” she says. “All these colors—the reds, the blues, the cyan, the greens—they’re all a reflection of your soul. This color—over here.” She struggles from the chair as if she’s doing something against her will, then slowly makes her way to the corner of the room and draws my attention to a tiny painting I finished recently. “What do you call this color?”

  “It’s got a CMYK value, and an RGB value. There’s also the stated color on the tube of paint. Which one do you want?”

  Betty waves her hand vigorously. “No, no, no. What do you call it?”

  “I call it ‘spring fern.’” I smile, thinking of the forest when a rebirth of green peeks forth. One of my favorite times.

  “Spring fern. That’s the color you’re going to be looking for. That’s the color of right here—your beautiful heart.” She taps her chest vigorously. “What about this color?” She points to a splash of color in the corner.

  “I call that color ‘holy roller red.’ It’s my ‘get down on your knees and hope this works’ color.” I smile at my fanciful name.

  “Perfect. That’s the color of courage. You’ll need to find that, too. What about this one?” She stabs her finger at a swash of pale, pale yellowish, pinkish blue.

  “Do you like that one? It was difficult to mix. It took me a lot of tries to make it. It drove me crazy, even made me kind of mental. I call it ‘psyche stir.’”

  “You’re wiser than you know in the naming of your colors. That’s your soul speaking to you, seeking wholeness. ‘Psyche stir’ represents Mind. Not little mind, but big mind.”

  “Big mind?”