THE ATTO’S TALE MINISERIES Part 1: Winded By Brindi E. Lundberg ~ Copyright 2013 Brindi E. Lundberg Cover Art by Ene Karels Smashwords Edition Smashwords Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This series is dedicated to my wonderful cover artist. Thank you, Ene Bean. Seeing my characters on paper is a truly amazing thing. And also to my sister-in-law, Ingrid. As one of my trusted proofreaders, thank you for putting up with my demands! Lots of love. Prologue: The Small Something The most important memories are those remembered by the body. The first time she saw him, she felt afraid. For some reason, a small feeling in the pit of her chest reacted, and she was fearful. “A small something?” muttered the mouth of a girl that was eighteen and shy. He didn’t see her, though. The twenty-something clad in a shirt stamped with the words Philadelphia University didn’t see her. That was probably for the best. Had he seen her then, everything would have been spoiled. He wouldn’t have been able to hold himself back. She was the one he’d been waiting for. The girl turned her back to him and clutched her latte against the ribcage that held the small something in place. Still, the twenty-something didn’t notice her. He was pale. He loved the outdoors, but he was pale. His hair was dark and messy. So, too, were his eyes a color of the night. Maybe brown. Maybe green. Either way, they were a shade so dark that they nearly looked black, and sometimes, when the sun hit them just right, they almost looked . . . red. “I’m taking a hiatus, if you will,” the boy was saying into his phone. “Yes, I could have graduated. But I’ve my reasons for holding off. I’ll pick up the slack this summer. I assure you it’ll be fine.” He paused to listen to the nosy person on the other end of the line. “Ugh. I hardly see how that’s your concern. . . . Because! I simply need a break. . . . Oh? An expert in all things, are we? Well, I –” The boy’s expression turned defeated. “Fine, Mom. That’s fine. No, no. I understand. But I hate to tell you, I’m not actually coming home. . . . No. I’m not staying there either. . . . I’ve gone to a place called East Cemet.” He laughed. “I don’t know. Let’s just say I felt drawn to it. . . . Of course not. I’m staying with friends. . . .” As the boy continued to talk, the girl, who’d found herself an unwilling eavesdropper, tried to ignore the interest she felt in the stranger. Fearing a growing magnetism that was something like an unreasonable crush on a tall, dark stranger, she hurried from the coffee shop on the corner. At the entry bell’s ring, the boy on the phone stiffened and looked to the leaving customer. He couldn’t catch enough of her to recognize anything. But there was something. The way her hair, which was a light blonde – so blonde it was almost white – caught the sun on her way out. There was something about it that made him lower the phone from his ear and stare, brow cocked, into the space she’d been. Chapter 1: An Old Soul “Aaaaaaah!” It happens again. In the way it most always does, it happens again. The instant I exit the coffee shop on the corner, I have no choice but to cradle my stomach and scream. “Argh!” I yell through my teeth at the air. “No, no, NO, STOP!” An old woman passerby doesn’t understand what’s happened. After all, there’s no visible misconduct underway. No impending threat to my person. The only thing on siege is the day, so open and bright. Coupled with my behavior, it adds up to what? I’m simply a girl of unstable mental standing who feels the need to scream whenever exiting a building. The woman labels me as such and hurries to hobble away, toting a rolling cart of her treasures. Old toad. The day is fresh and clear. The grass of last year is wet where the snow has melted. Simply put, it’s abysmal. ‘Invigorating’ is the worst name a day can have, for on invigorating days, I am unable to control the oddity that is my body’s response to open air. I brace my feet against the ground in an attempt to sprout roots that might hold me in place, and wait for it to pass. Breathe. Breathe. Breathing is supposed to help. But it never does. This uncontrollable reaction of mine is a thing that, to my knowledge, cannot be cured. And it’s worse because of what I’ve just experienced. Enticement by that stranger in there. Really, dummy? Enticement? What would Jaggar think of his girlfriend being enticed by a stranger? And on top of that, my attention was captured by a stranger that didn’t even speak to me, or look at me, or pay me any mind at all! To that, I give a large, gutty sigh. I’ve never been a very good girlfriend. A bad, uncommitted steady gal. And a freak afraid of open spaces. A case of reverse claustrophobia? What a thing to fear. What a thing to . . . And while I continue to dwell on my shortcomings, I notice my oddity has passed. Thank the moon it’s passed! At the door of the coffee shop, with the sun optimistically beaming down, everything feels fine. Clinging to the outside wall of the coarse brick building, I edge around the corner. If I can manage to stay feeling hidden, I won’t have to worry about feeling invigorated again. Cover, tightness, darkness. Those are the things that usually help. I’m not sure when it started – this quirk of mine. Actually, that’s a lie. I have a pretty good idea of when it started. From what I remember, it was when I was six, fresh off the bus from kindergarten. I was a much friendlier person then. How the young are gifted with social shamelessness and conversational blitheness. I was no different. I was wide-eyed to a felonious degree. Thus, I popped off the bus without so much as a second thought. And what was the price for my recklessness? The punishment for my buoyancy? I went propelling into the air. The very surface of the earth pushed me from itself, and I flew. High into the blue above. So sudden that I couldn’t breathe, I flew. Well, I didn’t really. But that’s not to say I didn’t feel every bit of the experience. The insensitive air pushing through my loose strands of hair. My stomach dropping due to rapid change in altitude. And when I landed, I saw the distance as though it were close. I could have sworn I should be yards away. But I wasn’t, for the occurrence hadn’t actually occurred at all. I remained where I stood while impatient grubworms pushed at my back, attempting to be first off the bus. That wasn’t the end of it. Nowadays it most always happens. And it’s worse when I’m feeling . . . wanderlust. Which is exactly what just transpired in there. But why should I become wanderlust after encountering that black-haired stranger? And why does my chest continue to . . . what is that, tick? I deem it dumb. I’m not the sort of person to go pursuing people. I should call Jaggar. But first I need to make it home without having another outburst. They aren’t usually so bad. Well, actually they are. I’m just usually able to be a little more discreet about them, that’s all. I make my way from the coffee shop to the bookstore and then to the library. And as I continue to cling to the side of building after building, I realize: All of my problems would be solved if only East Cemet were completely and unreservedly wooded. A thick tree cover. Forest living. Mm. Sounds nice. The farther I get from the coffee shop, the better I feel. The annoying tick in my chest eases. My wanderlust ceases. I am able to make it home without much more than a few uneasy trembles. The phone in our kitchen is corded. A relic from my dad’s vintage shop. Something from the seventies, it shows off a faded burnt orange color. Lovely. Just lovely. I begin to call Jaggar. No. I stop myself. I don’t feel like calling him, after all. He probably has midterm studying to do anyway. I return the handset to its resting place and slump onto the threshold dividing kitchen and living room Yes, he has important studying to do. And what do I have to do? Nothing. Taking a year off before college was supposed to allow me to get my affairs in order. Affairs in order? Sounds like I’m dying. Maybe I am. Dying of boredom. Truthfully, come college time, I was lazy. No, not lazy. I was . . . unmotivated. And I didn’t want to make any decisions, for decisions often lead to regret. A year should be enough to mature, right? Well, it’s midway through spring semester for Jaggar, and I’m still where I was at graduation. Unmotivated. Confused. And afraid of outside. I’m a mess. But it isn’t as though I really have nothing to do. There are orders to fill. Inventory to take. My dad’s been kind enough to make me an indentured servant in his musty shop for the year. That should be enough of a reason in itself to become motivated to further myself. To seize my future. But no dice. It’s as though I’m in limbo. It’s always been that way. Stuck between the past and the future. Like dust drifting slowly in a sunbeam through a window. Down and up, but never advancing. Ish. What’s wrong with me? And again my heart gives a tick. A small sort of tick. A small sort of something beneath my ribs. I stand from the threshold and drift to the couch. I fall to the couch. Then bury my face. Then roll about. Then bite a pillow. Still, the tick ticks. Is there hope for me, I wonder? Nope. I’m definitely a lost cause, as is further proven when the burnt orange phone rings a tinny ring. As sticky as a bloated slug, I drip over the side of the couch and sloth to the kitchen, making it to the receiver just as it gives its final call. “Havock residence and / or Jerry’s Canned Heat Vintage Emporium,” I muster sweetly. Telephone sweetness is the most false sort of sweetness. The sort that catches in you throat on the way out. And it isn’t worth the effort anyway. No matter how honey my greeting, the other end of the line is silent. It was a wasted exertion. I should return to the couch. But no. It isn’t that there’s no one there, through the telephone wires, for in addition to phantom-like breathing, I hear background noise. Clanking. Conversational buzz. It sounds like a restaurant. I give the phantom a prod: “Hello? Anyone there?” Again, a wasted effort on my part. “Wrong number.” I justify the hang-up that is about to happen. Alas, before I can do any such thing, the opposite end of the line finally decides to cooperate: “Havock residence, did you say?” The voice through the speaker belongs to a male with a drawling sort of tone. “That’s right,” I tell him. “Havock.” “And with whom am I speaking?” he pries. I don’t so much feel like giving out that information, so I ask of him, “Are you looking for Jerry?” “With whom am I speaking?” he persists. Sigh. “This is Aurelia Havock.” “Aur . . .” He fails to fully repeat my name. And there’s something off-putting about the fact that he cannot. “Look, can I help you with something?” The man clears his throat. “Tell me, would you? . . . What does it mean, your name?” My name? The conversation has quickly turned creepy. I ignore the question. “What do you want, exactly?” The inquiry isn’t at all polite. Rather, I’m being entirely rude. But to my rudeness, the man is calm. “Naturally,” he says. “I’m in search of an antique. Something rare.” An antique? Great. The man has an actual inquiry. Dad’ll be so pleased to know I’ve been short with a customer. Well, how was I to know? Customer calls usually don’t start out like that. “Sure, Sir.” I seek redemption. “If you’ll just describe what you’re looking for, I’ll check our inventory and see if I can find a match.” “It’s a modern tintinnabulum,” he says, unaffected. “A tinitinibobblum?” “A wind chime. The one I seek is from the forties. You’ll know it by the feather carvings on the bells.” “A wind chime with feathers. Gotcha. Okay, it’ll take me a while to look through our stuff. My dad’s not the most organized guy. Could I get your name and number, and I’ll call you when –” “I’ll give you my name,” he cuts me off, “but I’ll require something in exchange.” In exchange? He can’t see me, of course, and it’s a real shame that he can’t, for I am giving him a glare worthy of rebuttal. “Is that so?” I say curtly. I can’t help it – once more I am ruder than I should be. “It is,” he says. “In exchange, I’d like to know what your name means, Miss Havock.” Again with the creepy! I’m not in the business of trading information with weird customers. It’s too unsettling. I become self-conscious. “Uh . . .” I start. “I’m not sure I should . . . W-why do you want to know?” “Oh?” he says, turning smug. “Don’t you know?” “Know what?” “There’s power in a name with meaning.” Really? He’s going to play enigmatic? Sigh again. Regardless, I remind myself that this could be a patron and by definition, I am to be on my best behavior. For the sake of Jerry’s Canned Heat Vintage Emporium, I take a breath. “It means ‘golden’ in Latin. At least that’s what my dad says.” “Ah. I see.” Happy now, creep? But the creep says nothing. “SO,” I step in, “if you’d like to get your wind chime, I’ll need your name and number.” Again there is nothing but silence. “Hello?” More silence. Growl! I give up. I am about to gingerly set the phone on the hook when – “Atto,” says the man. “Atto?” “My name.” And he proceeds to ramble off his number, which I scribble onto the back of my hand with a purple marker idling on the counter. “Thank you, Atto. You’ll be hearing from us promptly.” I wait for something, anything, in the way of a parting, but . . . ever with the silence! What a creep! This time I’ve already taken the phone from my ear, when – “Aren’t you going to ask me?” says the man. Geh. “Ask you what?” I humor. “What my name means.” Oh that. It’s frustrating. So very frustrating. But because Dad’s rules apply, I have no choice but to humor him further. “Sure,” I say, forcing patience. “What does your name mean, Atto?” . . . “Not a damned thing.” . . . I can’t help myself. “Seriously?!” I wail. “It doesn’t mean ANYTHING?!” Oh dear. I’ve allowed myself to become ruffled. This customer’s kind of an ass. All the same, shouting at him is an action I instantly regret. It makes matters even worse that the ass doesn’t take any sort of offense to my behavior. He simply chuckles haughtily. “Ciao, Aurelia. I look forward to your call.” Click. And after everything, HE has the nerve to hang up on ME. Creep, creep, creep! UGH! I take out my aggression on the phone in my hand. What a jerk! Slam goes the receiver. Thwack goes the purple marker as I chuck it across the kitchen. I angrily stomp to the computer improperly housed on the dining table. I’ll kill him with kindness – the promptest customer service he’s ever stinkin’ encountered! That’ll show him! I get straight to work. Of course, tintinnabulum brings up nothing. And searching for ‘wind chime’ simply results in a few gaudy pieces from the sixties and seventies. No luck, buddy. Too bad. I was SO hoping to fulfill the ass’s every wish. But there doesn’t seem to be anything like a chime with feathers along the bells in our inventory. Or so I think. Until, dang it all, Feather + Bell brings up something interesting. There is no picture, but there is something. Dad’s record system doesn’t allow for great user ease. Hence, Feather + Bell results in: SinglePiece40sDesignCrackedBasementBox22JanuaryRed. I squint at the screen in an attempt to decipher his code. According to this, there was a damaged single piece item taken in at some point, which was from the forties and also happened to involve bells and feathers. Last time Dad saw it, it was in the basement in a box labeled ‘22’. But this hasn’t been updated since January of the year Red. Year Red . . . Dad doesn’t like dates. He likes colors. And abstraction. Year Red would have been 2 years ago. Last year was Blue. And this year is Teal. What are the chances the item yet remains in the basement? With Jerry and his canned heat, you never know. You just never know. Still determined to kill creepy Atto with service, I hurry to the basement. The basement is the way any basement stuffed with antiques would be: stale and musty and inhabited with dusty sorts of specks in the air around the hanging lightbulb. It smells like wet, moldy death. But the smell doesn’t much bother me. Closed-in spaces like this are what I live for. There’s no way the wind can find me in a place so snug. Mm. Maybe I’ll forget about assy Atto and hide here for the rest of the day. His smug chuckling replays in my head. Scratch that. I want to see the expression on his face when I hand deliver the obscure piece to him. I want to see his surprise when I show up with conviction and poise and hand him the stupid tintinnabulum. To the crates! They line the walls of the messy space, toppled and piled in no sort of order. My dad’s favorite pieces he keeps outside in the shed where he does the majority of his business. The aluminum building’s been repurposed into a boutique of sorts, and to be honest, it’s in better condition than any room of our house. I begin to search through the crates. Each has a spray painted number on the front, but leave it to my dad to make sure only half of them are facing outward. 34. 9. 26. 14. 25. Of course none of the lightest ones are the one I need. Of course box 22 is probably buried on the bottom. 2. 17. 32. 15. 5. OF COURSE none of the ones in the front row are the one I need. 21. 11. 12. 18. 22. At last I find it, turned backwards, beneath a heap of others, in the back corner of the basement. Luckily, if it’s buried this deep, there’s a good chance it hasn’t been accessed at all since Year Red. Heh. Heh. Heh. My internal laughter reminds me dangerously much of a crazed and possibly disorientated person. Somehow I’ve become obsessed with showing up assy, creepy Atto. A crow bar and some packaging filler later, the contents of the box lie before me on the cracked cement floor. A blue-glassed slag lamp. A collection of pretty-good-condition-considering Mason jars. And several metal signs showing off various advertisements for soap and soda and flour. And there, tucked between the last little bit of packaging . . . Nothing. Shoot! The chime is missing from box 22. The tintinnabulum is nowhere to be found. I won’t have the satisfaction of delivering the piece to Atto. Grrrr! Up the stairs I go. Stomping through the kitchen. To the outside world again. “Aaaargh!” I give a mini cry as my stomach flies, and then continue angrily across the lawn to the aluminum boutique that is my father’s heated can. A car that isn’t ours is parked out front. Dad’s sole customer for the afternoon. I’ll have to cap my attitude for now. I pause at the shed’s door and allow myself a minute to cool off. And then I hear it. A delicate chiming on the wind. The wind. Just the thought of the odious beast is enough to make me cradle myself. I cradle and make tight my jaw and when I’ve regained myself, I inch along the side of the shed to where the sound is sourced. I swear I’ve never heard the ringing before. I swear this chiming is something new. But whenever and however it got there, hanging from the back corner of the shed is a wind chime sporting five bells, each of which is adorned with feather carving. A large crack runs along the longest of these. The tintinnabulum! Feathers! Bells! This has to be it. I’m too short to reach it, so I edge along the backside of the shed until I find the ladder my dad keeps in a pile of rubble. With the ladder’s aid, I soon stand triumphant, chime in hand and smile wide. Take that, Atto! Leaping across the yard with eyes closed in fear of the worst, I make it to the front door without further setback. I’ve doubt I’ve been more satisfied than when redialing the ass’s number. One ring. Two rings . . . The creep doesn’t answer! Urgh! I try again. Burnt Orange, don’t fail me now! One ring. Two rings . . . An answer: “Is it not customary to assume that when a person refrains from answering, they will call you back in their own good time? It’s excessive to call twice in a row.” “Ech –!” The dry voice on the other end of the line is the same from earlier, but what a greeting! What am I to say to that?! More self-satisfied chuckling. “I didn’t call twice in a row,” I lie. “My, my, a liar are we?” the man croons. “You forget the wonders of caller ID.” Caller ID? Right. Old Burnt Orange doesn’t have one of those. I’m left without answer, though I’m not made to find one. “Am I to assume you’ve a response to my query?” Atto says. “Uh, yeah. I’ve got your wind chime. But it’ll cost you. Like you said, it’s a RARE piece. Goes for about . . .” I hurry to think of a suitable price. “A hundred bucks!” Oh boy. Dad won’t approve. This thing’s worth thirty max. But to my terms, Atto only says, “Oh? Is that all?” Is that all?! Why does everything out of his mouth annoy me so?! “Unless you’d like to offer more?” I say smartly. . . . “When shall I pick it up, Miss Havock?” “At your earliest convenience. Our hours are ten to six. Directions can be found on our websi-” “Then I’ll be there within the hour.” Click. That’s it? No goodbye? No ‘thanks for your prompt customer service’?! Uuuuuuuurgh! I can’t stand him! I can’t stand him at all! And I’m going to make sure I look him in the eye and hand him the piece myself. With much more roughness than I should, I gather up the chime and return, fuming, to the shed. The sole customer’s car no longer remains. The shed’s interior is something of a messy masterpiece. Dad’s arranged all of his treasures with care, much like the lair of some gold-hoarding dragon. There isn’t an inch of wall uncovered. There isn’t an inch of space unused. The coziest place of all, it is a haven from the outside openness. Dad stands at the counter, monkeying with a typewriter. It appears he’s attempting to unbend one of the typebars. The bags beneath his eyes tell that he’s been holed up in here since last night. I hide the chime behind my back. “Dad. Hiya.” He doesn’t look up from his project. His bifocals are slid to the end of his nose. “Howdy, kiddo.” “What happened to your customer? They buy anything?” I ask. Dad mumbles a string of words that aren’t much of an answer. “Dad?” He glances up, over the top of his glasses – “They bought a mirror. That sunburst piece I picked up at the last auction.” – then immediately returns to the bent typebar. I see now that it’s the letter E. Careful to keep the chime’s bells steady, I mosey to the side of the counter. “Someone got a little overly excited with the E, huh?” “It’s the most commonly used letter in the alphabet, Aurie Pie.” I lean over his shoulder. The chime makes a tink behind my back. Unfortunately, Dad hears it. “What do you have there, kiddo?” Oops! “S-say!” I divert. “Why don’t you go inside and take a break?” Dad shakes his head. “Too much work to do.” “Uh-huh. How long you been working on that there typer?” “Just . . . a few . . .” He trails off in a mumble. I raise a brow. “And have you eaten anything today?” He guiltily hides his eyes on an arcade machine over my shoulder. I raise the other brow. “Fine. Fine,” he says with a tired smile. “Suppose daughter knows best. You don’t mind watching the place?” “‘Course not! Take . . . an hour. At least. And . . . have a shower while you’re at it.” He laughs and looks down at his argyled sweater. “That bad, huh?” It is that bad. His hair is looking a bit ratty, and his jeans and sleeves are stained with oil from the typewriter. “Sorry, Dad. It really is.” He takes his time leaving. Or maybe he doesn’t. It just seems too long because, all the while, I’m hoping that our assy customer doesn’t come waltzing in. For all I know, he may have been waiting just down the road for my call. Seems like something a creep would do. But it isn’t. After my dad leaves, I settle into the stool behind the counter, elbows on the bar and staring at the door, for ten minutes. And then another ten. After a half hour, I become worried that my dad will return before Atto makes it. “Hurry up, Atto.” I fold my arms sourly. “Your tintinnabulum awaits.” It is at that exact moment that I hear something. The knob! It’s just begun to turn. And soon to follow is the door’s opening. In walks a customer. A man. Presumably Atto. But something isn’t right. I don’t know what I expected, but it isn’t this. This isn’t a person that I ever expected to come into the Emporium. The person standing there is . . . Twenty-something. Dark-haired. Dark-eyed. Pale. It’s the guy from the coffee shop on the corner! The one that . . . enticed me. The one that made me wanderlust! What’s he doing here?! Surely he isn’t the creep Atto! At the sight of him, the annoying tick beneath my ribs begins anew. Tick. Tick! TICK! It grows louder when he lets the door fall shut and turns to face me, locking eyes firmly on mine. His mouth is set in a cocky grin. His chin is tilted upwards slightly, in a high-and-mighty air. I can’t stop myself. I jump from the stool – and my hair, formerly settled over my shoulders, slithers shimmering and snake-like in response. “You!” my mouth says on its own. This catches him off-guard. His chin falls to a normal place. So, too, does his mouth. “Me?” he asks. I shake my head. Snap out of it! My behavior’s entirely embarrassing! I give a nervous laugh. “S-sorry,” I say, fanning the situation away with a wave of my hand. “I mistook you for someone. Can I help you find something?” He reverts to cocky and begins to saunter lazily to the counter. “You may,” he drawls. “I ordered a wind chime.” He gestures to the piece on the bar. “THAT wind chime to be precise.” Eep! This person IS Atto! How?! Are there really coincidences this great in the world?! He pulls from his pocket a pristine bill and slides it across the table at me, and there’s a problem. The closer his hand slides, the more intense the ticking grows. The small sort of something isn’t so small anymore. I can barely breathe. “Changed your mind, have you?” says Atto. “Decided to add a finder’s fee, Miss Aurelia Havock?” “N-no . . .” Geh! I must keep calm. I know that, but it’s easier said than done. Something is very, very wrong with me! Just like at the coffee shop, I can’t be normal around him! I can’t move. How stupid it is that I can’t move! And because I can’t move, Atto takes the liberty of pushing the bill into my palm. As the paper slides into my rigid hand, I attempt to close my fingers around it, in the process grazing his skin with mine. Connection is made. For me, nothing changes; I remain as broken and strange as I’ve been this whole time. The thing that changes is him. His eyes widen. They widen and I see that their color is something of a deep changing color. It’s changing from deepest green-brown to darkest blood red. Red eyes are something of a rarity, aren’t they? “M-my, my,” he fumbles. “It seems . . .” He swallows. His Adam’s apple dances. He’s become affected. Affected? Satisfying that it’s so. It’s satisfying that he’s off his game. Unfortunately he is quick to recompose himself. “It seems I was right,” he says evenly, and takes his hand from mine. It becomes easier to exist with him moving away like that. “Right about what?” I manage. His eyes fall on my hair. He sneers a rather too-pleased sneer. The sort that makes me wary of his thoughts. “You have no idea how ecstatic I am that your form this time around is so similar.” He slides his gaze from my hair to my neck. “I’m guessing you haven’t had as many rebirths as I.” Rebirths? Okay . . . As if his insanity weren’t already established enough. Before I can say anything to that fact, he continues, “Or is it possible that this is your first?” He studies my mouth. “My, my, what took you so long? Resting up, were you? Recovering from a long, happy life with that boy?” I stare at him blankly. He is snarky. And little by little, the anger I felt for him previously begins to come back to me, replacing the ticking enticement. “OR,” he suggests, “perhaps it was a life filled with sorrow. Perhaps that is why you felt the need to keep me waiting so long.” The last part he says through clenched teeth. His mouth softens and he laughs. And then again he laughs. He throws back his head and laughs out of what is similar to relief. But while he’s relived, I continue to remember my anger. “What the heck are you talking about!?” I lash. “Aside from this morning, I’ve never seen you before in my life!” His laughter halts. “This morning?” “Yeah! You know! In . . . the . . .” Right. It was I who was creeping this morning. He didn’t even notice me. “Never mind.” I stare crossly at the ground. Atto is quiet. A moment passes. A clock on the back wall clicks louder than necessary. “Then you mean to say you don’t remember me?” he says. I meet his eyes. They are uncaring, as far as I can tell. “Remember?” I repeat. He nods. “Have we met before?” He nods again. “When?” I ask. He’s clearly older than me. A college student, judging by the conversation I eavesdropped on earlier. So when would I have met him before? Atto lets out a sigh and looks to the ceiling. “I’ve lived a hundred lives or more it seems.” Not exactly the answer I was looking for, yet . . . though I don’t know why, I feel the need to ask him: “Are you tired?” He shakes his head. “Simply, I feel as though I am at the end of a long journey.” I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all. I return to my senses. “Well, if the wind chime’s the end of your journey, you’re in luck!” I pat the overpriced thing. I’m eager for him to leave – chiefly because I worry the ticking will return. “Aurelia.” He says my name. “Even that is similar.” “Look, I’m not sure what –” “But you have other names, don’t you? Hidden within your soul.” He begins to lean across the counter at me. “Heart,” he says. “Angel,” he whispers, ever nearing. “Aura,” he purrs. “And my personal favorite: my cherry pi-” “I think you should go.” I’ve had enough of him and his craziness. His nonsense is dizzying, and my dad’ll be back before long. But the stranger called Atto doesn’t back down. “I’ve played nice before,” he says, seductive and dark and just inches away from my face. “I won’t be doing so again.” The no small something inside my chest prevents me from moving. Now fully leaning over the bar, Atto gathers a grouping of my lightest blonde hair in his hand and brings it to his face. I can do nothing as he lets it fall through his fingers before his eyes. Is it just me, or is it more fluid than usual? Almost like it’s responding to him. Almost like it’s alive . . . But that impossible. Wholly impossible! Still, I can’t move. And it’s infuriating. “Go away,” I tell him sternly. “I shant. Not until you’ve remembered my other names.” A lot of good that does me! How am I supposed to remember his other names – if he even has other names – when I don’t remember him? Atto. Creep. Ass. There, does that work? But I can’t say that. I can’t say much of anything. I’m under imprisonment by a most obnoxious ticking. Tick. Tick! TICK! “Ah!” I place a hand to my chest. Atto retreats at once. “What is it, my pit?” My pit? What sort of nickname is that? And what gives him the right to use a nickname with me in the first place?! I rub the ribs beneath my skin. It’s too much, this ticking. I’m about to crack open! Split down the middle! “Argh!” Atto rushes around the side of the counter. Before I know it, he’s pulling my hands from my chest. “Stop!” I yell, wincing. “I need to keep it in!” I don’t pay mind to the fact that what I’ve said makes no sense. And it doesn’t matter anyway. “Sorry to tell you, it’ll only get worse if you do that.” How he understands what I meant is beyond me. He holds my hands firmly at my sides. “Be good now.” TICK! TICK! TICK! It feels like my ribs are cracking. My bones are crunching. The thing behind my chest will stop at nothing to break me! “Stop it, would you?” Atto says, foul. “You needn’t resist. Let it go and let it spread. Even out the pressure and you’ll be able to withstand it.” Let it go? I don’t understand at all what’s going on, but something tells me that it would be dangerous to let it go. Who knows what this something will do if given free reign? Yet restraining my arms from gripping my chest, Atto leans close and rest his forehead against my collarbone. Creep! If I were able to control myself right now, I’d tell him off. But I can’t do that. The ticking only becomes more unbearable the closer he is. The something beneath my chest is growing and growing, and soon I won’t be able to contain it any longer. Soon I’ll burst. “Trust me, would you?” says Atto. “Let it go.” Like I have a choice! At that moment, the thing bursts through on its own. Bone cracks from bone. Flesh tears from flesh. My torso splits in half. Only, it doesn’t really. I remain whole. The small something within my chest is no more. Now, it’s a very large something that is spreading throughout all of my body. Evenly pulsing in a certain rhythm that is tolerable. “Holy tomato sandwich,” I mumble, dazed. Atto releases me. “Tomato sandwich?” I rub my forehead, which is light due to lack of oxygen. It’s far easier to breathe now that the something has spread. I do so without restraint, taking in large, indulgent gulps. “Yeah, uh, read it in a book once. More importantly, do you know what just . . . happened . . . to me?” Needless to say, I am self-conscious, having spontaneously erupted in the presence of a stranger. Atto holds his chin. “I’ve an idea. But you won’t like it, and so I won’t be telling you. Sorry.” My ass he’s sorry. He detects my glower, yet chooses to play cheeky. “What’s that look for, Miss Havock?” But upon including my last name, he acts as though he’s just tasted something bitter. “On second thought,” he corrects, “what’s say we leave that one in the past? I’m sure you understand.” I don’t. I glare at him. “Customers aren’t allowed behind the counter. You need to leave.” “Why’s that?” “Because there’s something not right about you!” He raises a brow of speculation. “I’d say there’s something not right about you.” True. But that’s beside the point. “Look, just take your tintinnabulum and go,” I say, firm as need be. But to my resolve he only replies, “Oh?” full of snark, and dismisses the notion with a flick of his wrist. “But this relic isn’t mine, Aurelia. I procured it for none other than YOU.” “Eh?” I look at the feather-belled piece. “You and I both know that’s a lie. You just decided to gift it to the first person you saw! I mean, you don’t even know me!” “Correction, I know you very well. Better, I’d say, at present, than you know yourself. Shall I help you remember what you’ve forgotten?” He places a knuckle beneath my chin. “No thanks.” And that’s that. We’re finished here. There isn’t to be another moment’s passing of peculiar interaction within this cluttered, colorful space. Atto knows it, too. He promptly drops his hand and starts for the door. “Very well,” he says, waving. “Then I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.” T-tomorrow!? Not a chance! “You’re forgetting your wind chime,” I call. “It’s yours.” “I don’t want it!” “The wind’s fallen in love with you,” he tosses over his shoulder, blasé. “You need to give him an offering to let him know you’re his, or he’ll never stop.” He puts a finger to his lips. “It’ll be our little secret that you’re actually mine.” I don’t know how to respond. Somehow, someway, this creepy, ass of a stranger also knows about my odd fear of the outdoors. How is that possible?! It isn’t. It’s entirely impossible. And yet . . . As he pushes through the door, the last thing I hear from him is, “All mine . . . my one and only cherry pit.” And something about it is distantly familiar. Chapter 2: A New Life I’ve developed a stalker. That much is clear to me. That much became clear to me just moments ago. Is it any better if the stalker’s handsome? I don’t think so. If anything, it’s worse. It keeps me from properly labeling him as a dangerous weirdo that might attempt to abduct me or rape me or steal pieces of my hair at any moment. The stalker stands browsing the back corners of Dad’s piled-high emporium. Presently, he’s near the stash of sepia photos and faded postcards kept in protective plastic. Atto and his sudden interest in heirlooms. Although, to be fair, it’s possible he’s always had an affinity for heirlooms. I wouldn’t know any differently if he has, for I don’t know him at all. And another thing I don’t know is what time he arrived this morning. I only just got here to bring Dad coffee, and there he was, skimming Dad’s past-prime wares with avid interest. “New guy. Out-of-towner,” says Dad. Dad’s moved on from the typebar and is today working with a tiny screwdriver, attempting to pry out a displaced piece of metal. “Why don’t I go see if he needs any help?” My jaw is tight. Dad doesn’t notice. “Sure, kiddo. Thanks.” More rigidly than ever before, I creak and jerk down the aisle toward pestersome Atto. On this day, the twenty-something sports a chambray button-down and jeans. His posture is slouched; his countenance lazed. I’ve somehow turned into a robot at the sight of him. A rusty, cantankerous robot that is afraid of appearing eager of all things, and so I compensate with awkward, jerking movements. Atto glances up from the pallid portrait in his hand and frowns. “Gone batty, have you?” he observes. It would appear he’s been watching my robotics from the corner of his eye. I won’t give him the satisfaction of rebuttal. “What are you doing here, Sir? Is there something I can help you find, Sir?” my mouth croons pleasantly – though we both know my sweetness is nothing more than poison. Yet Atto doesn’t appear to care. He returns the portrait to its bin and sets his eyes on my head. My head? Knew it! Knew he’d try to cut off a piece of my hair for . . . sniffing . . . or something weird like that! I must protect myself; keep him away from my golden tresses! I’m going to blast the scoundrel away with robotic lasers! I’ll find some jagged edge of mechanized me and cut at him until he retreats! But it isn’t to be so. The mechanics within me shut down as Atto reaches for the center of a shiny lock and lets it pass over his forefinger. CREEP. But then . . . if I find him creepy, why can’t I move? Why can’t I slap him away? Why am I . . .? Staring at the hair against his skin, Atto breathes. And I breathe. He exhales and so do I. He blinks and I copy. Entrapment. Unwanted and senseless entrapment has befallen me. “Did it work?” he mutters, shifting coveting glance from my hair to somewhere even more dangerous – my eyes. “W-what?” I ask. “Did the chime work?” he reiterates, more persistent. “Did you offer it up to your lover?” “My . . .?” He sighs an impatient sigh. “The wind. Did you or did you not offer up the chime to the wind?” “Oh that. Of course I didn’t do something like that.” I’m not afraid to admit it. The request was absurd in the first place. But the news hits Atto hard. Releasing my hair and gaining a scowl, he folds his arms across his chest. “Well, why not? Don’t you think it time you did something about him? It isn’t kind to lead men on, Aurelia. But then, that’s always been a bit of a habit of yours, hasn’t it?” He is sneering and a bit nasty. For what? What the heck is he talking about? And how dare he take that tone with me?! This is the second day in a row he’s invaded MY space! “Now wait just a minu-” He grabs me round the wrist. “Come on then. Let’s take care of it together. It’ll be nearly impossible to find our treasure with him acting against us.” “Let go.” But I am already being pulled by a forceful stranger. Through the rows of toasters and phones and gaudy mannequin displays. Past the miniature tree of antique necklaces and watches. And to the very front of the store, where my father yet slaves over the typewriter. I call to him, “Dad!” Atto is pulling me outside with him, but Dad is too wrapped up to notice. He’s probably forgotten all about the ‘out-of-towner’ customer, heirloom fetish and all. “Going out, kiddo?” is all he says. Before I can fully respond, I am out. Out of the shed and into the abyss. The sky stretches outward forever, and the instant I step out, it calls me to it. “Ahhh!” I latch onto Atto’s arm so that I might remain grounded to the earth in some way. Atto is a kite string and I am a kite, and if he were to let me go, I’d fly up and away over the yard and through the sky and into the uncountable beyond that expands. But Atto doesn’t hold me. He pushes me from himself, instead taking one of my hands in each of his. My feet kick from the ground. The wind howls. “Help me!” I shout. Atto studies my face intently. He deliberates over my peril while I grit my teeth and cling tightly to his hands. The wind pushes my hair away from my face and straight into the expanse behind me. Atto continues to watch me struggle. I struggle and struggle and fight not to be sucked away, and then Atto does something evil. He releases one of my hands. I swing outward, my only holding point Atto’s other hand. “NO!” But, grinning slightly, Atto simply shakes his head and begins to peel his other hand away. He wishes to feed me to the wolves! To the howling wolf that is the wind! If he lets go, I’ll fly away, never to be seen again. I’ll land on the moon or Mars or some other distant rock. It doesn’t bother Atto in the least. He continually attempts to sever my kite string. And then he succeeds. Eyes still locked on mine, he succeeds. He lets me go. I am sent through the air. Except that I haven’t moved at all. I remain in the bright day, atop the mushy spring grass, standing only a foot away from him. My hands are outstretched towards his, though his hang languid at his sides. “You jerk!” I swat him in the chest. “You-you let me go! You knew what would happen, but you let me go!” He plays unaware. “Why, Aurelia, whatever do you mean? Nothing happened to you. See?” He points to the ground at my feet. “You haven’t moved an inch.” My knees are shaking. I can’t help but to fall to them. Stupid Atto! Stupid creep! He’s the only one that knows about my affliction, and he betrayed me! But why should I have expected anything different? For all I know, he makes a game of tormenting girls. I am pitiful. So, so pitifully collapsed at his feet. And in my pitiful state, Atto suddenly changes his tune. Compassion is within him. I didn’t think it possible, but compassion is in him and it comes out now, only after being faced with my full pitifulness. Atto squats to meet me, saying in a voice low and deep, “I let you go so that it would pass more quickly. Sometimes you must let something go in order to help pass away its pain.” Vague. His candidness is quick to elapse. He looks to the sky innocuously. “If you’d only listened to me and offered up the chime yesterday, none of this would have happened.” He forces a sigh. “You know, you should really start heeding me, my pit. I tell you these things only for your own good.” My pit? For some reason it seems like a vulgar name to call someone. I’m too angry to scold him on it, though. No, his punishment will be something greater. “Leave and never come back, or I’ll tell my dad you’re a stalker – which you clearly are – and he’ll have you run out of town by his hipster clients.” I tell him this and am wholly serious. Still crouched, Atto puts a hand to his mouth and snickers. “My, my, so much anger. Like a stubborn little bird who’s just been pushed from its nest.” I’m deathly angry at him and his remarks. I want to run him out of town! Because the handsome stranger at the coffee shop and the annoying customer turned out to be one in the same; because he was able to spread out the ticking, which he himself caused in the first place! And because he somehow knows about my affliction regarding the wind and chooses to provoke it. For these reasons I will make it so that I never have to see him again. This is my true desire. But . . . He smiles at me. Yes, the smile is smug and crooked, but his lips are full and his demeanor is charming in a dark sort of way. My body gives a tick. The whole of it. The whole of it? That’s new. A result of spreading out the formerly-small something? Atto extends a hand to help me to my feet. I won’t take it. And then I have. My body’s taken it on its own and Atto’s pulled me up. “Now then,” he says, “fetch the chime. Let’s get this over with so that we can begin our search.” “What search? If you think I’m going to go anywhere with –” “Ah, ah, ah.” He wags a finger in my face. “That’s for later.” So the creepy stalker has some future plan for me? Pleasant. Run the other way, Aurelia. Run the other way. But I can’t. I’m stuck outside talking with him. Despite my best interests, my legs refuse to run and hide. “Where’s the chime, Aurelia?” Atto asks steadily, eyes set securely on mine. “I don’t have it,” I tell him with a shrug. “I threw it out.” His expression turns dry. “You what?” “I. Threw. It. Out.” “That being the case, I suggest you take a trip through the dumpster, my pit. For that is the only thing strong enough to keep your lover at bay. At least, the only thing within a thousand miles of this place.” Seriously? Will the chime seriously help me? Preposterous! I don’t see how it could. Then why am I considering it? Atto lazes, appearing bored, against the side of the shed. It’s as though he’s waiting. Waiting for a show to start. Or a package to arrive. There is no question to him that the awaited thing will be as he predicts it to be, and so he is not anxious. He is just waiting. I examine him, desperate to figure him out. To figure out what he’s waiting for and what his intentions are. Though I don’t want to admit it, I suspect they’re something more significant than just stealing locks of hair. But is that good or bad? “Fine,” I tell him after delay. “The chime’s in a pile of my dad’s junk around the back of this building. Help me get there.” Atto straightens and offers me his arm. I take it, and together we begin to venture around the edge of the shed. The space beyond us pulls, attempting to thrust me into itself. Atto doesn’t feel it – at least, he doesn’t do anything to show that he does. What’s his game, I wonder? If I had to sum it up, it’s as though he acts too comfortable with me – an odd dynamic to exist a part of. I don’t know him, but his demeanor is that of a person uncaring of causing offense. He isn’t worried that I’ll hate him. He is convinced that no matter what he does, I won’t do anything rash. Cockiness or confidence or a little of both. It doesn’t matter much. All I know is that my body responds to him. My skin is comfortable around him, even if my stomach isn’t. He knows it, and he’s using it to his advantage. . . . But to what advantage? “Nothing happened to you,” he says calmly when we round the back of the shed. “You’re talking about . . .?” “Once you exited the store, I saw what transpired in your eyes, but I assure you your body didn’t move.” Joy. So I’m just crazy then. But I could have told him that. I know that I never actually go flying into the air. I know that it’s just some sort of freaky response! And to top it off, the fact that I must be toted around by this jerk, that I must cling despairingly onto his arm like a shy accompanier at a ball . . . “Ugh!” I let myself bark. “A bit of gas?” Atto suggests, brows high. Creep. At the back of the shed I point to yonder pile where the wind chime has been stashed. It glints from within the mass of metal and yard tools – a second rate treasure stowed carelessly in junk. Atto leaves me to fetch the piece. He inspects it with disfavor. “You weren’t kidding, my pit,” he says, tart. “Thought if you threw out the thing you’d be rid of me, did you?” Exactly. “Hmph.” Atto puts his nose to the air, further showing off his stuck-upedness. “Well, go on then. Take it and offer it up so that we can be on our way.” He tosses the mass of chimes and string at me. I catch them with a clank. “What exactly do you mean ‘be on our way’?” I ask shrewdly. “I hope you understand there isn’t a chance in hell –” “Yes, yes.” He swats my gnatty words away. “Tell the wind you’ve stationed this tintinnabulum for him. Be sure to place it somewhere it won’t get caught, will you?” But I’m still not convinced. I eye the cracked bell. Scratched clear through one of the feathers, it looks as though the relic was once caught in a twister. “Say the wind IS in love with me – just hypothetically, let’s pretend you aren’t completely insane – WHY would it have an interest in me? Hm? Answer me that, Atto.” Atto stares at my hair and weighs his answer. “There is an exceedingly small number of those in this world that contain angelic memories within their auras,” he says. “It makes you an easy target.” “Angelic?” “Many reborn souls do not cross planes. There are exceptions, however, such as you and I. It takes great willpower to will a soul into a new body, and even more willpower to will it to a new realm. Only few powers are able to accomplish something so grandiose.” He turns from smug to smugger. “Thank the moon it owed us a favor for our previous feats. Saving the world is no small heroic.” I wait for the punchline, but the punchline doesn’t come. He’s serious? Seriously crazy! “Wait a minute,” – I squint at him – “you’re telling me that we did something in . . . what, a past life? And that because of that we were reborn?” Ludicrous. Absolutely ludicrous! “AND you mean to tell me that not only have we lived before, we were angels in our past lives? THAT’S why the wind loves me?” The absurdity of it comes pouring from my mouth in a train of giggles. “Excuse you,” snarks Atto, “but I’ve never been an angel. Heaven forbid. And you, my pit, haven’t been an angel for a very long time. You merely contain trace amounts of that life on the edges of your soul. The wind smells it and lusts.” Sure. Okay. The wind smells it. HE – not it – smells the remains of a distant life in which I was an angel. I stare at Atto with blatant, offensive disbelief. “Just one more thing,” I issue. “Yes?” “How did you become so UTTERLY CRAZY!?” “Hmph. You’ll be singing to a different tune very shortly, Aurelia.” “Too bad I don’t sing.” With another “Hmph,” Atto leans against the building. “Make your offering then, songless bird.” Again I look to the damaged chime. This won’t work. I’m so sure of it. But what do I have to lose? If Atto’s playing a trick, he’ll yuck it up and then I’ll be rid of him. And if he isn’t . . . might I finally be free? Is there even a slight, teensy chance that it’ll work? No. But the thought of it is too tempting to resist. “W-Wind?” I start, feeling self-conscious. “I’ve got a little present for yo-” “Louder.” Scowl. “Oh, WIND!” I try again, heeding Atto. “Here’s this chime – EH?!” I stop, for the stranger has just slipped up behind me and placed his hand around mine. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” I seethe. Ignoring me, Atto pushes the chime above our heads. “Lover Wind,” he drones over my shoulder, “Take this charm . . . Ahem.” He is displeased. “Taking our time, are we, Aurelia?” “Huh?” He sighs, “Repeat after me, would you?” then begins anew: “Lover Wind, take this charm . . .” I reluctantly follow his lead: “As a symbol of my commitment to you. This chime is my vessel. These bells are my song. The last of my feathers carved, the end of my voice chimed, watch over my soul in my absence. . . . M-my soul!?” “Just say it,” he groans. I do. I finish the chant and wait. So does Atto. We wait and wait, until, from across the yard, there is a violent gust that scampers over the top of the moist ground and comes to the place around our ankles. There it plays. Atto grumbles a dissatisfied grumble. “What?” I whisper, for fear of being whisked away. “The beast wishes to give you a goodbye kiss.” “A kiss?” The answer comes in the form of a shove. I am pushed into the dangerous openness of the yard. Again, Atto has betrayed me. Upon leaving the safety of the shed’s shadow, I am swept sideways, to the far side of the yard and beyond. Over the top of the wood and pine, and into wilderness wide. In a matter of seconds, I am miles away from my dad’s shop. I’m miles away from Atto and civilization. I have been swept beyond East Cemet and all its neighbors. I am left alone with the wind, suspended on a gust. Lingered within the air. And then I fall. My stomach drops the drop of a thousand floors. And then I am where I was. At Atto’s feet. In a pile on the yard. Atto brushes his hands together as if to signal the end of a messy task. “That should be that,” he says. “But the chime!” “It’s there.” He nods to the corner of the shed where I first found the relic. “How’d it . . .?” “I put it there. While you were swooning.” I push from the slop of the ground. “I wasn’t swooning,” I tell him, embarrassed. “That’s neither here nor there. What’s important is that it’s done. Well? How do you feel, my songless bird? Are you free?” Am I free? It is with unsteady legs that I find myself standing and wondering – no, hoping in desperation – that it might be so. That somehow the stranger hasn’t been playing me. That somehow I haven’t been deceived. I dig my heels into the ground, burrowing, burrowing, and wait for the wind’s response. “Now, now, my cherry pit, you won’t know until you try.” Atto is high and mighty as ever, and he’s looking on like a playgoer. This is entertainment for him. I am his bird, placed in a glass cage, baited with false freedom, only to be led, smashing, into an invisible barrier. Alone a few feet from safety, the ground below is an island. One wrong move and . . . “Oh, come ON,” prattles Atto. “Figure we have all day, do you? Well you’re wrong.” And he is at my side. “If you won’t do it alone,” he says, “then I’ll give you a push.” And his hand is at my back, and he is swatting me along. I stumble forward and wince, but the wind doesn’t come. Another step arises the same result. And the third step too. Step after swatted step, my feet mush into the spring grass, and each time it is the same. I am safe. Paranoid, but safe. “Ah. So your confession was enough. A charming liar you are, my pit.” Stop calling me that. This is one of the things I wish to say. And also – You happy now? Going to gloat about how you were right? And another – Now what do you have in store for me, creepy stalker? But all of those things are overshadowed by one small impulse. A giggle. And then something that is a little crazier than a mere giggle. The laughter of an insane person. An insane person who’s just been relieved of insanity, or maybe who’s just been thrust into deeper levels. This is because the world feels different now. For the first time, I can’t feel the looming space expanding beyond my body. For the first time, I feel that I am weighted. Afraid, I throw my head back and stare into the abyss of the world. Sky, clouds, space. I take them in and laugh and am afraid that at any moment I’ll be plucked from the ground and everything will revert. Atto watches my insanity, grinning – and not in a self-satisfied way, either. “It’s changed?” he asks. I nod. There’s no denying it. “Will it last?” “Sure. But then again, how should I know?” Frustrating. But I am quickly consumed with another thought. Trees at the back of the yard rustle to alert me that lover Wind is on his way. Cringing, I tuck my body into itself and let out a squeal of anticipation. But the wind simply passes through my hair and to the offering dangling from the corner. It gives a few chiming clinks and then is still. I unbrace. The wind hasn’t taken me. More giggles ensue. “Why, you’d think you’d never been outside before,” Atto observes. “I haven’t. Not like this.” The overhead sun seeps warm through the cool air. The open world stretches before me, but I stand unmovable. It worked. I don’t know how long it will last, but for now, it worked. But how did it work? “Magic.” Is something like ‘magic’ possible? Is the wind truly a personified force, able to love and obsess? Able to be appeased by a simple charm and chant? That doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit within the world’s laws. “Hate to disappoint, but this world has no magic which can be used,” answers Atto. “It does, however, have forces. The wind is a force. Like the moon. Like the sea. And forces can be reasoned with.” I don’t see. “In time you’ll come to understand,” continues Atto, disinterested. He stretches his arms above his head like he’s just awoken from a nap. “But I think you’ll agree we’ve wasted enough time here. If you’d like to pack a bag – something small, mind you – feel free. I’ll wait outside.” Whoa, whoa, whoa. “Look,” I tell him, putting up a hand. “I’m grateful that you helped me – even if it makes NO sense at all – but that doesn’t mean I’m going to go someplace with you. You haven’t even told me where it is you think we’re going, and even if you had, I still wouldn’t go!” “Why?” “Because I don’t know you.” “So?” “It isn’t wise to set out with a stranger!” “Meh. That’s a matter of personal opinion. And besides, I told you before. We know each other quite well. Now then, off you go.” Again he swats at me. No, no, NO! I’m not going anywhere with him! Ever invading my personal space, Atto slips up behind me and throws his arms over my shoulders. “Help me out here, Aura,” he whispers into my ear. “Send my pit to fetch her things.” Who the heck is he talking to?! “My name is Aurelia,” I correct, stony. “NOT Aur-” . . . “HUH?!” I am in the passenger’s seat of a moving car with a teal backpack upon my lap. Atto is in the driver’s seat, sporting aviators. He rests one elbow out the open window as the bordering trees of a not-so-wide backroad blow past. A second ago I was standing in the yard behind the shed, and now I’m in a car?! “WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON?!” I shout. “YOU DRUGGED ME?!” Panic begins to set. True danger reaches me. I completely underestimated Atto’s degree of stalker. “Nonsense.” Atto doesn’t look from the road. “You went inside to fetch your things and then punctually returned to me. Don’t you remember?” NO! I don’t remember that at all! I blacked out?! “I-!” But then it begins to come back to me. I remember it. Walking silently into the house. Grabbing the backpack from my closet floor and shoving a handful of clothes into it. Changing my shoes into sneakers. Jotting a note to Dad. And then returning to Atto. Hopping into his car. Rolling my eyes at his gaudy glasses. Oh God! I remember all of that! But why on earth did I do it?! What possessed me to . . . That’s it! I was possessed! Or . . . that isn’t possible either, is it?! “Calm down, my pit,” says Atto with a smug smirk. “It was your body making those decisions. After all, the most important memories are those remembered by the body. You should know better than anyone.” Whatever that means. I plop against the seat in pouting disbelief. I’m on what, a road trip? With creepy, assy Atto? “You hypnotized me,” I accuse. “Yes, that seems likely,” he drawls. “Recall me taking out my pocket watch pendulum and swinging it before your impressionable eyes.” Of course, nothing of the sort happened. The road beneath the car gives a mocking bump, which only serves to anger me further. “I demand to know where you’re taking me!” I shout. “Even if my body decided to come or whatever, I am FAR from willing, and . . . and . . .” I lower my voice. “Seriously, you aren’t a rapist or anything, are you? You aren’t going to lock me in a barn?” “Mm. Is that what you want, my pit? My, how unexpected.” “Tch.” Atto fixes the overhead mirror. “As I’ve mentioned numerous times, we’re going to find a treasure. If you’d only pay attention the first time around –” “Like a buried treasure?” I cut him off. “Something far more precious than that.” “Like?” “You’ll see.” Hmph. You’ll see, he says. Go on a spontaneous road trip with me, he says! HE obviously doesn’t understand how society works! And it is on that note that I am reminded – “Shoot! What about Jaggar?! I know I left a note for my dad – which, by the way, he’ll find extremely suspicious – but I didn’t call Jaggar! What if he decides to come home for a weekend?! What if he’s trying to reach me right now?!” “Who?” “My boyfriend!” Atto turns foul. “He’ll be fine, I’m sure.” “He won’t be fine! Haven’t you ever had a girlfriend?” “Who me? No. Why? Do I need one?” Oh. He hasn’t? “Well . . .” I try a different approach – “Have you ever had a boyfriend then?” I ask delicately. “Excuse me?” His glare is unpleasant enough to convey his feelings on that matter. I’ll take that as a no. There is silence, but for the sounds of coupe on asphalt. “I thought it would be clear by now as to the object of my affections,” Atto mentions after a bout. “I thought it would be crystalline as to whom I was interested in.” He’s talking about me? Yes. But for him to say something to that effect is embarrassing, so I ignore it. Besides, any ‘affections’ he has for me are the delusions of a stalker. We only just met. Then again . . . the formerly-small something coursing about my body is somewhat like affection itself, isn’t it? “Where is this ‘treasure’ we’re going to find?” I ask. “You’ll see.” “And how long will it take to retrieve?” “You’ll see.” “And why can’t I have a straight answer?” Atto drums his thumb on the top of the steering wheel. “You may. Just quit asking those sorts of questions, would you?” “Fine then.” I cross my arms. “How old are you?” “Somewhere in the two-thousands, I’d say.” Ugh! Annoying! Even something so simple won’t warrant a real answer! “Oh, I’m sorry.” Atto’s mouth is set flippant. “You were referring to the current life, were you not? In that case, I’m twenty-two.” Grumble. What other life would I be referring to!? “College?” I assume. “Philly U,” he says. “I see.” Cool air from his window reaches the trailing ends of my hair. I tie them back with the band I always keep around my wrist. The shortest pieces escape the fold and fall against my chin. “That way is cute too,” Atto observes when I’m finished. Though it doesn’t appear he’s even looked from the road. It’s hard to tell where he’s looking through those aviators. “And I know all about you,” he says. “Eighteen. Not in school. Working at Daddy’s shop. How quaint.” I feel the need to defend myself. “I graduated last year and am taking a break before . . . WAIT! How do you know all that?!” “Simple. I did a check up on you last night after I figured out that you were indeed you, the ‘you’ I’d been searching for.” After he figured it out? That’s right. After we touched for the first time, he had a reaction. “You’d been looking for me?” I ask, suspicious. “Mm.” “Because we’ve known each other for ages supposedly?” “Mm.” “But you only figured out last night that I was me for sure?” “Mmmm.” Then that means he asked me to find the wind chime before he realized I was the ‘one’! But he claims the chime was for me all along! How does that work?! As if to read my mind, Atto offers an explanation before I can question him. “I was led to East Cemet,” he says offhand, “assuming it was only to get the tintinnabulum. It was . . . coincidence that I found you there also.” “Led?” He points through the dashboard. “Forces.” Oh, that again. Atto’s coupe bumps over the road, ever mocking. In addition to that snobbish bouncing, the interior fits him. Black. Sleek. Showy. The car is as Atto is: ostentatious. I turn from it and him and stare out the passenger window. The not-so-wide backroad is unchanging. And we’ve passed only a handful of cars since I came to. Where are we? Somewhere north of East Cemet? The trees along either side of the road suggest such. But what’s north of East Cemet? I don’t recognize this path. Not that I’ve ever been good with directions. If I had any sense, I’d pull open the door and roll out into freedom. It’s not as though we’re going fast enough to cause any real damage. Were I wise, I’d make a run for it now. Unfortunately, I am unwise. I find myself intrigued to know where Atto’s taking us. I don’t trust him. No, that isn’t it at all. It’s more like . . . I’m curious. And my fear is no longer strong enough to overcome that curiosity. Thus I stay seated, staring at the passing timber and wondering where my sense has gone. “You may wish to get some sleep, golden Aurelia. We won’t reach our destination until nightfall, and after that, well . . .” After that? Reaffirms everything I’ve suspected. “Like I can fall asleep in front of someone like you!” Atto clicks his tongue. “You’re right. I’d probably force myself on you while driving. THAT would be quite an accomplishment. Do you think my skills are up to it? Shall we give it a go now?” Envisioning that very thing, I am quiet. Atto with one hand on the wheel, crawling over me with the other, full lips lax, dark eyes narrowed. Ack! WHY am I envisioning such a thing?! My cheeks go hot. Atto chuckles. “Have you remembered my other names yet, my pit?” I say nothing. “Shame. Let me know when you do. Only then will I touch you.” TOUCH me?! So he IS planning something like that! Suddenly the door-leaping option is looking better and better. Tree after tree passes. The ride is cool, the road rutted. Atto is silent. I am silent. Long have I felt in limbo, stagnantly still, caught between past and future. Will that change, I wonder, now that I’m free of lover Wind? Now that I’ve been abducted from my life by this stranger who claims to know me? Whose enticement I’ve unwillingly fallen under? Who’s caused a small something to grow and spread inside my chest? Tree after tree passes, and eventually my lids fall heavy. ~ “Aura?” That isn’t my name. “Aurelia?” Is that my name? “For heaven’s sake, my cherry pit, naps rarely last this long.” “Unh?” I open my eyes to darkness. The dark interior of Atto’s coupe is lit only by the light from his dash effects. As my eyes adjust, I realize something unpleasant. I am nothing less than slumped sideways against Atto’s seat. I’ve let myself become vulnerably balled in a stalker’s presence. And there’s something worse. Atto is leaning over me as he did in my earlier envisionings. EH?! TOO CLOSE! I should first and foremost wriggle out from beneath him. That would be the sensible thing to do. Flee to the far corner of the car where his flesh’s warmth won’t reach me. But my body won’t react the way I want it to. Sensibility gone with the wind, my face instead turns toward his and waits for something. Atto’s hair is fallen forward; his mouth soft and amused. “Apologies, sleepy pit. We’re here,” he says. I feel my arm begin to move. But it isn’t moving away. It’s moving . . . towards? Towards Atto. Floating through the space between us. What the heck is wrong with me!? Yet disobeying my wishes, my hand places itself tenderly against his chest, right at the center. Atto’s eyes, which are even darker than normal in this dim light, widen. He clears his throat unsurely, searching me for an explanation for my actions, but I have none to give. I’m as surprised as he is. Why? Why reach out to him? “Didn’t I tell you?” he mutters. “They’re strongest . . . those remembered by the body, because they’ve turned to instinct and instinct cannot be fought.” As if to demonstrate his point, my hand on his chest is concrete. Though I order it to return to its rightful place, it remains pressed against him, trying to feel the skin through his shirt. Atto lifts a hand of his own, and I flinch. No, no, NO! I don’t want anything from him! Nothing like that. I understand that it seems like I DO, but I don’t! Why should I?! If Atto can sense my internal peril, he does nothing to remedy it – just brings the back of his hand to the side of my face and brushes a loose lock of hair past my ear. The hair slips snake-like into place. Atto swallows and moves away. “Come, Aurelia. Let’s go.” It is only after he opens his car door and slips outside that I realize just how rapidly my heart is moving. Fear? No, I am excited. Not my mind, but my body. My flesh and veins are enlivened. Do I remember him? Have we met? Are things like past lives and reincarnation and forces . . . Are those things real? I know it’s idiotic, but I’m questioning myself. I can’t help it. Oh god! There’s something seriously wrong with the way I’ve been acting! Before I can find an answer, Atto is at my door, opening it for me, offering me a hand. Knowing full well that this is probably the part of the journey where a stalker leads his mark into a field for the grand finale, I take it. I let him draw me out of the car. I’m a fool. That’s all there is to it. I’m a terrible fool and I’ll probably turn up dead in the morning. Or, if we’re remote enough, they might not find me for days or weeks. Why, then, am I going with him? Why is my body mindlessly following him into the dark? No, it isn’t completely in the dark. There is a small light coming from something in Atto’s hand. A flashlight? A cell phone. He’s using it as a flashlight to illuminate the small dirt path we’re walking along. Heavily wooded tree cover. Forest living? He’s taking me deep into some unknown wood, and the air is cooler here than I remember it being at home at night. How far north have we gone? It’s cold enough that the spring earth, which should be soft, is hard. The ground is uncared for and full of neglected debris fallen from the trees. “Where?” I ask. “Just a bit more, my pit.” “It’s cold.” “You’ll soon be warm.” From the warmth of my own blood? Or from the warmth of death. But isn’t death supposed to be a cold thing? The light from his phone begins to dim. But it isn’t that it’s dimming. It’s that it’s being swallowed by a greater light ahead in the forest. Yes, lit this way, I can clearly now call it a forest. Atto’s taking me through the forest and to that greater light. And greater warmth. I soon realize the light ahead is a fire. A strong-heated one, for the warmth of it reaches me long before I see the flames. And then I see them. A roaring fire has been built in the center of a clearing that is the path’s end. But what’s it been built from? As far as I can tell, the fire springs from the ground itself, and not from wood or kindling. And that isn’t all. Next to the fire, there is a tall, sparkling thing, rising taller than Atto and glittering, caught by the light of the fire. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a . . . crystal? The largest crystal I’ve ever seen, residing unnaturally in the center of a woodland clearing. “That’s . . . not usual for a forest, is it?” I question. “Did you put it there?” “Of course I didn’t,” says Atto, short. “It is a portal. It’s been here since the dawn of man.” “Portal?” He nods. “Regrettably, we are not transporting anywhere. There is not sufficient magic in this land to do so. Our task is to borrow what power remains in yonder portal. THAT is what we’ve come here for.” “Power? But I thought you said magic doesn’t exist here.” On second thought, why am I buying any of this? “I misspoke,” Atto says at the fire’s side. “Rather, you misinterpreted. This world has no magic which can be used.” “Meaning?” He gives an unenthused sigh. “At one point,” he rambles, “when humanity was new, the world had enough magic to be used individually. Divided among people, there was enough power for small spells. Nothing great, mind you, but it could be handled. Then the population grew. The amount of magic never changes; it simply stretches to be dispersed evenly among each person. And so the magic was diluted to a degree that was unusable.” He finishes his tale with an unconcerned flick of his wrist. “If the population were to ever shrink drastically, magic could again be used.” “Then what use is it to us?” “Let me finish, would you?” he sneers. “There are places where it pools, like this portal.” “So magic can be used.” “Not by us. By forces. Specifically this one.” He gestures to the fire. “The fire is a force?” “The flame. And I’ve traded my next life for his cooperation. Flames love to devour, and the most delicious devouree is human life. Because I cannot offer him my current life – then everything would be pointless – we’ve agreed to a future debt.” My eyes have settled on the fire. More so, they’ve been drawn into it. “But what if you aren’t reborn in this world? How will you repay the flame?” “Oh?” Atto lifts a haughty brow. “So you believe me now, do you?” Do I? It’s hard to tell under the fire’s influence. Atto continues, “It doesn’t matter whether I’m reborn here or elsewhere. Forces are universal. Just ask the witchy moon.” Over my head. This is all over my head. “So the treasure you wanted me to help you find is the power kept inside that crystal?” Atto shakes his head. “Something far more precious. This power is common. There are crystals like this scattered throughout the world.” “If not that, then what?” I ask. “What’s more precious than a crystal’s magic?” I stand transfixed on mesmerizing flames flicking shadow against cleared ground; meanwhile, Atto’s mouth moves inconspicuously to my ear. “My pit’s memories.” “Huh?” “You don’t trust me,” he breathes. “I know that. But your body must. Walk with me, Aurelia. Through the fire.” The order strikes me clear, even under the flames’ spell. Through the fire?! I can’t walk through fire with him! We’ll both burn! He’s kidding. He’s got to be. Only he isn’t. “Come now, Aurelia. Into the fire.” He’s serious?! “N-no,” I protest, atremble. Regardless, Atto’s hand is sternly against my back and he is pushing. Pushing. Pushing! “NO!” I won’t move forward, but my feet also refuse to flee. Run, Aurelia! RUN! Atto’s hand is around my waist. “I let you go twice before. I won’t be doing so again. I won’t play selfless again.” His words turn fierce. “I need you. So move!” “I won’t!” I’m rooted. Giving a grunt, Atto drops his head. “I need this,” he says, teeth tight. “A thousand lives or more I’ve lived, it seems. Put an end to it. Walk through fire with me.” I can’t. Because I don’t believe and because I’m afraid and because I regret getting myself into this bizarre mess. The fire bares its teeth at me. It wishes to consume me. Like the wind, the fire seeks to take me for itself! And I’m frozen. Held in fear, I can’t move. Atto surrenders. Head hung, he limply sets his arms around my shoulders, and into my ear he speaks: “Help me out, Aura.” He is pleading. “Trust me. Move with me.” Whether or not magic exists, his plea holds power. My legs ignite. As lit as the fire, they walk straight into its open teeth. Flames licking, heat seething, the fire pulls me in, and I willingly walk. Atto walks beside me, hand on my back, as we draw closer and closer into danger’s warmth. At the center of the fire, where it is hottest, we stop. Atto spins my shoulders to face him. Neither of us melts, though the full extent of the fire’s heat reaches into my skin. I should be burning. I should be screaming! But the pain of it doesn’t affect me. I am fine. Atto is not. Desperation fills every corner of his face. “Fail to do as you’ve agreed and I’ll revoke my next life from you!” he spits at the fire. “And then I’ll take a Magir’s revenge! I won’t stop until the Maker has squashed your existence! Well? Go on! What are you waiting for? She’s here! Return to her mind what her body knows!” The fire around us surges. Upwards. Toward the moonless sky. “DO IT!” shouts Atto. And then it happens. From beside where we are, the crystal lights blue. A mystic blue. A blue of power. It lights and mixes with the flames. We are surrounded by deep, glowing purple. That is when it comes back to me. Everything. A songstress. An Elf. And a Daem, legendary man of shadow. A quest to save the world from a destructive song. An angelic truth learned too late. A choice made too early. A dragon. A goldness. A love. At once the fire dies. The crystal fades. Atto and I stand face to face in darkness. Silent darkness surrounds us a long, long while, until Atto finally musters the courage to speak. “What is my name?” he asks of me. “Atto,” I whisper. “And?” He takes my shoulders. I know the answer, but I am too overwhelmed to speak it. Atto’s harsh face cracks into sorrow and fury hazardously mixed. “AND?!” “D-Dragon,” I stutter. Atto’s eyes lock onto mine. “What?” he implores, frantic. “Atto,” I say. “Dragon,” I say. “And?” “Atto, Dragon, and also . . .” I stop to allow the truth of it to settle in my stomach. “Ardette.” Those are his names. I know them by heart. It is as clear to me as my own names. As clear to me as my forgotten songs. Atto, Dragon, and also Ardette. There are others, too. Ones I’ve never known before this moment, but if I wish to name any others, I can’t. My mouth has been taken. My kiss has been stolen by a reborn Daem. Creepy, assy Atto and I stand in the middle of a dark clearing, and I’ve never kissed anyone deeper. What came before . . .? . . . Don’t forget to read the HEART OF FARELLAH Trilogy to find out Atto and Aurelia’s full past! . . . . . . And what comes next? . . . Part two of the ATTO’S TALE Miniseries is coming. ~ Whisked ~ March 31st, 2013. . . . More Info About the Author: Brindi E. Lundberg lives in Minnesota with her husband, Anders. She enjoys coffee, video games, anime, manga, and horror flicks. Atto’s Tale is Brindi’s sixth published work. Shortly after completing college in 2010, she began working on the Heart of Farellah Trilogy, an epic fantasy romance. All three books were completed and published in 2011. From there, she went on to write Seconds: The Shared Soul Chronicles, a third person sci-fi romance, and Sil in a Dark World: A Paranormal Love-Hate Story. Aside from writing fantasy, sci-fi and romance novels, Brindi also writes for an e-show called ‘Sparrow: An Indie Anime’. She is currently working on a two-part fantasy series called ‘The Eternity Duet’. Watch for Brindi’s next book, The World Remains, coming February 2013. Brindi is now on Twitter! @Brindiful For future works, check out: www.smashwords.com/profile/view/brindilundberg Connect with her on Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/Brindiful Or view her blog at: http://brindilundberg.wordpress.com Her projects can also be found on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SilInADarkWorld https://www.facebook.com/pages/Heart-of-Farellah/156704497746231 https://www.facebook.com/SecondsTheSharedSoulChronicles https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-World-Remains/572617992767600 https://www.facebook.com/pages/Sparrow-An-Indie-Anime/130444173734510 About the Cover Artist: Ene Karels is a self-taught artist. Born in Nevada in 1994, she moved to Minnesota in 2009. Working in her home studio, she started out with copic markers, and then began using watercolors and acrylics. Atto’s Tale is her sixth cover. She is also the animator of the e-show ‘Sparrow: An Indie Anime’. Her favorite subject is anime-style characters. She also enjoys sketching, action figures, and Japanese superstar Hyde.