Dawn of Dreams (Destiny Book 1)

by Bronwyn Leroux

  “East, about a ten minute walk. You?”

  “I’m off to the north, but further away. I jetbiked over, and it took at least fifteen minutes.” Kayla rolled her eyes. “As if the ride home alone with that monster prowling around isn’t something to look forward to, I promised my dad I’d help my mom unpack the rest of our moving boxes today. Joy!”

  “At least try to take pleasure in the ride home. May it be uneventful.” He winked meaningfully.

  “Yup, I hear you. I guess if I can ride home focusing on this magnificent weather instead of that monster, then I daresay I can unpack a few moving boxes with some level of grace.”

  They parted. Jaden was reluctant to leave her. He didn’t want to admit to his apprehension about Kayla encountering the beast again on her way home. But it would be weird if he offered to escort her home. Besides, he didn’t have his jetbike. Feeling inadequate, he watched her walk to the nearby parking lot.

  “Ping me when you get home?” Jaden called when she straddled her bike.

  Kayla turned and grinned. There was that glorious smile again. “Sure.”

  Jaden worried all the way home. And into the house. And for the next five minutes and sixteen seconds before Kayla texted. He almost fell onto the couch with relief. They had both made it home without incident.

  Or so they thought. Neither noticed the beast, looming impossibly high overhead, monitoring the progress of both teens. And neither heard the yearning, brutal howl of frustration it loosed into the thin air, barred again from taking any action.

  Chapter Eight

  Kayla bounded into the kitchen, recalling yesterday’s events which had allowed her to skip unpacking the last of the dreaded moving boxes. When she finally skulked back into the house after her time at the park, she found her mother listing items they needed for their new home. Spotting Kayla, her mother smiled and said they wouldn’t be unpacking until they’d purchased the items and would spend a blissful afternoon shopping instead.

  By the time they limped home, their hoverpod, used for running errands, was loaded to capacity. Removing the many bags of home repair and improvement items from the ’pod, they’d floundered around in the living room, trying to find a space to dump the bags. Eventually, they had both laughed, then traipsed back upstairs to store them in the ’pod’s maintenance room.

  Then, just when Kayla thought her free time had run out and she would have to face the boxes, her mother insisted she couldn’t stand more unpacking herself. She was taking the rest of the day off, and they would pick it up again tomorrow. Sadly, that’s today. And ziggety, did Mom wake up on a mission, she thought, examining her mother’s face when she swept into the kitchen.

  Gone was yesterday’s “It can wait another day” attitude. Kayla barely stuffed her bowl with yogurt and granola before her mother marched her around the house, pointing out the various areas she expected Kayla to clear.

  Trailing her mother in resigned silence, Kayla munched on her breakfast and stifled yawns as she went. The orders went on and on and on. Groaning inwardly at how long this would take, her mind careened headlong down a pessimistic path before she paused long enough berate herself.

  If she approached the task this way, she’d be in a foul mood all day. But if she applied herself, she could finish most of the work before dinner. Then their home would be free of boxes, and they could resume unfettered lives. Maybe even shop for that new pair of shoes they owed her. For that to happen, she would have to roll up her sleeves, get down and dirty, and decimate the despicable boxes. Determination to be rid of the accursed boxes replaced resentment at having to help.

  Glancing around, Kayla couldn’t believe they’d lived here for over three weeks already. Boxes still cluttered the house, some half opened, most (unfortunately) still sealed with packing tape. They emptied the essential boxes in their first week: clothes, kitchen items, bathroom necessities, and cleaning supplies had been disgorged from boxes marked, “Unpack these first.”

  After that first week though, her mother resumed working from her home office so she could tie up the loose ends on a contract she was pulling together. Four days had whizzed past, followed by a weekend of sporadic unpacking, and then another three days where her mother had to travel to the firm’s corporate offices to seal the deal.

  Her mother had returned exhausted—a combined effect of the stressful move and the tension of wrapping up the contract within the too-tight deadline. Her depleted immune system could not stave off a nasty virus, and she’d spent the next several days in bed recuperating.

  Two days ago, her mother had finally felt well enough to venture from her bed. Yesterday, she had opted for making lists and shopping instead of unpacking. And today, her mother exhibited all the signs of a full recovery, evidenced by her usual limitless energy as she readied for the attack on the remaining boxes, resolute in her desire to shove this move firmly into their past.

  With a start, Kayla realized her mother’s droning had ceased. “Sure, Mom, I’ll take care of those.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her mother’s heartfelt gratitude made Kayla feel guilty again. Relatively certain of her mother’s expectations, Kayla armed herself with a glass of iced water and made for the living room, where the majority of the unpacked boxes squatted expectantly. Using the box cutter, Kayla deftly sliced the first box open, hearing its sigh of anticipation at being relieved of its load.

  As she removed the top layer of cushioning material and stowed it in a storage bag, she reflected on the normalcy of this practice in their home—recycling their packing materials. The first few times they’d moved, she was too young to comprehend the significance. But as she grew older, she gradually understood that moving meant change. But not everything changed. It had taken two more moves for her to realize they packed and unpacked the same things, over and over again.

  On their third move after the realization had dawned, Kayla asked her mother, “Why do we unpack all the boxes every time we move? Can’t we leave some of them packed?”

  She remembered her mother’s sad smile coupled with the hopeful reply. “Well, you never know. This could become the home we end up staying in for a long time.”

  Because Kayla had identified with that hope, she had stopped asking questions and instead chosen to help. Even to a young Kayla, it was obvious her mother only settled once all the boxes were out of the way. With that thought in mind, Kayla focused on the task at hand.

  Delving into the box, she identified the contents. These items would go in the antique rosewood cabinet, which had been in their family for generations. Kayla moved some obstructing boxes so the cabinet doors could open all the way and then dragged the box closer. She bent and extracted the first of a series of delicate china pieces that had belonged to her grandmother. Unwrapping the first item, she found a plump, ornately decorated teapot in delicate spring tones. Her favorite! Tenderly, she placed it in its long-held and revered position.

  Without consciously being aware of it, Kayla fell into a practiced pattern: unwrapping, storing packing materials, positioning exposed pieces until the box was empty, and then flattening the box, stacking it, and moving onto another, disposing of its contents in the same efficient manner.

  Her mind, freed to roam considering the pedestrian nature of the task, wandered to the boy she had met yesterday. Jaden Jameson. With one glance, she had taken in the dark, carelessly long blonde hair, striking cobalt eyes, and strong, angular face. Tall and lean was the overall impression she had come away with, but he was in incredible shape. More than that, he was not only friendly—something she appreciated having moved as much as they had—but he was charming too. Quite the unexpected encounter. Does he have a girlfriend?

  The unbidden thought had the hand wielding the box cutter slipping, and Kayla almost sliced her finger off. Where on earth did that come from? I never think like that! Still, she couldn’t deny the connection she felt when she met him or her reluctance to leave him when they parted. Maybe it has som
ething to do with that . . . thing. What is it? Or is it just that I’m thankful he didn’t ask about my birthmark?

  When she spotted him, it had itched terribly, and scratching had been almost impossible to resist—which would’ve drawn more unwanted attention, so resisted the urge she had. Her mind continued meandering as she reached for yet another box.

  By lunchtime, she’d cleared all the boxes in the living room. Kayla surveyed the room with satisfaction. This was going faster than she had expected. She called up to her mother. “Hey, Mom, would you like me to make you some lunch?”

  Her mother appeared at the top of the stairs, her face incredulous. “Done already?”

  “Yes, they were all easy pieces. You know, the kind you can just put away without thinking about where they go.”

  Her mother made a face. “I chose the wrong room. I’m not even half done up here.” She gestured toward the guest room, which had historically held their extensive book collection.

  “I’ll come and help up there after lunch, but let’s eat first. I’m famished!”

  “Now that you mention it, so am I!”

  After a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches, Kayla followed her mother to the guest room. Her mother had already demolished at least half the morning’s boxes.

  “Wow, Mom, not too bad yourself!”

  “Thanks. If this afternoon goes like this morning did, we might finish before I have to prepare dinner.”

  They set to work, Kayla opening the boxes and passing the books to her mother, who then placed them neatly on the bookshelves assembled by her father the previous weekend. As they unpacked, Kayla noted the assortment of titles. She had forgotten they had so many volumes. Both fiction and non-fiction abounded in various genres and topics.

  “Do any of our guests actually read these?” Kayla asked, obliquely referencing the wide availability of eBooks.

  “Oh yes. Several have even complimented us on our collection. You should read a few. Perhaps over the summer? I can recommend several good titles—” she began.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” Kayla cut in before her mother could finish the sentence. “I already know what you’ll say; books fuel the mind more than computer games. But it’s summer vacation, and I plan on playing all those games I didn’t get around to during the school year.”

  “I at least had to try.” Her mother grimaced in her own defense.

  Kayla giggled at her mother’s pained expression. “I promise I’ll do some reading, but don’t expect more than one book. And it’ll probably be the e-version.”

  Her mother only rolled her eyes.

  Two hours later, they had emptied all the boxes in the guest room. Books lined the shelving units, lamps adorned side tables, knickknacks were artfully strewn around the room, and framed pictures waited patiently under their assigned wall markings for her father to hang when he arrived home.

  “What’s next?” Kayla asked when they took a break over iced tea.

  “The only boxes left are those in my study and the pantry. We should start in my study first. That way, if we run late, I can help you unpack those in the pantry in between cooking dinner.”

  Their glasses drained, they strode purposefully to her mother’s study, on the ground level near their street door. It encouraged Kayla when she spotted only four boxes on the floor, looking strangely out of place in the otherwise immaculate room.

  “Shall we do the same again, me unpacking and you positioning?” Kayla asked.

  “Yes, that’s probably best. I’m not entirely sure where I’ll squeeze everything. Our last home had a closet twice as big as this one, so I’ll have to find another storage space to hold all the things that don’t fit in here. Which will be a nuisance, considering I use all the items in these boxes equally and regularly. It’ll mean constantly traipsing between rooms.”

  Kayla made sympathetic sounds, opening the first box. Clearing this room shouldn’t take long. But, to her dismay, her mother had no clue how to choose what would stay in the room and what they would move to the secondary storage spot.

  Kayla gritted her teeth. At this rate, it’ll take two weeks just to get through four boxes! Each item removed was painstakingly examined, placed, and then re-placed as her mother tried to figure out where it should go. Kayla’s irritation built as her mother’s indecision escalated.

  After thirty minutes and only five items, Kayla knew she had to do something—anything! She made a proposal. “Mom, why don’t we unpack all the bits and pieces and put them on the floor in groups: those you use the most, those you use less, and those you use the least. That way, we’ll have a reference point for determining what goes into the closet first.”

  Her mother’s tired smile reminded Kayla she’d only just recovered from her recent illness. In a gentler tone, Kayla said, “Go rest on your chaise while we order these items.”

  Her mother accepted the offer, sinking into the soft cushioning of the plush leather chaise in the corner of the room. Sighing contentedly, she listened while Kayla explained.

  “Okay, when I show you something, I want you to say the first number that comes to mind. One will be for what you think is most important, two for things of lesser importance, and three for those that are least important.”

  Kayla extracted a sturdy plastic filing box from the top of the pile and held it up. At her mother’s indecision, she coaxed, “First number that comes to mind, Mom. Quick!”

  “Three,” her mother responded.

  “Next.” Kayla held up a reference book.

  “One.”

  And so they continued. Kayla’s jaw unclenched as they made progress. Any moment her mother hesitated, Kayla was merciless in demanding a prompt answer.

  Nearing the bottom of the final box, Kayla paused and surveyed their success in splitting the items fairly equally between the three groups. Returning her attention to the box, she noticed its depths held only two more items: a decorative filing box she knew belonged on her mother’s desk and an old, decrepit shoebox.

  Extricating the empty filing box, she placed it in its usual spot alongside all the legal folders. Then she knelt and pulled the shoebox from the shadows, tightening her grip on its tattered sides when it gave under her fingers. Just as she thought she had it, it slipped again, bumping against the edge of the host box on its way out. She grunted, annoyed, as the lid of the box toppled off, and the contents spilled over the carpeted floor in a jumbled mess.

  “Sorry, Mom, I didn’t mean to drop it.” Kayla reached to gather the scattered pieces.

  With swift movements, she scooped up assorted office drawer items: a container of paperclips, a box of staples, sticky notes of various sizes, an emery board, elastic bands, several rubber stamps, and . . . a coin?

  Kayla’s fingers slowed their nimble dance when they touched the object. It was magnificent. Not a currency coin. Or rather, its octagonal shape wouldn’t make that very practical. Returning the other items to the shoebox, Kayla held onto the intriguing coin. Allowing her fingertips to rub against the smooth lacquer encasing it, she found the action curiously soothing. Why?

  Chapter Nine

  “What’s this?” Kayla asked, showing the object to her mother.

  Lifting her head from the chaise, her mother eyed the item held so delicately between Kayla’s fingers. “I’m sorry. I can’t see it from here.”

  Kayla rolled the coin from her fingertips onto her palm, feeling strangely connected to it. She stared, mesmerized. Strolling to where her mother sat, she passed through the swathe of sunlight slanting into the room. The bright rays reflected off the gold inlay, and fire flashed from the coin.

  Startled, Kayla almost dropped it. Then she giggled. It had just been a trick of the light. Nothing was actually on fire in her hand. Reaching her mother’s chaise, Kayla showed her the object.

  “Oh, that old thing!” Her mother smiled fondly. “I had forgotten it was in there. It’s something your grandmother gave me a long time ago when I was a child. Pretty, isn�
�t it?”

  “Yes, very,” Kayla breathed, still captivated.

  Her mother’s eyes grew distant as she recalled the memory. “Grammy wouldn’t give it to me at first. She kept ranting about how important it was to our family, how the person who had it should be ultra-vigilant with it, how they should take extra care not to lose it.” She grinned. “She must have realized I was getting bored with the whole ‘Be careful with it’ routine because one day, out of the blue, she stopped harping about its importance, told me her grandmother had passed it on to her, and now, it was time for her to pass it on to me.”

  “Just like that? She gave it to you? That doesn’t sound like Grammy!”

  “Yes, just like that. It was the most bizarre thing. When she handed it over, she told me the medallion’s history. That’s what it’s called, you know, a medallion.” Her mother’s eyes rolled up as she dredged up the memory. “Funny, but I remember little of its history, other than that it’s been in our family for generations. Oh, and she mentioned something about sneakers, but I don’t recall what, only that it was odd she would mention sneakers when talking about something so old. And because she repeated it so often, I vividly remember her instructing me to always keep it with me and in a safe place because one day there would come a time when our family would need it.”

  Kayla was enamored. “What for?”

  “I’m not sure. In fact, I don’t think she told me. Either way, I kept it and was careful not to lose it. Not because she had asked me to, but because it was something so beautiful and unusual, I simply couldn’t bear to part with it. I would spend hours holding it and looking at it. Like you are now.” Her mother smiled.

  “Do you think what she said about it being important to our family was true?”

  “Hard to say. It was obvious she wanted it to stay in our family. But when she gave it to me as a keepsake, she was already dying from the disease that would eventually take her all those years later. So who knows how much of what she said was true and how much she said just to make a little girl keep something safe for the next generation?”