I hesitated, holding my breath, and then expelled it in one long question. “Dr. Lee, is it possible for you to tell me anything about my biological father even though, you know, there are privacy agreements and whatnot?”
His smile widened a little. “I have yet to meet a child created through artificial methods who didn’t wonder that very thing. Unfortunately, as you’ve already pointed out, there are privacy and confidentiality issues.”
I slumped against the back of the couch.
The doctor held up a hand with his index finger extended. “However, I can tell you a little bit about him, just not his identifying information.” He opened the file and began reading. “Twenty-five at the time his sample was collected. He had light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a pale complexion. He was six feet tall and had a lean body type.”
My eyes were wide with surprise at the sudden flow of information, but I still felt unfulfilled. “He sounds just like my dad …” … who I don’t resemble at all.
“Yes, that’s the point. We try to match the surrogate with the legal father. I can also tell you …” I could hear the doctor’s voice continuing on as he further described my supposed biological father’s attributes, but I was distracted by a sudden blurring of my vision.
The man in that folder is not my father, I thought. I knew it with absolute certainty, like I knew the sound of my mom’s voice before she started crying or the smell in the air before it snowed.
For several nauseating seconds, the world disappeared into a swirl of colors before resettling.
I was standing in the center of the fertility clinic’s dark waiting room. It must’ve been the middle of the night, as the only illumination came from the glitter of city lights through the windows. I was pretty sure I was having another one of the weird dreams … but I was also fairly certain that I hadn’t fallen asleep. Did I faint? I had no idea what the hell was going on.
A click sounded, and the door from the stairs to the clinic creaked open. A tall, sleek man with pale skin and black hair entered the room.
I rushed to the receptionist’s desk, searching for anything with a date. A calendar taped to a lower cupboard caught my eye. The office staff, bless their little administrative hearts, crossed off the days as they passed. It was almost exactly nine months before I was born.
The intruder headed down the hall to the furthest door. Its polished wooden surface bore a golden placard with DR. JAMES LEE etched in black. The man entered the office and headed straight for the doctor’s desk. Remaining standing, he looked through a short stack of files, pulled one out, opened it, and ran his finger down the top page.
Joining him at the desk, I was baffled by his ability to see well enough to read in the darkness. I took out my phone and flashed its light on the file. It was labeled LARSON, ALICE—my mom’s name. I frowned.
Having evidently found what he was searching for, the man replaced the folder and snuck out of the room.
Following him, I couldn’t help but wonder how common alarm systems had been two and a half decades ago. Obviously the clinic hadn’t been equipped with one.
The man approached another door, this one designated LABORATORY. After he entered, he turned on the lights and headed for two glass-doored freezers on the opposite side of the lab.
I peeked over his shoulder as he opened one and searched its contents. He removed a small, round glass container and replaced it with an exact replica. On the side, there was a white sticker with “F.C.M. 08-12 for Alice Larson” written on it in black permanent marker.
I was getting the uncomfortable feeling that the sample-swapping man was my actual biological father. I was really trying not to acknowledge that I was staring at his semen in the replacement container. Gross …
Abruptly, the man turned, and nearly black eyes stared out from strikingly familiar features. My eyes—aside from the color—high cheekbones, and square jaw were reflected on the stranger’s face. Oh my God … I was absolutely certain that the breaking-and-entering semen-replacer was my father.
Within seconds, he was trotting out the lab door. He hurried back to the waiting room, out through the clinic door, and was down the stairs and vanishing into the night before I could fully process what had just happened.
“ … and I can tell you with certainty that he’s successful in what he does now. You most definitely received the best genes available. You’re a lucky woman, Alexandra,” the doctor stated, finishing his description of a man I wasn’t remotely related to.
I blinked, clearing the remnants of the vision and steadying my shock. “Dr. Lee, thank you so much,” I said, hoping my gratitude was appropriate for the words I hadn’t heard. “I really didn’t expect you to be so generous with your information. You’re a very kind man. Thank you.”
“Oh … well, thank you, and you’re welcome!” he said, sounding a little flustered.
I smiled, hoping he couldn’t tell my heart wasn’t in it. “I should go. You have a sweet young couple waiting for your help, and I don’t want to keep you from them any longer.” Did I really just see my biological father in a dream? While I was awake? I need to get the hell out of here!
“Well, you’re right.” His smile was genuine as he stood. “I’m glad you stopped by. It’s nice to know one’s work is appreciated.”
“Oh, believe me doctor, your work is appreciated as much as any can be.”
“You’re too kind.”
He escorted me out of the clinic, shaking my hand again at the top of the stairs. My heart rate was nearing Olympic sprinter levels by the time I stepped out into the damp midday air. Adrenaline was coursing through my bloodstream, fueled by the excitement and insanity of what I’d just seen—my biological father … breaking into a fertility clinic … replacing sperm samples … in a goddamn vision.
It can’t be real, I thought. But the dreams—visions—had proven true multiple times before. It can’t be real, but it has to be real. People believed contradictory, even hypocritical things every day, but this was really pushing the boundaries. I wish I could talk to Dr. Isa. She knows something, I know she does!
Feeling like a crazy person, I headed for the bus stop across the street. A painted shop sign behind the stop caught my attention: The Goddess’s Blessing. Based on the items displayed in the wide front window, it specialized in the unexplainable—from the mysterious to the magical—and of course, fortunes. Well, it just so happened that I was dealing with something pretty unexplainable at the moment.
Maybe someone in there can explain it, I thought as I veered around the bus stop, determination lengthening my strides. It was either that, or accept that I’d flown so far over the cuckoo’s nest that I’d mistaken it for a rainbow. After all, the dreams that I dared to dream really were coming true.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Discovery & Acquisition
A crystalline chiming punctuated my entrance into the cluttered shop. I’d been expecting a dark and mysterious space with shadowed nooks overflowing with eerie objects and ancient leather tomes … but I was surprised by its warm, welcoming atmosphere. Bookshelves lined the walls, many filled with shiny new paperbacks. A rainbow of crystals and tiny glass bottles decorated several bookcases from floor to ceiling, each item with its own sign proclaiming this or that mystical property. Tables were arranged close together throughout the shop, displaying spicy incense, aromatic candles, and a variety of odd items I would have been hard-pressed to identify. The cheerful atmosphere was somewhat of a letdown for my first venture into an occult shop. Is it too much to ask for a few shrunken heads and some eye of newt?
“Can I help you, Miss?” a woman asked, her voice husky.
I nearly dropped the statuette I’d picked up—a beautiful, carved representation of Thora’s namesake, the powerful Egyptian goddess, Hathor. “Um, yes,” I said, gently placing the pale, beautiful woman back on her pedestal.
“Are you a practitioner?” the shopkeeper asked as I turned to face her. She fit the shop perfectly with he
r flowy, ankle-length skirt, layers of clattering gold bracelets, and wavy, black hair that nearly reached her waist. She wasn’t overtly attractive, but her curves in all the right places paired with her rich voice and graceful movements gave her an air of sensuality and mystery.
Am I a practitioner? Of what? Witchcraft? “Not exactly. I’m here on research … for a graduate project. I’m a PhD student in the archaeology department over at the U.”
She studied me with eyes so dark they were nearly black before saying, “Mostly true, but I don’t think you’re here for a project.”
I frowned, wondering how she had guessed that.
“Many people come here under the guise of some other purpose,” she said, seeming to answer my thoughts. “I’ll answer your questions to the best of my ability if you tell me why you’re really in my shop.”
I weighed my options and decided it wouldn’t hurt me to divulge my story. Or at least some of my story. After all, it was the reason I’d entered in the first place. With a heavy sigh, I nodded.
“Alright,” she purred. “Follow me.”
Swaying, she led me through a curtain of multi-hued glass beads and into a cramped back room that had clearly been decorated with fortune-telling in mind; there was a small, square table of polished oak, several dim antique lamps, and a short bookshelf filled with tarot cards, leather-bound books, and other tools of the trade. A teenage version of the shop owner was sitting at the table, rapt attention on her phone. She cocked her head inquisitively at our arrival but didn’t look up.
“Kat, go watch the counter. I have some business with this customer.”
The teenager—Kat—rolled her eyes before standing and exiting the room with a huff.
“Your daughter?” I asked, amused.
“Do you have children?”
I shook my head, surprised by her question.
“I’d advise that you spend some time remembering your teenage self before reproducing. If you can’t stand the idea of being around that version of yourself for more than a few hours, you’re not ready,” the shopkeeper replied.
“I heard that, Mom!” Kat called from the front of the store.
My hostess pointedly raised one artful eyebrow. “Please, have a seat.” She took her daughter’s place while I sat in the wooden chair opposite her.
“Thanks for agreeing to speak with me,” I said after a long silent moment. It wasn’t much of a conversation starter, but it was the best I could come up with under pressure.
With a knowing smile, she said, “I’m sure it will be enlightening for us both. Now, what brought you here?”
I pursed my lips, considering the best way to start. “I guess you could say I’m looking for answers … or an explanation. You see, I’ve been experiencing something sort of … odd.”
“Odd how?” she asked, resting her clasped hands on the table.
“Well … it’s these dreams I’ve been having. Except, I just had one and I was awake, which doesn’t really make sense, does it? And they’re not dreams exactly, but more like visions. I mean, some are things I’ve witnessed in my life, but some happened before I was born, and—this is going to sound totally nuts—some haven’t even happened yet. But they’re all real.”
As I spoke, my companion sat up straighter, evidently intrigued. “What makes you think it’s anything beyond an active imagination? What makes it ‘real’?”
I leaned forward, intent on making the woman—a stranger—believe me. If she believed me without thinking I was crazy, maybe I could too. “Because I know things.” I said. “Things I shouldn’t know … things I couldn’t know. I dreamed something bad would happen to me, and it happened exactly as I saw it.”
“If you knew it would happen, why didn’t you try to change it?”
I laughed bitterly. “I thought I was just anxious. It didn’t seem possible that I could see the future in my dreams.”
“You said it’s not always a dream, that you’ve been awake for these ‘visions’?”
“Yeah … just once, about fifteen minutes ago.”
She leaned back in her chair, studying me, her generous lips pressed together in a flat line. After a protracted silence, she asked, “You want to know what’s happening to you, correct?”
“Yes.” Eager, I licked my lips. She knows something … she has to.
“I’ve heard of people with abilities like this. Usually it’s genetic.” She paused. “Have you spoken with your parents about it?”
Frustrated, I shook my head. “My mom doesn’t know about any of it. She’d tell me if she did. And … I don’t know who my father is.”
“Mom!” Kat called from the front of the shop.
“Just a minute!” the woman across the table from me yelled back. To me, she said, “Your situation is odd, like you said, but there are others like you out there. It’s standard for your kind to learn about such things from their families. I’m amazed you’ve slipped through the cracks for so long.”
“My kind? What are you talking about?” My hands gripped the edge of the table so firmly that my nail beds were turning white.
The muffled sound of Kat’s voice, along with a deeper, male voice, grew louder from beyond the beaded curtain.
“Yes, your kind.” The woman seemed to be struggling with something as she stared into my eyes. Her head turned toward the doorway, and almost inaudibly, she whispered, “I’m truly sorry, but I can’t tell you more. Just know there are others like you and they will find you.”
“But you—”
Kat’s pleading whine sounded from just outside the back room. “But she’s busy right now!”
“My dear girl, your mother is never too busy for me. You know that. I must see her immediately,” a familiar, faintly-accented voice said. Oh, you have got to be kidding me!
“Hey!” Kat’s outraged admonition came just before a well-dressed man walked through the beaded curtain, making the pieces of glass clack excitedly. His eyes widened when they met mine, then narrowed slightly as he turned to my hostess.
“Marcus?” I asked, stunned. He was the last person I would’ve expected to run into at a quirky magic shop, and seeing him triggered a deluge of the images from the previous night’s dreams. Oh God … those were just dreams, right? I shook my head, suddenly afraid I would start to suspect all of my dreams were visions. I cleared my throat. “What are you doing here?”
Kat and her mother wore identical expressions of surprise.
“I could ask you the same thing.” The corner of Marcus’s mouth quirked slightly. “Is Genevieve reading your cards … or perhaps your palm? She’s earned quite the reputation as a reader of fortunes. She specializes in past lives, you know.”
Irked that he’d avoided my question, I responded in kind. “Is that why you’re here? Want to peek into a crystal ball?”
Marcus laughed out loud, finding unexpected humor in the question. “No, definitely not. Genevieve, here, is quite skilled at acquiring certain rare, moderately illicit antiquities.”
Slowly, I stood and backed into a corner, looking from Marcus to Genevieve and back. “You deal in black-market artifacts? Both of you? That’s … that’s …” I couldn’t finish the statement, my mind reeling at the implications. Over the past two millennia, innumerable pieces of archaeological evidence had been destroyed or stolen as a result of the antiquities black market. So much of the ancient world had been lost because of it—because of people like Marcus and Genevieve. “I don’t think I can … can do …”
Marcus strode around the table, stopped an arm’s length away from me, and placed his hands on my upper arms. I didn’t know when we’d become touching friends, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about the new development. In his present, looming state, I was leaning toward not-so-great. The memories of Mike attempting to force himself on me were still too fresh.
Marcus leaned down so his eyes were closer to my level, and his expression changed from haughtiness to concern. “Lex, the black market is a necessa
ry evil. You have to understand that if you want to make it in our field. It already exists, and the only way to save bits and pieces of the artifacts floating around in its torrent is to join in. I promise you, I only rescue artifacts from greedy hands—I never give them any.”
The intensity of his words chipped away at my anger and fear. “And her,” I whispered, flicking my eyes to the woman still sitting at the small table. “What does she do?”
He smiled wolfishly, but his tone matched mine in softness. “She’s like me, rescuing the most important pieces.” Shaking his head, he added, “The disparity between value and importance has always amused me.”
“What do you—”
“Later,” he interrupted and dropped his hands, turning to face Genevieve and Kat. “I need to take care of some quick business with Gen, then I’ll explain everything.”
Genevieve raised her delicate eyebrows.
“Well, maybe not everything,” Marcus corrected, smirking. Unintentionally, I wondered if Marcus and Genevieve were more than business acquaintances. If he felt comfortable enough to barge in on one of her private meetings with a customer and she could ask him a question by simply raising her eyebrows, surely there was something else between them. The thought caused an unexpected vise to squeeze my heart, making it throb with an emotion I wasn’t used to: jealousy. Where did that come from?
Looking at the floor, I said, “I’ll wait out front,” and rushed out of the room.
Kat followed me, retreating to a stool behind the checkout counter. As I perused the shop, I could practically feel her laser-like glare piercing my skin.
“Something wrong?” I asked pointedly. I found the small, grayish-white Hathor carving again and held it up, examining its exquisite detail. I would’ve guessed it really was over four thousand years old, if any Old Kingdom Egyptian alabaster pieces had ever been carved with so much detail. The goddess’s lithe, feminine body, carved so she was eternally standing with one foot stepping forward, fit perfectly in the palm of my hand. Her exquisite face stared back at me with such determination, I almost expected her to open her mouth and make some godly demand.
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