Dream of Me

Chapter 1In Daniel’s dreams… The trumpets sounded in the distance, heralding the oncoming storm. Daniel Trace stood tall on the castle battlements, ready to advance toward danger. The raging winds sweeping across the rolling, green hills ravaged his blond hair and tugged at the blue tunic that matched his piercing eyes. “Sury, is the narration really necessary?” Daniel asked his cousin, who was carelessly swinging one tall, leather boot over the castle wall. “Of course, Daniel,” Suryodaya Trace said as she sat nearby on the stone parapet of the medieval castle wall, picking moss from the cracks in the stone. Tossing her braid of dark hair over her shoulder, she leapt and landed beside him. “Otherwise you’re just a good-looking, rare-book dealer staring at that.” She motioned to an ominous shadow lurking in the dark clouds spiraling in the distance. Gripping the thin hilt of his sword with one hand, Daniel ran the other through his sandy hair in frustration. His dreams always carried a message, yet it could be difficult to decipher amid the eclectic personalities of his family and friends who held recurring roles. Daniel glanced out at the storm and suppressed a sigh. “Piercing eyes?” he asked her with an incredulous look. With his towering frame and fair complexion, it was no wonder few believed he was related by blood to Sury, who gracefully carried her dark features and sinewy stance. Still, he chalked her dogged insistence of his beauty up to family devotion. She smiled and blew him a kiss. Unable to muster a response, Daniel turned instead to the dark clouds consuming the field in front of him. “Archers! Ready your bows!” he cried. A row of black arrows appeared from the lower stone walls, poised to fire. Before he could give the order, an ear-splitting scrape of metal-on-stone yanked Daniel’s attention from the storm. A few steps away, a short, muscular man with dark, wavy hair, sported a leather breastplate Daniel estimated was two sizes too small. He struggled to lift a hulking bronze shield. As it slipped from his meaty grasp, the loud clang of metal striking stone echoed. The shield slowly rolled in front of Daniel, ringing as it clattered to the ground. Daniel raised a single eyebrow in question. “What are you wearing, Frank?” he asked. Frank glanced down to his attire and attempted to straighten the ill-fitting armor, failing to cover his expansive chest. “It’s Greek tonight, right? You know, with the shield and the sword and the grrrrrr,” he growled. Daniel somehow resisted the urge to slap his hand to his forehead. Two teenage boys dressed in identical tunics stepped out from behind Frank and picked up the shield. “Here you go, Uncle Frank,” they said in unison, while one glanced at Daniel and rolled his eyes. “Thanks, boys,” Frank said with a slightly sheepish grin. “Oh, I almost forgot my line!” Dropping into a serious tone, he announced, “Danger comes from the west! And the seafood is with Sir Montrose!” Daniel nodded and peered back to the storm. “He returns,” he whispered. Daniel’s voice was lost to the sharp snap of battle flags catching the edge of the approaching gale. The memory of the dark and seductive power of the winds licked at Daniel’s skin… “Sury, honestly!” snapped Daniel. She only smiled in response. A small, red cloak slapped Daniel in the face as somewhere in the distance, the sound of a bell chimed. He pulled the cloak away to see a small, elderly woman smiling in front of him. “Today I am thinking of oleanders,” she said, giving Daniel a wink as her frail hands nimbly affixed a sprig of lilac to his tunic. “There was a lovely lilac bush growing outside my window when I was growing up,” she added with a wistful sigh and lovingly straightened the purple sprig. “Thank you, Eleanor,” Daniel said with a warm smile as she patted his cheek. He gingerly placed the cloak around her shoulders just before another blast of wind shook the castle walls, this time carrying a light spray of water. Daniel wrapped a protective arm around Eleanor. “Oleanders dear,” Eleanor whispered. “And they will need your help.” Eleanor pointed further down the cracked stone of the battlements. Daniel peered over to see a man and woman standing beneath a rush of water from the castle wall. “Daniel!” called the woman, water splashing against her dark hands as she pushed in vain at the deluge. “When you have a moment, Maddy and I will soon face a bit of a mess.” Madison Westmore shoved his shoulder against the wall as the water rolled down. “Looks like the second floor, Daniel. We should send word to the pied piper.” Daniel nodded. A crash of thunder shook the castle, and all eyes turned to the storm raging only an arms-width away. “That bastard of a storm bears down upon us!” Frank called, his voice nearly swallowed by the winds. “We shall never surrender!…Hey! A monkey! You know, with the tail and all.” Frank pointed his Greek short sword at a carved statue in the shape of a monkey suddenly perched on the wall. It was fashioned of pure gold. Daniel noticed that instead of kindly sitting still as most statues would, this one was reaching for him. The creature’s glowing emerald-green eyes stared at Daniel expectantly. A medallion looped around its neck bore a carving that strangely resembled a butterfly sunken into the metal. Daniel worked to commit the image to memory, from the ridged edges to the small ruby affixed to the top. From all around, a whisper rushed across the wind, “You can trust me.” “Aw, look, he’s giving you a rose,” said Sury. Daniel tentatively took the plump, red rose offered by the golden claw. Sury clapped one hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “Time to wake up,” she said with a wink… * * * * Daniel opened his eyes and glanced at the antique clock on his nightstand, its delicately sculpted hands placed the time as exactly 7:02 A.M. Every morning after the dreams came, he awoke at the same time. As always, Daniel pulled back his tightly tucked sheets and rose with efficient moves from the carved, four-poster bed. He took precisely four steps to reach the table holding his wireless speaker. With swift and steady movements, Daniel punched up the Vivaldi concerto that started his morning. A swell of violin strings cascaded through the room, marking his counted steps to the bathroom. The mirror over the pedestal sink showed the same reflection of the man from his dreams, though Daniel found very little in common with the hero who leapt off castle walls and battled oncoming storms. He also stood at 6’3” with light blond hair and blue eyes, yet the real Daniel Trace was just a rare-book dealer. No one would mistake a towering, timid man like himself for a medieval knight who let the wind get the best of his hair. He could barely speak in public without a blush staining his pale cheeks, let alone lead an army into battle. As long as Daniel could remember, the dreams were part of his life. When he was younger, he thought everyone dreamed the details of their day with insights into people and events. It took him a while to discern that parts of the dreams were like secrets—some could be shared, others were just for him. What didn’t take long was figuring out that he couldn’t talk about his peculiar affliction with just anyone. His mother understood, as she came with her own unique qualities. Daniel recalled the knowing smile she gave him as teachers or parents would talk of his “active imagination.” But when he trusted the wrong person, the inevitable anger or taunts of his freakiness would follow. Throughout the years, Daniel narrowed the scope of his life down to a few people, whittling away the chance of discovery. Thus ensuring his life was orderly, calm, controlled. With the rhythm of the concerto as a guide, Daniel followed his regimented routine. He employed the same, constant beat to brush his teeth, to move through the stretch and pull of yoga and weights, and to gel his blonde locks into a firm state. Just enough gel. Just enough aftershave. Just enough. As the symphony pulled toward its close, Daniel counted each button as he sealed his vest and jacket. He deposited his tortoise-shell glasses on the bridge of his nose, then clicked off the speaker exactly as the last note of the piece faded. Daniel repeated his habit of brushing nonexistent lint from his brown jacket as he slowly descended the steps of his apartment. At the bottom of the stairs, he took a deep breath, and opened the door to a sunny, Chicago city block, and into the meaning of his dream. Striding past the lowered blinds of the shop Lilac and Lavender beneath his apartment, Daniel silently counted the steps as he approached the red awnings of Avellini’s Italian Ristorante. Frank Avellini rolled up the grate. His strong arms and portly belly were now properly encased in a red polo bearing the restaurant’s logo. “Morning, Daniel!” he called. “Beautiful day. You know, with the sun shining and all.” Frank’s nephews, Abe and Jimmy, began their daily dance setting up the outdoor tables. Though identical in appearance, the brothers carried themselves in vastly different ways. “Hola, Daniel,” said Abe in his quiet voice as he smoothed out a white tablecloth. “Any good tips?” begged Jimmy, ramming open a red table umbrella. “Tio is talking about trying to merge Greek olive leaves into his stew.” He rolled his eyes and yanked at the collar of his red polo uniform, revealing the tattoos on his neck. Returning with a brisk wave of his own, Daniel replied, “What about seafood? I hear there might be clams at Hagen’s.” Frank paused. “The place on Montrose Avenue?” Daniel nodded as a smile broke into Frank’s thinning mustache. “You know, I was thinking of trying to create a Chicago version of cioppino. Today must be the day!” Next to Avellini’s, Daniel passed under the faded sign for the florist shop, A Rose and Vine. The cellphone of a woman passing Daniel rang with a bell chime. A burst of wind stirred, sending springtime seeds scattering from the maple tree nearby. Daniel reached out his hand, catching a frayed, red sweater swept up in the gust. “Oh dear!” the sweet voice of Eleanor called as she hurried toward Daniel from the flower shop doors. “Thank you, my dear,” she said as he draped the sweater gently over her small shoulders. She glanced down to his light, purple tie and laughed. “You guessed right again,” she said, reaching up to pin a small sprig of lilac onto his lapel. “Didn’t you say you had a lilac bush growing outside your childhood home?” he asked as her delicate fingers expertly maneuvered the corsage pin. Eleanor’s green eyes sparkled. “Why yes, there was. Brought a beautiful fragrance in with the morning dew. How sweet of you to remember.” She patted the lilac lightly. “How is that inquiring mind of yours this fine day?” “Thank you, Eleanor,” he said softly, running his hand over the delicate sprig. “I was thinking this morning about oleanders.” Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Oh, my dear boy, be careful,” she said. “An oleander is a sign of danger to come.” Patting his cheek, Eleanor whispered, “Nathan is missing you. He’ll invite you to dinner soon.” Daniel nodded knowingly and offered a slight wave to an old man watering the flowering plants near the front of the shop. Nathan tossed a silent nod Daniel’s way. Just past the flower shop, Daniel glanced at the colorful stained-glass windows of the Wayward Gallery. He pulled out his phone to call a plumber. Maddy’s remark about a pied piper left Daniel in little doubt that a second-floor pipe was close to causing a problem. It would be of no use having Maddy and Jazz Westmore’s beloved art and performance space covered in a makeshift waterfall from a broken pipe. Not to mention the couple’s unit reached over the space Daniel held most dear. Arriving at the end of the block, Daniel looked up to the sign that bore his name, Trace Rare Books. As he unlocked the grate, he took in the site of the crimson wooden door, offset on each side by rounded oriel windows perched with dark green faux gables. The shop had been cobbled together in the 1930s by a man who decided to recreate the front of an old shop in Exeter, England. Sadly, his research had been spotty, so there were elements of French, Greek, even Egyptian symbols throughout the carvings. Daniel fell in love with the way the chaotic elements converged to create a sense of harmonized beauty. Things never meant to be together all gelling so eloquently. A small bell at the top of the door jingled to sound his arrival. The familiar, slightly musty smell amid a sea of books greeted him. Shelves of books and antique furniture surrounded the circular room that intentionally held the appearance of a reading library one might find in a manor house, rather than a home for researching and acquiring rare books and manuscripts. Daniel brushed his fingers lightly along the spines of indexes as he headed for his desk. He allowed himself a slight smile as he straightened his glasses. Ever since he was a child, it had been his dream to live in a library. This was his heaven in more ways than one. In the pages of the past, timelines were set. There were still discoveries to be made and mysteries to be solved, but the outcome remained the same. Here, stories and histories were unchanging, folded into pages and marked in indelible ink. Over the years, he had studied library science, art history, and even dabbled in archeology to help build his personal portfolio of knowledge. Not all his decisions were wise ones, but Daniel made this dream come true. The only modern things in the room were the coffee maker and his laptop. The co-owner of the shop—who also happened to be his cousin and best friend, Sury Trace—demanded two things: freedom in her work and a good dose of caffeine. He ground the coffee beans and added a dash of cinnamon as his laptop powered up. Daniel fished in the thick drawer of his 19th century oak Pollard desk and withdrew a pad of paper and pencil. With the image of the golden monkey still sharp in his mind, he set about sketching the engraving carved into the medallion. Though his limited artistic skills kept any intricate design at bay, he managed the inset of the butterfly topped with the ruby-red circle. Satisfied, he began searching an online, scholarly database for relics that might offer him a clue to his latest dream’s puzzle. The spinning wheel of the search engine chugged slowly through his request, and Daniel glanced down at the slips of pending acquisitions penned with his meticulous signature next to Sury’s barely legible scrawl. His mother may have been his touchstone for comfort, but Daniel’s cousin was his defender. Even after Daniel shot past Sury in size, her diminutive figure was still the first to fight off any slight against him. Their small business boomed over the past five years thanks to her ferocity, not to mention her ability to conquer practically any language, given enough time. Between the two of them, he and Sury built up a network of scholars and collectors that spanned the globe. He pulled out a folder from his briefcase—an acquisition request for an illustrated manuscript from the area of Persia in the 1400s that recently found a home in Dubai. Daniel placed the file in the cabinet next to his desk. He would have loved to see the book itself, to take in the handmade inks and crafted lettering, but traveling held its own challenges for Daniel. Thank heavens Sury loves to travel, he thought. She drank in cultures the way she did languages. For Daniel, getting on a plane meant contact with a multitude of people who could make an appearance in his dreams, leaving him scattered and exhausted. Knowing the flight attendant’s daughter might break her leg, or the passenger next to him would potentially be hit by a tram if he took the seven A.M. tour sapped the joy from any destination. Daniel poured a cup of coffee and glanced at the search results. At one time in his life, he tried to track down every lead, pursue every sense of danger, but at thirty-two years of age, the efforts dragged on him. He remained content now in this little world, this block of family and friends. Here, he dreamed of books and fish and flowers. It was an undisturbed world, except for the welcome chaos of Sury. As if thoughts prompted her to manifest, Sury swung into the shop. “It sounds so much sexier than it is to say I was on the phone with Hong Kong at two A.M.,” she sighed. “Tell me you have the coffee ready.” She swept toward the desk, swirling her long, black hair into a ponytail. “I managed to get Xianggang Bowuguan Lishi henzou.” Daniel extended his coffee-cup laden hand toward her. “English, please, Sury. Not everyone is as smart as you,” he said lightly as she nabbed the cup and pulled it to her lips. Sury sighed with contentment as if the dark liquid actually fueled her thoughts. “I managed to get an agreement from the Hong Kong Museum of History. They will allow Dr. Watkins to test and date the manuscript but want their lab techs there as well.” She glanced down at the desk and paused. “Another dream, Daniel?” Sury asked, reaching to the desktop and turning the pad of paper to face her. Nodding, Daniel tapped a pencil on the pad. “This was on a medallion worn by a monkey made of gold with emerald eyes,” he said, pausing to think how odd that sentence would sound outside a conversation with Sury. Unruffled, she simply tilted her head, taking the drawing in from another angle. “Was the monkey doing anything in particular?” she asked. Daniel cleared his throat. “He…um…handed me a rose.” Sury sighed. “Daniel, why can’t your dreams ever just be straight-forward?” Raising an eyebrow, Daniel replied, “Nothing about me is straight, Sury.” Eyes widening, Sury laughed out loud. “Humor from you? And so early in the morning? It must have been a good dream,” she said, placing her coffee on the desk and picking up the pad of paper. “The monkey-god is pretty common across Asia. Any luck on the databases?” Daniel motioned to the laptop. “Just starting, but I was looking at the butterfly,” he pointed to the medallion. Sury turned the paper this way and that. “Is that what this is?” Daniel quickly snatched the pad from her hands. Frowning, he also turned it in several directions before Sury burst out laughing. “Aw, you are too easy to tease, little cousin,” she pinched his cheek. “You keep on with the online search, and I’ll see if we can find anything from some of the Guozijian indexes we have.” It was late into the morning when Daniel began drumming his fingers on the laptop. He glanced to Sury, still working in the stacks. He had been debating whether or not to reveal his full suspicion about the storm that swirled in his dream. “Sury,” he called to her in as easy a voice as he could manage. “There may be something else.” She mumbled something from behind one of the bookcases and continued to rustle through the books. Daniel took a deep breath. “I think Paulo might be coming back.” The rustling stopped. Sury leaned out from behind the bookcase, her features dark as midnight. “What did you say?” she asked, slowly enunciating each word. Daniel kept his eyes sealed on the laptop. “Remember how I used to dream of a storm? It’s back,” he said. Sury dropped a book on the desk in front of him. Startled at her stealthy approach, Daniel’s eyes snapped to her. “Paulo,” she muttered. Pointing at Daniel, she added in a low voice. “You are not falling back in with that Italian bastard.” Daniel sighed, and wondered silently if he should have kept this part to himself. “Of course, I won’t,” he said, bending toward the laptop with a sudden immoveable interest in the search results. Sury eased her hand over the laptop and leaned close to Daniel. “He stole your research.” “Yes, I know, Sury,” he said, not looking up. “He isolated you from everyone you know.” “Sury, I am well aware,” Daniel replied. “He cheated on you…repeatedly.” Daniel rose and met her level gaze. Taking a step back, he straightened to tower over his cousin. “I remember, Sury. I was there,” he said in a low voice. “And I have no intention of seeing him.” Undaunted by his looming size, Sury narrowed her eyes in scrutiny. “That spider has a way of pulling you in,” she said. The worry that lapped the edges of her voice did more to disconcert Daniel than anything in his dream. When not referring to Paulo with her pet name of “bastard,” Sury tended to call Paulo the Italian version of Jeremy Irons, his voice and presence seductive. She placed a hand on his cheek. “Don’t get hurt again.” Daniel placed his hand over her small fingers. “Don’t worry,” he said. Sury gave his cheek an affectionate squeeze. “I wouldn’t worry about you if you would stop living like a monk.” Straightening his glasses, Daniel pulled away. “I don’t know what you mean.” She leaned back and opened the text before her. “Did you call Philip?” she asked, turning a page. “Or Devon?” Another page flipped. “Or Alex?” Daniel cringed slightly, knowing he walked into the conversation with open arms. “While I thank you for trying to set me up with your plethora of male friends, I’ve told you before that I like my life as it is,” he said, sitting down and gluing himself to the laptop in hopes of ending the discussion. Leaning against the desk, Sury sighed. “You’re right. It’s soooo much more fun to stay cloistered on this block and count the number of strokes it takes you to brush your teeth than it is to go on a date.” Daniel raised his head to glare at her but faltered in the face of her eyebrow peaked in indignation. He turned back to the laptop. “They weren’t my type,” he mumbled. She leaned toward him. “What is your type, Daniel?” The bell above the door jingled, and a figure stepped in, cast into shadow from the bright sunlight along the sidewalk. “Excuse me, I’m looking for a Mr. Daniel Trace?”