Legacy of a Dreamer Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2012

  Copyright © Allie Jean, 2012

  The right of Allie Jean to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Writer’s Coffee Shop

  (Australia) PO Box 447 Cherrybrook NSW 2126

  (USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168

  Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-040-8

  E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-041-5

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.

  Cover image by: © Amy Kaplan

  Cover design by: Jennifer McGuire

  www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/ajean

  Allie Jean was born with an overactive imagination. At a very early age, a child, her days were spent inventing stories, directing her sisters in made-up plays or telling elaborate ghost stories. Her mind never took breaks, or shutdown, even when she slept. When her eyes shut at night, she would have vivid dreams complete with extensive, elaborate plot lines, and good overcoming evil villains.

  She was encouraged by her parents, even at a young age, to write down her tales, and it has remained a somewhat secret hobby. It became a means to escape from the drama of real life into one of the many worlds she created.

  Now, living in California with her husband of ten years, her love of storytelling had taken a back seat with the arrival of their four children. Though, she always found time to write down her thoughts on whatever was handy, including a stray diaper or two while rocking a sleeping child in the middle of the night when her character's begged for attention as well.

  As a busy wife, mother and working full-time outside the home, somehow she has been able to write down her relentless character's story. Her once secret hobby and private world, is now released for other's to enjoy. Nothing would make Allie happier that to continue writing and spend more time at home with her family on a more full-time basis.

  ::§::

  "For nightly visions speak of our worst fears, and greatest desires . . ."

  – AJ

  ::§::

  Your heart beat for only mere minutes, yet your ephemeral little life has brought so much joy to our lives. For my writing, for the gift of perfect love, and for a million things more, this one is for you, little Angel.

  To Angeliz, Jodi, Alanna, Candace, and Kristi - without you, the dreams turn to ash.

  A dreamer dreams in color and light. The world she makes within her mind is her only escape from reality.

  Here, she can dance with the wind, laughing aloud with a carefree indulgence that isn’t allowed where she is from. She smiles as the blades of grass tickle her bare feet, the cool dew the only thing that remains constant amid the ever-shifting background. Her clothing transforms to various dresses she’s coveted before. Now, she wears a deep lavender A-line with a willowy skirt that skims across her skin like the touch of fluttering butterfly wings. The colors around her mix and move, shaping the images as fast as her mind can create them.

  She envisions her most hidden desires, finding her wishes among silken tulips when she leaps onto a cloud made of the softest light. Here she’s alone—her solitude giving her the peace she lacks otherwise. Here she can breathe, relax.

  She opens her eyes with a start, finding her safety morphing into the unknown. The change is against her will, bringing a sense of foreboding. She’s approaching that precarious edge where the ominous hint of a nightmare forms, causing a chaotic racing of her heart.

  Her sight becomes hazy, the environment shifting from a glorious sunset to something far more sinister. The darkness encroaches, the terror and intrigue seeping in.

  This is not a dream, but a vision. The sharp images and echoing sounds don’t fit the criteria of a listless fantasy. Her attention piques, intuitively aware what she’s about to see may be of some importance; granted the gift of second sight by some mysterious force.

  These visions have come in sets as of late. It didn’t always happen that way. She can tell this one is connected with the many she’s seen over the past three years. It’s the same feeling she’s experienced since she was young. The same chilling dread encompasses her when she sees the redundant images of a warrior fighting the darkness until he falls, a black smear of blood upon the ground becoming his deathbed.

  A candle flickers to life beside her, and she turns toward it in response. The walls around her begin to solidify. Tall windows made of different-colored glass set into depictions of saints and martyrs. Wooden pews facing the altar held a slight scattering of patrons, their heads bowed in homage. Their silent reverences are directed toward a shadowed cross. A man hangs from it, his head tilted as if death had claimed him.

  Beneath stands a cloaked figure, his robes stained an ominous red as he raises his hands toward the sky. A circular object rests in his grip, starkly white against the heady background. She’s captivated when the man holds it high, drawing the attention of the room and changing the tempo of her heart to a steady, quick rhythm.

  She’s seen this vision before, but the feeling of it is different this time. She senses the urge to look around her, yet she can only look at the white, round loaf of bread, hypnotized by its purity.

  A deep cadence of voices begins to sing a haunting melody, and the words are in an unknown language. It doesn’t matter that she can’t understand. In her mind, she knows the meaning automatically, translated in implication and tone by an unknown power. Her soul joins an audience that seems greater than the entire world’s population, chanting the same words, though in various tongues.

  The bread slowly changes as she watches, the color deepening to match that of a winter rose. Her eyes widen when she realizes the cross is bleeding. No, it’s the man who bleeds. A thick river of crimson gushes from his side, coating the servant and the host, and running down onto the altar below.

  The singing dies as a creak of wood and metal resound behind her, and a breeze gusts through the hall. Her instincts urge her to turn, to see who’s come inside, yet she’s frozen, transfixed on the sacrament before her.

  Heavy footsteps clatter upon the marbled floor, the pace unhurried, solemn with unspoken intent. She senses that the quiet ambiance will soon be in upheaval.
/>
  When the visitor approaches, the vision morphs once again. The parishioners have gone, as if made of smoke. The priest, too. On the altar lies the blood-soaked bread, on the wall, a vacant cross.

  She turns toward the approaching footsteps, taking in a shuddering breath when a young boy passes by. The weight of his walk doesn’t match his small stature. The dark color of his clothing, hair, and shadowed eyes make her see him in a revealing light. His nature matches the atmosphere. He ignores her presence, his bright eyes watching the cross above expectantly. He pauses below it, staring up with an innocent, inquisitive expression.

  “I thought He would’ve been here,” he says, cutting through the silence.

  “Who?” she whispers, suddenly standing next to the boy. He holds her hand, his small fingers wrapping around her palm like a warm glove as her skirt billows around her, moving with a sudden breeze. The boy remains unruffled, his clothing and hair in perfect form.

  “The man.”

  The boy sighs, looking up at her with concern. His dark eyes seem ageless; foreboding while the tireless question that has been asked many times before remains.

  “He’s gone. He left long ago,” she whispers, knowing it to be so.

  “I see,” he says, turning to face the congregation. She notices that the church is now full, each pew cluttered with waiting patrons, watching the pair of them in vague interest.

  The women wear big hats and fancy jewelry. Their faces painted heavily with makeup, their clothes positioned provocatively around their altered, curved bodies. The men dressed in their finest suits. Gold watches glitter from thick wrists as they shake the hands of brothers in business. Children play with electronic devices, ignoring their mother’s demands as the artfully crafted games of violence and death consume them.

  The husbands ignore their wives, catching the eye of the lovely girls across the pew. The wives stew in their seats, distracted by thoughts of jealousy and revenge. Each focus on the mundane, coveting what they don’t have, lusting after that which isn’t theirs.

  “He’s not here,” the boy says, his expression eager. “They don’t see Him, do they?”

  She glances out into the crowd, catching only a few glimpses of interest from those who’ve came to worship. Each person seems to find something else to hold his or her attention. They know the cross was bare to begin with.

  “I guess they don’t.”

  A mysterious weight falls upon her chest.

  The boy’s voice turns menacing, dropping an octave. “Good. Maybe they’ll see this.”

  Taking a step forward, he pulls out a long blade and slits his throat. Blood sprays over the altar, a black stain covering the sacred ground.

  She lunges for him in an attempt to staunch the hemorrhaging, but the liquid burns like acid. The boy falls to the ground in a puddle of tainted blood. She screams for someone to help him, looking into the enamored crowd, desperate for help.

  No one notices her screams, too busy with their own endeavors. He dies as the ominous singing restarts once more.

  “Chantal!”

  A loud knock against the wall caused plaster and debris from the termite-riddled walls to scatter across the bed, coating the young woman in grit before she’d even had a chance to pull herself out of her afternoon reverie. She’d come into her room to escape the hell she lived in; it was just like that nasty woman to deny her a small moment of peace.

  “Chantal!” her housemother called again, this time with that high-pitched shrill that set her teeth on edge. She ran her fingers through the dark length of her hair in attempt to soothe her rapidly growing frustration.

  “What?” she snapped, a sharp jolt of annoyance coloring her tone.

  “I told you to take the damn trash out,” the harpy screamed.

  Chantal gritted her teeth in an attempt to bite her tongue. All she wanted was a moment of peace to allow the day to settle without adding to her unease. If it wasn’t the nightmarish dreams that chased her in the waking hours of the day, it was her precarious future staring her straight in the face, and she was loaded down with stress, ready to snap.

  “Chantal Breelan!”

  I’m comin’!” she yelled back, hating that her temper had gotten the best of her. A slight lilt to her words seemed to rear its ugly head whenever she got good and mad, but she tried to hide it as best she could. She was originally from New York and lived her whole life here, so she didn’t know why a twang would appear at times like these, but she figured it was something she’d picked up over the years. Since she’d been taken away from her home at such an early age, her background and family lineage would be among the countless questions she had.

  “Good. It may be your last day here, but I’ll be damned if I end up picking up your slack.”

  “Yeah, right,” Chantal said, rolling her mauve colored eyes. In the last six years, that woman had never lifted a finger to help around the house, no matter who had come and gone. She figured being in charge of twelve delinquent teenagers was grounds for a trip to the loony bin, but the woman lived the high life in her eyes.

  Paid nicely by the government for each foster child she took in, Regina Monson only housed kids over the age of twelve so she didn’t have to put up with them for very long if they became a nuisance. The result was a mini army of servants, awaiting their orders.

  “She never lets up,” Natalie grumbled from the bunk below her. A sharp thwack against the paper-thin wall came in retaliation. She hadn’t known Natalie Kilpatrick was there, but it shouldn’t have surprised her. Her semi-best friend had always been a recluse, hiding away in her room whenever she got the chance, never letting anyone close enough to know everything about her. Chantal knew it was more of a defense mechanism than a slight on her.

  “She means well,” Chantal said, earning herself a scoff from her friend that caused her to smile.

  Natalie was a year younger than Chantal and had the tenacity of a pit bull, something she’d probably developed from her stint in juvenile hall at the ripe old age of eleven. She’d been caught stealing apples from the grocery store, and it had probably saved her life. Natalie had been living on the streets, starving and scarred from the many fights she’d been in over the most basic needs, food and shelter. The courts had scooped her up, locked her away for a time, and then released her into foster care. Luckily, she’d landed in Regina’s home, otherwise, she could have ended up in a place where she would have most likely been abused and run away. Regina made Miss Hannigan look like a saint. At least she left them alone once their work was done.

  Natalie had earned her reputation as a fighter when Nathan, one of the older boys in the house, tried to take a cookie away from a younger kid. The girls had all been huddled against the back fence as Nathan bullied him into submission, when Natalie walked straight up to him and punched him in the gut, gave the cookie back and rejoined the girls as if nothing had happened. From then on, even the boys gave her a wide berth. Her temper matched her red hair, and her pale complexion mirrored her warm personality, but she was fiercely loyal.

  “Tomorrow’s your birthday. Can’t she let you have one last day in peace?” Natalie said.

  “It’s not like her to do nothin’ kind for nobody,” Becca said, entering through the bedroom door, her thick southern twang in sharp contrast to her Asian heritage, making Chantal’s occasional drawl seem like a proper English accent.

  Becca’s evenly cropped black hair hung in her eyes, stringy and dirty. The blue dress she wore was faded to an odd shade of purple, and the dirt under her nails was evidence of a hard day’s work. Her expression set in firm lines, she looked pissed off; her thin arms were crossed over her chest in a guarded fashion. “Took out the trash, Chantie, so you don’t haffta worry ’bout it no more.”

  Chantal sat up at the use of her nickname, glancing down at the irate-looking girl sitting on her bed with a deep scowl on her face.

  “What happened?” she whispered, wondering what retaliation Regina had imposed because
Becca did Chantal’s chores. Becca went to get her pajamas from her dresser, keeping her eyes averted, and after several moments of silence, slammed the drawer closed, causing the items on top to clatter.

  “She’s makin’ me feed Brutus for another three weeks,” Becca said, turning around in anger. The hell hound Regina owned didn’t like being fed after six thirty in the morning, and the huge rottweiler never learned that he shouldn’t bite the hand that fed him. It was one of the worst chores that could be assigned and, like cleaning out the toilets and scraping the bottom of Regina’s mold-filled bathtub, it was rotated among the kids every week.

  “I’ll go talk to her,” Chantal said, and got up. She hated that Becca had gotten in trouble on her behalf.

  “No,” Becca said, holding her hands out. “I knew she was gonna get mad, but I wanted to do it anyways. I ain’t got no money to buy you nothin’, and it’s your birthday, so, just leave it, okay? I don’t mind feeding that stupid mutt for a while.”

  “Thanks, girlie.”

  Chantal gave her a warm smile. She would’ve hugged the girl, but she knew Becca didn’t like to be touched. It was a common wound among kids like her. Chantal found herself grateful once again that she didn’t carry those types of scars with her. She may be plagued by nightmares every night, but she’d never had to live through what Becca had.

  The door creaked open and a young girl poked her head in, checking to see if the coast was clear before she came in. Her dark hair hung in damp strands, leaving a few sticking to her neck. She wore tattered pajamas and smelled mildly of soap. Chantal smiled at the girl, knowing how flighty she could be when there was a group of people around.

  “Hey, Peanut.”

  The young girl nicknamed Peanut picked up her head and returned a meek grin. It had taken a while for the youngest resident to become comfortable rooming with three other girls, but Chantal had noticed a slight difference in her newest foster sister. She was starting to come out of her shell.

  “There any hot water left?” Becca said, continuing to gather her things, pausing to look at Peanut, knowing that she didn’t speak often. The little one shook her head, her expression apologetic.