The Book of Broken Creatures: (A Broken Creatures Novel, Book 1)

by A L Hart

  That noise downstairs, what was going on? What had I missed?

  As irrational as the train of thought was, I for the slightest moment imagined the repo man here to reclaim the property because Peter Bately had overslept for the first time in five and a half years.

  Ophelia turned onto her side, hair tossed all over her soft features, gray eyes studying me quietly.

  I studied her back, suddenly reminded that whatever innocent, kind, pure qualities I’d attached to her existence was but a second skin, a metal vault housing something opposite of it all. Something I couldn’t unsee.

  “How are you feeling?” I dared to ask.

  “Hungry,” she admitted demurely.

  I realized I was openly scrutinizing her when her cheeks began to go red. I jerked my eyes away and asked, “Do you know what happened the other night?”

  “During our last training session?”

  I nodded.

  I heard the sheets rustle as she moved to sit. “My best guess is that when you were rewiring my dark energy, you may have disentangled the wrong strand and triggered my defense mechanism.”

  So she didn’t know what’d happened? That I’d never got a chance to interact with her storm of dark energy before being cast out by that . . . that thing.

  “You’re not blaming yourself, are you, Peter?”

  I said nothing. No, I wasn’t blaming myself. I wasn’t blaming anyone. I was more or less fishing her domain for signs of a deadly, sinister creature festering beneath the surface of her being.

  “Peter, please don’t let that one session deter you. We will try again tonight. I don’t know what happened when you tried the first time, but it’s likely that the fault was all my own. Perhaps the inner workings of the chamber was more complex and inherently defensive than I originally predicted.”

  “Jera suspects we’re up to something,” I said. “I doubt we’ll be doing much training anytime soon. . . . Maybe we should just tell her. Maybe she can help—”

  “She will kill them all, Peter, I assure you. And if she doesn’t, they will kill her.”

  “Yeah, but it beats sneaking—”

  The clammer sounded again, this time closer than before. Sounded like it was coming from the stairwell.

  “Just a second,” I said quickly then charged to the hall where I came up short and asked any god listening to provide me with strength enough to not explode on the spot.

  My staircase was gone.

  Vanished.

  Missing in action.

  All that was left was the toothy remnants of wood sticking out of the side walls and the cliff where I stood.

  Down below, a man was kneeling, a crowbar jacked beneath the last step, where he pried the last piece of wood free, as well as shatter my glass heart.

  I ran around to the back staircase—half expecting to find it missing, too—and pounded down the blessedly there stairs three at a time, skidding around the corner in record speed—where I stopped dead in my tracks at my office.

  Half the wall was missing, giving me a clear view of the tattered bathroom and the office space where all of the debris and still intact furniture was gone. Men milled around all over the shop in their khakis and tool belts, their gloved hands carting pieces of the shop around as though they were the cleanup crew.

  “Excuse me,” one of them said as they wedged past me to the back door.

  I watched in near delirium as they chucked pieces of I don’t know what into the dumpster before returning for more.

  What was going on?

  Breathe, Peter.

  I forced myself to continue toward my original destination.

  There were more men in the lounge area. A tarp was thrown up and over the arched windows, darkening the lounge in some places, synthetic lights planted in others.

  There wasn’t a customer in sight.

  At the front staircase, I encountered the culprit of it all.

  Dressed in a black blouse I didn’t buy her that serpentined around her form in elegant flutters and a crimson skirt that could have been a skewered version of pants, Jera stood over the men dismantling the staircase, her arms folded, lips curved into the smallest tinge of satisfaction.

  Until I yanked her aside and all but roared, “What is this?!”

  She ran a tongue over her teeth first, then those innocently shaded pink lips as she said with wide, startled eyes, “Oh, husband, you’re awake. I was beginning to think you would never rise. I’m sorry I cannot fix you breakfast at the moment; the men you ordered are just so in the way.”

  “The men I ordered?—”

  A heavyset man wearing a yellow helmet came up to me, clipboard in hand. “If you could just sign here, Mr. Bately, we can begin the drilling.”

  Drilling?!

  “What did you do, Jera?!”

  The demonic woman shrank away, gray eyes misting over in fear. “Dear, you know I hate it when you yell at me.”

  I grabbed her arm and dragged her outside the front door, the day’s evening light shining down on us oppressively. The birds above the awning chirped happily. Other venues thrived merrily. The streets were radiant with peacefulness. All was as it should have been.

  Save the construction trucks parked in front of my shop.

  Jera dropped the facade instantly, hands perched on her hips, gaze shifting gears from fear to ‘yeah, I did this, so what?’.

  “What is this?” I demanded again.

  “A necessary remodeling, human.”

  “Remodeling?! They’ve destroyed my shop!”

  “My shop.” At my glower, she said, “Our shop. Not that it matters who stakes their claim to it. What matters here is that it was in need of fixing and you were incapable of delivering. So I did.”

  “How?”

  “Vincent.”

  “Vincent?”

  “While you and my sister were above slumbering away, I took it upon myself to sort out the battered office, that haggard desk, at which point I discovered the check Vincent gifted to you.”

  She’d cashed it.

  How?

  I scrubbed a hand through my hair. I still didn’t know how much had been written on that check.

  “Enough to get a repair crew here within 5 hours of contacting them,” Jera said smugly.

  “You should have consulted me,” I bit out, not knowing how to feel about what had to be over a ten thousand dollar job. Which meant Vincent must have overpaid by a lot. I straightened. “And my employees?”

  Jera shrugged. “I contacted them all and assured them their hours would be reimbursed but that they were to take the remainder of the week off.”

  Despite how smoothly it all worked out, I couldn’t shake the contempt. That she’d gone behind my back on this—just like you went behind hers with Ophelia—and did as she pleased with property that wasn’t even hers.

  “You’re going through things, Peter,” she said knowingly. “It was beginning to affect your sense of reasoning, which steadily began to affect work ethic and morale. Not to mention your sense of organization.”

  “And since when did you become an expert in business management.”

  She crossed her arms now and said velvetly, “Since it became apparent I had to.” At my look, she sobered slightly. “I told you who I am, what I am. I’m the one that does what needs to be done, and I don’t answer to anyone before I make my decision. At first the sentiment applied strictly in regards to Ophelia, but seeing as you’ve forced yourself into my domain, I had to learn, adapt and extend the sentiment to my odd little Maker’s child.”

  That was the second time someone had called me that. I disliked hearing it from Jera even more.

  “Thanks but no thanks,” I rescinded. “Besides, what happened to making my life a living hell?”

  “When the time comes,” was all she gave.

  I rubbed the space between my brows and told myself to calm down. I couldn’t go through another headache like yesterday’s. It’d disabled me beyond my comfort zon
e and—I hated to admit it—Jera had a point, I wasn’t at my finest.

  If Ophelia and I were to go at training again, I had no doubt I would be facing an even worse circumstance.

  The head construction guy poked his head out, that belligerent clipboard still in his hand. “Drilling?” he asked a second time.

  Jera looked at me expectantly.

  I glanced over the brick and mortar foundation of the shop. Years ago, Dad had suffered a blow to funds and progression due to his unwillingness to adapt, renovate and give a little in order to receive a lot. Adverse to change. It was only through my willingness to adapt to a newer version, exhume its flaws while preserving its inherent personality, that it’d been able to thrive.

  My shoulders sagged.

  It was time for version 3.0.

  *****

  It was dark by the time I headed to Walsh’s apartment. Daylight Savings Time really sucked in this respect, the sky above having already opted for nighttime, the headlights of street cars blinding me as I headed for Woodstone Apartment Complex.

  It’d been there for as long as I could remember, settled along my old running route. It was a quiet community, though I expected nothing less of Wamego.

  I wondered if all of the residents were as ancient as Walsh, but when I came face-to-face with the long, endless flight of stairs beneath an insipid green light, my answer was leaning towards no.

  There were exactly seven flights before I reached apartment 712, where the old brass knocker stared me down, paint long chipped, revealing the base metal.

  I took a deep breath.

  Get in then out. That’s all I had to do. No raised voices this time, no arguing. Simply return the man’s wallet and return to my gutted and cripple shop. No harm no foul.

  One knock. Two knocks.

  Nothing.

  I gave three more knocks. Still nothing, just the quiet fizzing of the sickly fluorescent lights above. A quick glance both directions of the hallway revealed only three other residential doors. It smelled clean enough, recently bleached and scented with Febreze air fresheners on the caged thermometers.

  Shifting my weight, I gave a final knock and contemplated coming back tomorrow. Not like I had anything scheduled outside of training with Ophelia thanks to this remodeling business.

  I heard something. Shuffling, coughs. Then, “It’s open!” Walsh’s voice.

  Deep breath.

  Twisting the lock, I entered the home tentatively.

  Inside, it was pretty much what I’d been expecting. The rite of elderly passage recliner chair poised right in front of a TV set with a VHS settled on a wooden, rickety entertainment center. The carpet was a terrible maroon shade, the black, glass coffee table set up beside the recliner and a well-worn sofa. There were four too many lamps posted in every corner of the living room, and just off into the kitchen, I spotted the apricot wooden table, the countertops loitered with knick-knacks and bag after bag of Folgers coffee.

  Walsh himself stood behind the sofa, posed in front of a mirror mounted on the wall as he looped a tie around his neck, dressed in a maroon shirt no different than the carpet’s color and gray-washed dress pants, tailored and cut just at the start of polished wingtips.

  He glanced at me with something like expectation, a light in his eyes that I didn’t think was possible.

  When he saw it was me, that light went out so fast, I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed myself.

  “What you want, boy?” he grumbled, fixating the tie.

  In. Out. Simple.

  I took out the black wallet. “You dropped this—”

  “Put it on that there table, then.” He wagged a finger at the coffee table.

  I did just that. In. Out.

  Done with the tie and looking satisfied with his overall image, he took something from his pocket. One of those big, blocky, ‘I was born in the early nineties’ phones. Taking up his cane in the other hand, he hobbled to his designated recliner and sat down slowly, the pops of his bones sounding throughout the hollow foundation of the apartment walls.

  Once seated, he had his session of heavy, exerted breathing and I did just as I had before, looked anywhere but at his laboring.

  The wall behind the TV set had an embedded shelf from one end of the wall to the other. Mounted above it was photograph after photograph, and on the lip of the shelf was tropy upon trophy. My eyes stopped at one particular glass framed square, where a single medallion existed inside of it.

  The Marine Corps medal.

  My brows shot up. Forgetting to give him his “privacy,” I turned to him curiously, but came up short with the way he was staring at the phone.

  Feeling my gaze on him, his own flicked up to mine. “What’re you waiting on, a thank you? You done got your money, now go on.”

  “I put the money back in your wallet,” I told him. “I told you I didn’t want it.”

  He fanned a dismissive hand at me, looking back to the phone.

  That was my cue to leave.

  His phone rang then. He didn’t let it finish before he punched the talk button and hurried to put it to his ear.

  “Daryl, how far are you?” A pause.

  I forgot he’d said he had someplace to be today. Not that it should have gotten in the way of his appearance. You could barely tell there was an anomaly beneath the fabrics of his shirt. Just a well-ironed button up and perfectly normal, if not aged, torso.

  “Well, I been sittin’ here waiting. Called the hospital, they said she was brought in last night and was already dilated. Marie said she would be here by now. It’s—” A glance at the wall clock. “Well past eight!”

  Another pause.

  Walsh’s features crumbled with a simmering disgust. “Boy, don’t you go raising your voice. That’s my grand—” I could hear the man shouting from here. “I have a right!” Walsh finished.

  More yelling.

  “Now I done told her I forgave her—Daryl, son, son, you not-you not letting me talk.”

  When the series of shouts went on, I contemplated leaving then and there. But the way Walsh’s face fell next rooted me to the floor.

  His voice was a whisper. “It’s been well near ten years, Daryl. She’s my daughter. She’s gonna wanna talk to me.”

  Daryl replied quieter this time, my ears unable to pick it up.

  Whatever it was, it had Walsh swallowing what looked to be a wad of emotions, his mouth working over before anything came out. When it did, it was broken, “She ain’t say that.”

  Silence.

  Walsh shook his head. “Was ten years ago. She ain’t—Daryl? Daryl?—” Walsh exploded into a coughing fit, sputtering the man’s name through the phone but even I could hear the ring of an ended call that those old landlines maintained.

  He dropped the phone onto the space between his lap and the recliner’s arm. His eyes pinned to the coffee table, vacant.

  The home was quiet save for the man’s ragged, harsh breathing and occasional cough.

  Only when he acknowledged that I was still there did I find myself asking, “Can I give you a ride somewhere?” I hadn’t drove here, but the shop was only a short distance away.

  I expected a biting retort, a fan of his hand, but all he did was shake his head slowly, dark eyes dropping back to the table, hands starting to shake slightly.

  I looked around the apartment, unsure what to do or say. Maybe I should have left as soon as I dropped the wallet on the table. But he’d been coughing and breathing hard and that struggle alone had compelled me to stay. I could have left when the phone call began, but I’d been waiting on something. Wanting to ask him something.

  Gaze locking back on the series of framed photos and honored awards, I realized it wasn’t so much what I wanted to ask as what I’d wanted to say.

  “I know you don’t want to hear it,” I started, awkwardness sliding into me alongside a small beration, telling me I was the absolute last person who had a right to say these words. “But I’m sorry fo
r yesterday. It was a rough day. I was in pain and wasn’t myself.”

  He nodded.

  No words really were worse than harsh ones.

  “I know it’s no excuse. We all have our problems. Our ups and downs. It’s no reason to take it out on others.”

  Another nod.

  “Also, I wanted to say thank you.”

  He looked up at me, confused.

  I notched my head towards the shelf. When I sensed he was about to give another dismissive nod, I said, “You don’t see very many vets in our small town and if you do meet one, you never know they’re a vet. Like yourself. It’s not something they broadcast.”

  Walsh shrugged, that snap gone from him. “Kids these days don’t want to hear about an old man. Don’t care about us. Just me, me, me. Heaven forbid you do anything wrong, boy, and they will hold it against you for years.”

  I pressed my lips, unable to sympathize with the sentiment when my own father, having reached 65 years before the accident, had always attracted others with his kindness. They liked hearing him talk and came in the shop not for the coffee but just to see if he was okay.

  My eyes found the framing photo of his wife, but I already knew she was dead before I read the lifespan etched into the golden plate.

  The photos of their children were right below it. Erick, Marcey and Marie and I knew not to inquire about whether or not his own children talked with him. I’d heard enough over the phone. It’d been ten years since he talked to one of them. But what about the others?

  Homes tell a story just as easily as any framed photograph. By the neglected, dreary shadows clingy to the corners of WPD’s despite his hoarding of lamps, this one told a story of decay. Abandon. The only person who’d been in this house sat across from me.

  I knew I shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have said what I did. Not with all I had on my supernatural plate. But I was talking before I could rein myself in.

  “Two days from now, what will you be up to?”

  He glared. “Same thing I’m always up to, boy. Sittin’ on my here behind.”

  His birthday was two days from now. After another dutiful glance around the apartment, it’s moody dark tones, I wondered if he even remembered it himself.