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

by A L Hart

  “I’m not,” I said, though I was. But I couldn’t help that I was nearly a little over a foot taller than her. Looming was often times out of my control.

  Didn’t stop Jera from despising it. She took the smallest step away from me.

  I took the smallest step closer to her.

  We did this back and forth until she ran out of stepping room and I ran out of patience. I closed in on her, gripping the ledge of the sink with either hand, caging her so that she had no choice but to look up at me. Talk to me. Not that I thought for a second she couldn’t wrench free with a mere swat of her hand.

  “Jera, you can’t just push these things aside.”

  “I can. I will.”

  “Look, I don’t know what I did back at the mall, but I know what I did earlier. I took your place. I was there for Ophelia when you wanted to be, and for that I’m sorry. It’s not my intention to get between the two of you, and you were right, I don’t understand you all’s situation.” I frowned. “I hardly understand you.”

  When she met my eyes, tension bolted between us, locking me in the depth of silver slates. “You think that’s what this is about? You taking my place?”

  “Prove to me otherwise.”

  She bristled. “You really are a dense specimen.”

  “Then enlighten me!”

  “I can’t control it, Peter!” she erupted. “The fire. It controls me. It always has and it always will. You heard the way those men screamed. It was a mirror of the rage I felt when seeing them try to hurt those I care about. I tried to quiet it towards the end, I tried to spare those useless sacks of flesh, but I failed. If I could control it, I would have gotten that collar off of my sister days ago, but I can’t control it. It’s the price of power. When you come in to yours, you too will pay it.”

  My lips parted, more stunned by the fact that she’d confided than what it was she told me. Not wanting to highlight on the grand gesture, I joked, “You mean to tell me I’ve been getting lessons from someone as inept as myself?”

  Fire sparked in her eyes.

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  “I’m far more advanced than you will ever be, human.”

  I nodded. “I know.”

  She whipped around and continued to scrub a plate clean as if her very being depended on it. My arms still caged the woman, fingers curled into the sink, and in that moment, I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to step away or not move a muscle—because she was trembling. A similar tremble to the one Ophelia had let off in my arms, only this held far more intensity. I didn’t feel her plates shifting; I felt them crumbling to ashes, threatening to resurrect into something ungodly if it wasn’t checked.

  “Perfection, Peter, is a paradox. We as immortals guide ourselves under its protective armor, believing we are higher than those that are mortal—which we are, mind you—but we are far from perfect. We harbor flaws, all of us. Immortals, humans, and those in between. All the dark energy does is exploit them.”

  I understood what she was saying, no matter how hard she danced around a direct conveyance: she didn’t ask for that fire inside of her.

  No more than I’d asked for whatever was growing inside of me.

  But . . . “I never asked you to be perfect.”

  “Oh, but you did—the moment you compared me to Lia.”

  I stepped away at that.

  I saw it now, the dynamic she saw between the two of them. In her eyes, Ophelia was the epitome of perfect. Jera looked up to the woman in every way. Cherished her at every turn. And only now did it make sense, how thoroughly she’d taken to the mundane task of dishwashing; she may not have been able to control the imperfection inside of herself, but this—making all of the dishes spotless—she could do. No matter how long it took.

  But who was she trying to prove it to?

  In the span of two days, I’d lost hope of her task being completed to my standards. Did she know that?

  I thought back to the number of times I’d blatantly sighed in front of her, shook my head, corrected her actions.

  Then I thought back to the number of times I’d blinked in astonishment at how quickly Ophelia had caught on, praised her work ethic and smiled in her company.

  In fact, since the two of them had been here, I’d treated Ophelia with nothing but kindness because that’d been what she’d shown me and I’d treated Jera with the same abrasive, criticizing tact because that’d been what she’d shouldered on me.

  Ophelia’s words from earlier came biting at me. I’m not made to hurt them.

  Maybe Jera was.

  I’d seen Ophelia explode into a fury of black voltage.

  I’d seen Jera erupt into ferocious red flames.

  Both were deadly, but only one of them had killed.

  I’d been blasted by Ophelia’s energy without her knowing I was among her enemies and had come out walking, but I knew beyond a doubt, had I come in contact with Jera’s flames, I’d have ended up smote just like those men. Because maybe, when the nuller on Ophelia’s neck was off, the woman had a control over her abilities that Jera had never been able to master.

  So how could I expect her to be a replica of her sister when they were so different inside?

  “Hey,” I said softly. “Why don’t we finish this up later and go help prepare the office for Anisah and Kyda?”

  She didn’t look up, merely kept at her relentless scrubbing. “Lia’s more than capable of assisting.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but I’d prefer your assistance.”

  More scrubbing.

  “Won’t be the same without a persistent, moody succubus at my side.” And I meant that. When we’d sat down with Anisah last time, it’d been Jera who had demanded to know all of the questions I’d been thinking. She was tactless and merciless, getting us vital information. But, were we to host this session without her, I was sure Ophelia would simply apologize profusely to the mother and daughter while I sat there, ignorant about basically everything.

  Which, essentially, was how this meeting was bound to play out regardless, seeing as I hadn’t learned to use even a fraction of the Maker’s gift.

  Jera was still sudding the plate, but her motion slowed, expression lost to her curtain of curls. Stubborn but amenable, she caved. “Very well, but I get to sit at the desk.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  Ch. 10

  I lied.

  With the cleaning crew dismissed for the night, I dropped into the desk chair, sentenced to the betrayed, diabolic gray slates Jera bore down at me.

  “Liars never prosper, Peter,” she said with vehemence enough to rouse a tinge of guilt. Not enough to make move, of course.

  “You’ve already stolen my bed, not to mention the bedroom,” I reasoned. “This, you can’t have. This office is mine, this desk is mine, and this chair knows no butt other than a Bately’s.” When her lids dropped in bemusement, I pointed out, “We can fight over it, or we can brainstorm on how to fix Kyda with the twenty minutes we have left before they arrive.”

  She was at a crossroads, looking fully prepared to fight to the bitter end for the seat—she never got the chance.

  Ophelia popped her head into the office, having been on lookout for our two peculiar guests. “They’re here,” she said.

  Jera slid me a mocking glance. “Twenty minutes, you say?”

  I scowled. Normally I applauded punctuality, but not so much when I’d fallen short on my end of a promise. Which I had. This woman had put her daughter’s fate in my questionably capable hands and here I would have to tell her there was nothing I could do right now. There was nothing I knew how to do.

  The disappointment must have shown on my face, because guilt flashed across Ophelia’s, her gaze darting to the floor before she disappeared into the lounge of the shop.

  Moments later, Anisah and Kyda joined us.

  We had yet to change out of our work clothes. There had been little time and little point. I wore my same old black slacks and white dress shirt, the sleev
es now rolled up at the arms. The twins still had their white blouse and long, frilly work skirts in which they’d refused to swap out for pants. Only thing amiss was the hats they took off just then. Which I guess made sense. It was easier to sink into the role of otherworldly experts if they broadcast that they themselves were of another world.

  As could be expected, it only set Anisah on edge. The moment she took in the black, curved horns, her composure sank, an icy fear looming in the perimeters of her gaze. It didn’t stop her from taking up a chair before the desk, Kyda opposite of her, while Jera—

  I bristled when the woman shoved my arm aside and took up roost on the arm of my chair. Her stare was pinned to our guests, but I could practically feel her daring me to object.

  Now wasn’t the time.

  I took a deep breath and counted down from ten, half expecting Ophelia to come and rob me of the other armrest. But the woman sat in bogged silence on the sofa between the bookshelves, eyes dazed, that guilt never having lifted from them.

  Concern threatened. I pushed it down.

  Now wasn’t the time.

  For now, because Jera and I were mature adults, I patiently allowed her elbow to dig into my shoulder as if I was the armrest she’d been wrongfully denied, half her body weight pressed to my side.

  I looked to Kyda. The disorientingly thick, long coil of her reptilian tail curled over the side of her low-back seat, carapaced tip scraping the floorboards with drowsy strokes. She was wearing another hooded shawl today, this one as dark as her eyes, the hood lowered, those eerie sprouts of ears weighing forward and covering half her face.

  But not enough to conceal the red of her eyes. As though she’d been crying.

  I tensed at this, and as if synced to my actions, Jera went rigid against me. Heat began to slip from the woman, her body a loaded gun in a matter of seconds.

  I shook my head subtly, but knew she received the message when the tension bled from her gradually. We weren’t here to rectify the girl’s mental state or troubles at home.

  My attention returned to Anisah, unsure how to start these things. Professional, doctoral assistance wasn’t my strong suit outside of ‘Would you like a side of coffee with that?’ My own experience with doctors didn’t extend beyond my time at the hospital and the therapy sessions post-accident.

  However, it was something.

  I straightened in my chair and stole Dr. Perry’s script, even throwing in the smile and forcing light into my eyes. “Hi, Anisah, I’m glad you made it back. How have the two of you been?”

  With the evening’s schedule full, split between shop necessities and more training, I was hoping she would give the same short responses I’d given Dr. Perry. ‘Fine, yes, no. Sometimes.’

  But I knew it was bound to be a long session when she leaned forward, dropped her head into her hands and hash out in vivid detail, “Terrible, Peter. I can’t go home. The cash I withdrew from the bank a month ago is running low and I’m terrified of making the smallest transaction because I know they’re out there. Waiting. Watching the accounts, the house, anything that can be traced. I’m a burden to those I’m staying with now. I can’t contact my parents out of fear of endangering them—if I haven’t already. I can’t go to the store without jumping at each little thing, looking over my shoulder in the children’s clothing section. And now Kyda isn’t eating.”

  I’d never told the therapist my life story, which meant I wasn’t sure what Dr. Perry would have said had I actually opened up, dumped my issues on her desk and allowed her to examine them.

  “I see,” I managed. And I did see. I simply didn’t know how to address what I saw. So I dropped my eyes to the girl who, frankly, looked entirely like I’d felt in the therapist’s office. Depressed. Raw. Fading. Still, children were much easier to communicate with, their troubles few and small. “And Kyda, how are you doing?”

  The girl’s ears sagged farther, and suddenly fat tears were rolling down her cheeks. “Mama took my toys.”

  And just like that, I was more at a loss of what to say here than I’d been with Anisah. “Uh . . . I’m sure she had a very good reason.”

  Kyda shook her head hard, biting her trembling bottom lip as she hiccuped and tried to send the tears back into her eyes.

  “Uhm.” I could all but feel the drop of sweat slide down my spine.

  Tears. Me. Horrible mix.

  “Well,” I ventured. “Maybe if you asked your mom—”

  “S-she doesn’t—” More hiccups. “She doesn’t want to talk to me. She hates me. She hates me—”

  “Kyda!” I jumped when Anisah grabbed the girl’s arm and nearly yanked her from the chair. “This is not the place for your acting out, do you hear me? Do you?”

  The girl recoiled in her mother’s hold, eyes glued to the floor.

  “Answer me!”

  She didn’t.

  “This is the very reason I’ve taken your toys away. This is serious, this is your life. I’m trying to protect you and you’re doing everything in your power to prevent that. Now stop crying and answer the man so he can help fix you.”

  I already knew there was no chance of the girl uttering another word with the way she retreated into herself, huddling as far from her mother as she could.

  Anisah bristled at the perceived insolence, making me all too aware of the dark bags under her eyes. When was the last time she’d actually slept?

  Jera leaned forward, a shiver running through me at the absence of her heat. “Lia, why don’t you let Kyda pick a drink from the human ice box?”

  Anisah’s eyes widened.

  “She means refrigerator,” I assured, then narrowed a glare at Jera. This was the second free drink the girl was offered.

  But Ophelia was eager to remove herself from the room and Anisah suddenly looked too tired to protest. Even so, she watched the door like a hawk when the little girl slipped from the chair and took Ophelia’s hand, the screeching sound of the tail’s scales on wood the only noise between us.

  The moment they were gone, Jera said coolly, “A child’s pain breeds mutiny.”

  It took Anisah a moment before she realized the words were for her. That sharp gaze snapped to Jera’s. “I fail to see how that’s relevant here.”

  “Do you?”

  At that, the woman turned to her full on. “Do you have any children, Mrs. . .?”

  “Jera. Just Jera. And yes, I do.”

  My eyes flicked towards her at the news—imagining raven-curled devils causing mayhem in some unfortunate corner of the world—right before she slipped an arm around my shoulder and rubbed it lovingly. “Two daughters, Annaria and Ferin. Apple of our eye, isn’t that right, Peter?”

  Why?

  Why did she insist on doing this?

  More importantly, why did I find those names perfect?

  “Then you understand,” Anisah said, surprising me, her shoulders sagging. “I would do anything to protect her. She sees my efforts as hate, but it’s the opposite. I want her safe, I want her to grow up strong. It’s what her father would have wanted as well. But she fights me at every turn. She’s nothing like the man I lost. I say blue, she says red. I give her books on princesses, she demands those on war. Guns, Peter. I just—I don’t know. When I talk to her, I don’t feel like I’m talking to my daughter, but to a stranger.”

  “Maybe because you are?” I suggested before I knew what I was saying, the candor rising up in remembrance of my own recent folly.

  She looked at me questioningly.

  “You said so yourself,” I hurried to explain. I could feel Jera’s eyes on me, the weight of my words suddenly heavier than an anvil. “She’s nothing like her father, your husband. She may resemble him, but what’s inside might be an entirely separate topography from the man you knew. And we can try to relay the terrain, conform them to our standards, but a mountain wasn’t meant to be a plain, and fire . . .” I frowned, then mumbled, “Might be similar to lightning, but they’re different on the inside.”
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  A grim look settled over Anisah, even if those last words made little sense to her. “Her father hated guns.”

  “Do you?”

  She shook her head. “I know their worth and importance in a world like ours.”

  “Do you not like her fascination with them?”

  Another shake.

  “But you dislike the idea of her taking up an interest that strays so far from your husband’s principle because it feels as if you’re losing the last trace of him?”

  She glanced up at this, her mouth working, words failing.

  I gave a sad smile. “No, I get that.” I didn’t want to, but I did. “We cling to anything with traces of a lost loved one. Who can blame us?” Upstairs was an entire storage room filled with my family’s belongings to attest, things I didn’t use and would likely never entertain again. I could only imagine having someone who resembled Liz come into my life, every divisive aspect of them just another reminder of what I’d lost.

  She sighed. “I can’t help but address these things. It’s like when I look at her, I see only her father and all I can think is, ‘This isn’t him,’ and I feel like he’s frowning down on me.”

  “Well, I can’t speak for him, Anisah, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that two people can look the same, but what’s inside is almost always uniquely different.”

  There seemed to be a war between doubt and understanding outlining her face. Rightfully. I didn’t know this woman’s history or her stance on guns or violence. But I did know the topic itself was like that of glass. Fragile, and when broken, potentially lethal. Enter a child, an innocent, and the complication only advanced into a convoluted controversy.

  While I was neither pacifist nor aggressive, I was without a perfect solution.

  Thankfully, she gave in by redirecting the conversation. “A cure. Please tell me you’ve found one.”

  At that moment, Ophelia and Kyda returned, both of them looking more animated than before—no pun intended. Kyda had a mug of what I hoped was chocolate milk and nothing caffeinated. She sat beside her mother once again, quiet as a mouse.

  Anisah looked back to me, imploring.