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

by A L Hart

  “Well,” I began. “This Sunday would you be able to come down to the shop?”

  There it was, that dismissive wave of his hand. “I ain’t need no help from you anymore.” Which meant he’d only needed to patch the hole in his chest for a hospital visit to see the delivery of his grandson.

  “While I do want to look into alternative healing options for your affliction, this visit would strictly be your payment.” At his confused look, I said, “I told you I wasn’t interested in monetary payment. My prices come in the form of something else. If you’re such a man of your word like you say, then you’ll be there Sunday.”

  By the gruff set of his face, I knew he wasn’t too happy with that fact. “Fine,” he muttered.

  “I can arrange for you to be picked up.”

  “My legs work just fine,” he quipped.

  “Sure,” was all I said.

  With that, we said our goodbyes, which consisted of every form of grumpiness either of us could manage to squeeze out before the door closed behind me.

  Downstairs, I took a deep breath, shuffled the previous encounter aside and went on to the next order of business.

  Reaching into my pocket, I took out a phone and the number I’d only recently programmed into my contact book.

  I pressed dial.

  Ch. 20

  Sunday came in the blink of an eye.

  Ophelia and I never got another chance to practice, seeing as Jera had become something of a hound, breathing down both of our necks. She was adamant about keeping an eye on our behavior, having opted to sleep during the day when the workers were up and hammering away at the staircase and the office space—the noise doing nothing to disrupt her sleep—and keep a vigilant eye on all nighttime activity.

  Ergo, no time to train. Not in the way we wanted.

  We kept the training basic, or what Jera and Ophelia considered basic. I hadn’t lied to Walsh when saying I wanted to attempt alternative healing means; if I could heal that old, grumpy man, I would see to it that I succeeded.

  Ophelia was convinced that all I needed to do was connect my dark energy to his the same as I had done to hers. She said the little, starved ball inside of me would latch onto the old man’s energy tendrils and consume the harmful substance until there was nothing left.

  We already knew I was capable of latching my dark energy onto another’s. Our main concern rest with latching on to a decrepit man’s energy when it presided so close to that vacant spot in his chest where a heart should have been. If I removed the dark energy, what would happen? Was the supernatural energy the only thing keeping him alive? Had it substituted his heart?

  We didn’t know.

  Thus, when the man arrived hours after the construction crew finished for the day, I bided my time before discussing alternative healing means with him by going over the “price” he had to pay for the chocolate milk pills.

  Jera was upstairs catching up on her self-proclaimed beauty sleep so that she could properly monitor us about an hour from now. While it felt in and of itself like a cage, I’d begun to find her paranoia amusing, and some of it had begun to rub off on Ophelia. The glances we shared whenever Jera stalked by wearily, our smirks, it drove the demon nuts. Good.

  I was seated on a stool at the counter, in deep conversation with Ophelia, who was standing on another stool at the end of the bar. She’d made some lanyard of the coffee cups each after hour person had used—Kyda, Anisah, Elise, Vincent, Walsh (albeit untouched) and even the ones she, Jera and I usually drank from. The different colored mugs hung in a line on one string, where she’d reached high up to hook it on what was supposed to be used for hanging ferns.

  Having declined my help multiple times, we’d begun to converse on possible ways to test out our theory on dark energy substituting the man’s heart, we both looked up when the bell announced his arrival.

  We waited patiently for him to amble over, Ophelia stepping down and righting herself on the stood.

  Walsh dressed in his usual slacks, that thick wool jacket draped over his shoulders, cane clopping the floorboards.

  Once in front of us, I gave the man no chance to start up his moody spiel. Instead, I slid the little set of large-print coloring books his way. I’d fished them out from the supply closet from when Mom used to collect them for donations.

  He looked at the nature-esque covers blankly.

  “The price for my pills is coloring,” I explained, deadpan.

  His brows furrowed as he looked between Ophelia and I. “You can’t be serious, boy.”

  “Are you a man of your word or not?” I challenged.

  His mouth tightened into a hard line, his eyes steeling. “What I look like to you, a plum fool?”

  I shrugged. “And here you call me the scammer . . .”

  He snatched the book and pack of crayons up off the table, his gaze whipping away from me as he began his slow trekk to the corner booth he’d sat at before. I’d opted to remove the tarp that’d robbed the shop of sunlight, so that the 3 o’clock daylight filtered nice and bright onto the empty tables.

  When the old man sat down begrudgingly, I watched him only for a moment, then glanced at the clock.

  “What time do they arrive?” Ophelia wondered.

  “I told them 3, so any moment now.” I would not allow myself to feel worry.

  If anything, I was taking these off days in strides, surprised by the actual relief I found in not doing anything first thing in the morning, evening or night. Just resting. I hadn’t had an off day in as long as I could remember. It was . . . nice.

  “And there is no place you know of that we can practice during the daytime?” I asked for the second time.

  For the second time she shook her head. “There’s no telling what might happen if I go off again. It might attract more than HB. So far, they’ve steered clear of this shop. It’s safe. We shouldn’t risk jeopardizing that.”

  I agreed with the safety bit. But I didn’t want to sit on my hands. No matter how relaxing it was at times.

  Ophelia’s hand rest on my shoulder. “Patience. An opportunity will come. For now, I do believe your guests are here.”

  Sure enough, the bell rung and in walked Anisah, Kyda in toe. The woman had an elegant black and orange hijab picked out for today while Kyda sported a stark green and red shawl over khaki pants and a t-shirt. Her hood was pulled down and I saw instantly how much the ears had shrunken. They were nothing more than furry sprouts the size of her hands. They flopped forward, the same shade as her bronze hair so that you could hardly discern it. The tail was simply gone.

  Anisah caught sight of me and crossed over instantly, eyes wide and worried.

  I held up a hand and reassured her before the worry could spike, “Like I said over the phone, there’s no need to worry. You’re safe. Kyda’s safe. I just wanted to go over our upcoming plans.”

  The relief smoothed the wrinkles from between her brow as she took up the stool on the other side of me. She threw her purse up on the counter, where she gave the remaining coloring books—those I’d save for Kyda—a brief once over.

  I picked them up and asked, “You don’t mind if she colors these, do you?”

  She looked at the cover of plush green trees and dark, innocent-eyed deer and said, “I can’t see why not.”

  I notched my head toward the grumbling Walsh. “With him.”

  Anisah gave the dumpy old man one look, his simple clothes, permanently displeased features, and it must have been the fact that he was taking a green crayon to the pages that she ultimately determined he was harmless. She shrugged, accepting the books then handing them off to Kyda. “Go sit with the nice old man, Kyda, while mommy talks with Peter here.”

  Kyda gave the happy-go-lucky coloring books an even more petrified look than Walsh had. “But Mom—”

  “Go.”

  The girl accepted the books before stalking off towards the table in the corner.

  Anisah never took her eyes off of her, even as s
he spoke. “On the phone, you said you wanted to cash in that favor?”

  I nodded. “Yes but we can discuss that later. For now, I wanted to talk to you about those men who’re interested in Kyda.”

  She was clearly battling between shrinking back in fear and keeping a brave face. I admired how the latter won out, her shoulders going back the slightest as she said, “What of them?”

  “Ophelia and I have been going over ways to unmark you and Kyda for good. They have a compound out in Wichita and we have reason to believe that if we can remove Kyda from their database, then you’ll be free to go back to a normal life.”

  Though, the same as I could never go back to “normal” I was sure Anisah and Kyda couldn’t either. But just like me, they could go back to a semblance of it, and sometimes, that was enough.

  “How are you going to handle people like—people like them.”

  As Ophelia took to explaining more comprehensively than I’d have been able to—telling just enough without telling it all—I came to my feet and went behind the counter, starting up the coffee machine, grateful the workers hadn’t gotten to electrical work yet.

  I drifted out of Anisah and Ophelia’s conversation and into the one happening in the corner of the shop.

  Not like either Walsh or Kyda were being discreet about it.

  Kyda had taken to folding her legs under her on the booth’s seat, both hands propped on the table as she spoke with vivid, stark enunciations. “And my Papa never let that happen. That’s what Mommy said. That’s why they’re important, mister!”

  Walsh—grumpy face, cane wielding, moody old Walsh—actually smiled right before he let out a laugh. Neither of them were coloring, not that I’d expected them to be, but had the books shoved aside. Walsh had retrieved that old, battered wallet of his pocket and was showing the girl a picture of something.

  “You know what that there is?” he asked?

  Kyda peered closely, then said proudly, “The Victory medal!”

  “And you know what these four inscriptions stand for?”

  “Freedom.”

  Looking as impressed as I felt (given I knew close to nothing about these medals), he asked, “What does freedom mean to you?”

  Kyda tilted her head at the question, then slanted a look to her mother, who I realized had fallen silent, eavesdropping just as hard as I was.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted and I saw the ears flop to the side, lowering in shame.

  If Walsh saw it, he didn’t show it. Instead, he said, “Freedom is the right to be ourselves.”

  “Mommy says she never had that.”

  Now Walsh fell silent and I thought Anisah would step in at this, but she merely watched Kyda intently, as if hanging onto these words because she’d never heard anything like them.

  Then Kyda asked, “You fought in the Bougainville Campaign?”

  Surprise crossed Walsh’s face. “And how did you know that, little lady?”

  She stabbed a hand at one of the pictures that was probably the one of Walsh in his uniform with all of those badges that’d meant nothing to me. Then, with the weight of the autumn wind, the girl whispered, “Thank you.”

  I’d done the same thing yesterday, expressed my gratitude with a verbal thanks.

  Only mine hadn’t caused the man’s face to become stricken. Mine hadn’t caused him to look at me a long moment, and mine certainly hadn’t caused tears to stream from the older man’s eyes as he nodded.

  But Kyda wasn’t finished. She said clearly and with that same precociousness I’d noted in Danny’s eyes, “Mommy thinks I like guns and swords, but I don’t. I like what they do, what you do.”

  Walsh waited, questions in his eyes.

  “Protecting our freedom. I love Mommy and I want to protect her freedom just like you protected ours.”

  The little girl was beyond her years, I could give her that, and Walsh, so visibly moved by it, was left without words.

  Even when Anisah finally rose to a stand, her own eyes sheened as she crossed over to her daughter and gave Walsh a small, kind smile. To Kyda, “Honey, I think it’s time to go.”

  Kyda startled at the interruption, then pouted. “But Mommy—”

  “No, no, come on. It’ll be dark soon.”

  She was right. Daylight Savings Time really was the worst.

  Removing the girl from the table, the both of them saying their goodbyes to Walsh, Anisah crossed back over to the counter where Ophelia and I were up next for our goodbyes.

  Kyda pouted the entire way.

  I leaned over the counter and assured her, “Don’t worry, Walsh can’t color all of those pictures by himself.”

  Anisah gave me a silent smile of gratitude, then, “But wait, what was the favor?” she wondered.

  I looked to her daughter at her side and shook my head. “You already gave it.”

  *****

  I waited until Walsh had composed himself before I took him back in the office so that Ophelia and I could reinspect the hole in his chest, this time with her added verdict. When Walsh hesitated on unbuttoning his jacket, I introduced Ophelia as my overseer, telling him she was far more knowledgeable on this matter while I was merely the tool of the operation. Which was true.

  When he opened the jacket however, Ophelia and I both were struck into sheer silence.

  Walsh looked between the two of us. “What?”

  I shook my head, baffled as I took a step back. “Look for yourself.”

  At that, he glanced downward and joined us in our shocked, mouth-dropped ogling.

  That black, ominous hole was nowhere to be found, only the bare, unmarred flesh of his chest.

  Walsh blinked, his hand patting over the area. “I don’t- I don’t understand.”

  Oh, but I think I did.

  “I didn’t even feel it,” he said. “My heart beating.”

  He’d been a little distracted.

  His gaze went to mine. “Young man . . . I think—I think I owe you an apology.”

  I held up a hand. “No need. Just so long as you pay me.”

  More astounded blinking. “O-of course. You want cash this time, son?”

  “Nope, just for you to come back next Sunday and finish up that coloring book.” The same day I would ask Anisah and Kyda to come back. Disguised as an “update” on the HB situation, when in truth, it was but a means to have those two together, because I understood now what it was.

  What all of this had been.

  Almost a week ago, in the kitchen, Jera had said something to me that I hadn’t wrapped my doubtful, skeptical mind around.

  Dark energy, it hones in on these flaws and exploits them.

  At the time, I’d thought it was strictly physical when it came to humans, and magical when it came to immortals. Kyda’s ears had been a physical repercussion of dark energy. Elise and Vincent’s price had been a magical repercussion of dark energy.

  But it wasn’t that simple.

  Dark energy didn’t exploit physical flaws. It exploited conceptual ones.

  I recalled Anisah and Kyda, the first day they’d come in. Anisah had been riddled with grief, asserting an image over Kyda that wasn’t meant for her. An image the girl hadn’t wanted. It’d created a wall between them, severed communication in a sense.

  After taking the pills I’d given them, they’d assumed the ears would go away, and Anisah had been so ecstatic about it, she’d forgotten about that image she’d once tried to assert over her daughter. She’d just been happy to have her healing. So happy that, like she’d told me, she’d stayed up all night with her, talking about anything Kyda wanted, which was likely all the things Anisah had once rejected.

  The next day, the ears had shrunken.

  With Elise and Vincent, they’d both been suffering their price greatly. Elise had loved Vincent unconditionally and began to crave more and more of him in the bedroom, but out of fear hurting him, she’d withheld. Vincent too had loved Elise unconditionally and began to crave more an
d more of her blood, but out of fear of hurting her, he’d withheld. They’d both grown sicker because of this, thus they’d both convinced one another that they were the cause of the other’s sickness. Their price was killing the other.

  When in truth, their restraint was the cause.

  After taking the pills, they’d believed it would cure them and had opted for taking from one another without restraint. Taking what they both needed to survive. A symbiotic occurrence.

  The next day, they’d been more vibrant that ever.

  With Walsh, that hole in his chest, that loneliness that’d rest there for who knew how long, the dark energy, when it’d invaded him, it’d exploited his blackening heart, erased it, and left him as nothing more than what he’d become over the years. The grumpy old man who sat alone in his apartment day after day.

  After taking the pills, he’d believed it would cure him, but his circumstance hadn’t changed. He’d still sat alone in that apartment. And therefore, the hole had remained.

  Until sitting with Kyda.

  Someone who genuinely cared, smiled, and respected him on a level I wasn’t able to. A level I didn’t believe anyone had for some time.

  I let out a breath, stooped in this grand reveal.

  It wasn’t the pills or the placebo effect that’d healed these people.

  It was a change of circumstance, a different approach to the life they’d convinced themselves they were forced to live.

  “Peter?” Ophelia murmured softly, drawing me from the depths of my thoughts.

  I smiled at her stupidly, marveling to myself. I get it now. I figured it out.

  She returned the smile if only by habit alone.

  Walsh came to his creaky stand, buttoning his leather jacket before giving me one last thanks.

  I nodded.

  “Sunday, then?” he asked.

  Another nod.

  And before he made it out the door, I said, “And Walsh?”

  He glanced back, those dark eyes just the slightest bit lighter.

  “Happy Birthday.”

  Ch. 21

  The knock came late that night.