Take These Broken Wings_A novel of the Paramortals

by Livia Quinn

  I finally understood why the ancients had chosen the name "Destiny" for our little burb. I guess hindsight really is 20-20.

  Epilogue

  Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die,

  life is a broken-winged bird

  that cannot fly.

  Langston Hughes

  Destiny – the Medical examiner's office, midnight

  "Yes, yes, Deputy Kirkwood," Dan spoke into the phone's speaker on the wall of his favorite workspace. The exam room was exceptional for such a small town. Of course, he'd spent some of his own investment funds on instruments and hi-tech gadgets. "I understand the sheriff's concerns but technology doesn't exist that could make use of that DNA. The point will be moot soon though, as I'm about to incinerate all of the samples collected in the last months. I have a regular schedule I follow, a strict procedure. Please, put his mind at ease."

  After disconnecting, Thorpe sipped his coffee, and leaned back admiring his lab, eyes going unerringly to the glass front freezer where he kept his most prized collection. He glanced over his shoulder as he opened the door and pulled a tray of frozen samples from the top shelf gazing at them wistfully. He'd lied to the deputy. Destroying the DNA had been on his list last week… then again yesterday. But it was hard to let go of a dream.

  A smile spread across his features as he noted each one's condition, making sure the labels were intact and clearly coded. He'd hoped these samples would define his future: a chance to publish in the nation's top scientific journals, a position on the lecture tour, and finally he'd receive the recognition he deserved, and more. His ultimate dream had been to figure out how he could distill the DNA, inject himself and become one of them. But if not, perhaps he could reproduce those cells, create his own beings, ones who would call him "father"—Master. Not an unpalatable alternative.

  Dan had grown up in an era when super-heroes had been born, then super-villains whom he’d found infinitely more intriguing. As a kid he'd read comics, in his teens he gravitated to media's mad scientists—Pretorius, Krank, Jekyll but when he was accepted into an exclusive university in eastern Europe, he'd found greater inspiration.

  Dan spotted the discarded Tribune, open to the editorial page. He picked it up and sat down with his coffee. He was aware of the beckoning incinerator door but ignored it and returned to the article. Thirty more minutes wouldn't make any difference.

  Thorpe couldn't explain the disgust he felt whenever he read this inane column by the Fortune woman. One couldn't call her a columnist, much less a writer. But he'd discovered that her eye for odd behaviors made her observations worth studying. He picked up his pencil and began reading.

  Wednesday was quite the day! There were sightings at Grand Colline of a giant sparkling giraffe, reports of a burglary of the UPak-It trash dumpster—the trash not the dumpster itself—and another sighting of that big condor over the lake. This columnist is sure it's a Bald Eagle as that is the largest bird habitant to the Storm Lake region.

  Like a morning crossword puzzle, Dan checked off the word habitant and Fortune's other malapropisms while he paid particular attention to the details in her account.

  Another piece of the puzzle fell into place regarding the murder of that victim in the clubhouse last Spring. Sources say Sheriff Lang shot Anita Karrakas after she illedgibly donned a zombie costume and threatened the sheriff with a garden spike. She is also thought to be guilty of poisoning Destiny's beloved Lancelot, as well as Councilman Karrakas, her husband. Adios, Mrs. K.

  On a side note… a naked man was spotted near the Karrakas home and this reporter's informer said he couldn't absolve it for sure but the naked man's face at least resembled Laccassine parish's own Sheriff Lang. Surely, not. This reporter would have liked to have been an eyewitness to that!

  In-city events: The wicker event at the trade school turned out to be a class on tarot reading and yours truly was able to attend and give valuable spiritual advice to several students on their love life. Watch for my new column coming next month, Advice for the Forlorn.

  Thorpe checked off the last error and stepped over to the counter. So they'd lied to him. There had been another being present at the scene. The wife. Dan reached for his forceps and plucked the frozen tofu-like lump of flesh from the tray, the piece he'd pocketed when the deputy wasn't looking. A zombie, imagine that. He studied the rest of his collection.

  There were six—the DNA from Jack's daughter and his ex. Slides from Ray Meeker, whatever he was, and the gator, and one of those flying creatures that attacked them last Spring before it was burned by the blowtorch-wielding soldier. He lifted the sixth sample, frost making it difficult to distinguish the color, but the shriveled veins, its shape, and the holes left by the tines of a fork identified it as Fritz Fuchs' eyeball. That brought the total to six in his stash.

  No, wait, that was incorrect. He opened the freezer and pulled out a Ziploc bag with a discarded UPak-It coffee cup and enclosed slides. He'd forgotten about the sample he'd retrieved when Sheriff Lang had dropped by. He hadn't known then why he'd kept it, still wasn't sure. Call it a fancy, a whim, or a presentiment.

  As a young hungry researcher Dan had studied all the greats in his field, but to his mind, the true geniuses worked outside the boundaries of polite society. Some called the researchers he revered crazy, inhuman, even "heinous". But in Thorpe's opinion more discoveries for good or for ill came when subjects were tested beyond polite limits. More had been accomplished in barns, basements, dungeons, and… Dan scanned his office… yes, even autopsy rooms, than the public wanted to know about.

  But… he sighed. The fact remained that research and follow-up studies took massive amounts of money, laboratories with state of the art equipment. Without that and much more, he would be unable to create a viable technique for the regeneration of these cells.

  Thorpe sighed and lifted the tray. He must accept that it wasn't meant to be. With one final loving perusal of each of the potential wonders in his hand, he turned toward the furnace.

  A low sinister voice came from the direction of the doorway, "Do you really want to do that?" Thorpe spun around to face the visitor, a figure in a long hooded cape filled the entrance to the office.

  "What are you doing in this building?" he demanded in his best authoritative voice, which lost any real threat the second he fully absorbed the appearance of the creature in front of him. For he was certain his visitor was not human.

  The M.E. stood his ground though he wanted to cower, believing he was only still alive by this being's good will. A sliver of hope sparked. Or he had something the man wanted. He cleared his throat, decided diplomacy and the appearance of strength was the wisest course. "What can I do for you?"

  The cloaked figure approached never raising his head enough for Dan to see too far inside the hood, just enough to make out a set of very sharp teeth and a misshapen jawline and neck, showing signs of a horrendous battle. Old, deep, near fatal scars in Dan's professional judgment, made a patchwork of his reddish brown mottled skin. But Dan's gaze was drawn to the very lifelike reptilian eye in the center of the man's necklace. No, it was a dragon's eye. Then while he stared, it blinked. Dan's eyes shot to the hooded face, hoping he hadn't been caught ogling the pendant. The scary grin on the bottom of that face said it had been expected and welcomed.

  "Yes, we both like collecting… things. I like people of industry, who can envision a future others cannot. Now. Why don't you show me your specimens? I believe we may be able to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement."

  Thorpe might believe the latter, but he knew he had no choice in the former. His next course of action would determine if he stayed alive.

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  Excerpt from Blood Moon

  "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world,

  she walks into mine."

  Sam, Casablanca

  "It will be our last family reunion."

  Fierce Winds Isle jutted out from the north bank into Storm Lake, invisible to human eyes, except for a rough unnavigable water-front and thick trees that seemed to cover the island from shore to shore. River stepped onto the sand and approached the Moat of Morpheus as ominous thunderclouds skidded across the sky. The sudden change in weather and the crashing of waves should have been a warning.

  A figure in a ragged gray cloak stood with his back to River studying the symbols above the entrance to the Moat, Destiny's secret watering hole—-established centuries ago for supernaturals—-most of them adversaries. Each symbol, a ruby poppy surrounded by two black onyx wings, was a sign of eternal consequences for disobeying the rules of the tavern and incurring Morpheus' wrath.

  The last mark appeared the day River's sister was confronted by a cantankerous wind fae calling himself the "Lord of the Wind". Morpheus cut him down in front of everyone present.

  River slowed as the being turned and pushed the cowl back to reveal a face and neck covered in thick scars. He was easily as big as River; his size and copper skin would have indicated he was Djinn, but there was something missing in this creature's Qi. Dead eyes surveyed River as he stared at the man's painful-looking purple scars.

  "I'm impressed." The man's head tilted as he studied River in return. "I'd heard you were a scrawny thing, sickly even."

  River's eyes narrowed. Heard from whom? He didn't know the hooded man, but privately he acknowledged the feeling of dread he'd felt when he'd seen him. "If we've met—-"

  "We haven't, technically. The last time I was here for any length of time…" The man turned and scanned the lake looking off into the distance as if trying to remember the details of a past known only to him. Then his expression hardened and he aimed a glare at River. "Centuries ago, our father banished me from this place."

  River's mouth dropped open as he ran the man's words over once again in his mind. He couldn't have heard him right. Our father? What game was he playing? River had no siblings besides Tempe, though, he acknowledged, he didn't know everything. He'd found that out when his father returned "from the dead" in March after River was kidnapped and his sister, who'd raised him since he was four, ended up in trouble with the law. He called it the big lie his parents told to make sure he and Tempe would be safe from their enemies; it was still a thorn in his side. Ever since, he'd longed for the close family they'd been before Dutch left. And this…being… claimed to be family?

  "I don't blame you, River," said the cloaked man. "You are innocent—-somewhat—-though there is the unfortunate circumstance of your birth parents."

  Once again, River felt a tug on the invisible cord, that magical indicator between himself and a being who held him in thrall with a bartered wish. River's eyes flew wide. With a sneer, the man said, "So. You recognize it's my hold on you with that little wish our sister traded away. But there are no small wishes doled out in the family name, right? That single behest made me your master. As you know, I could wish for anything, a vault of gold, a country all my own, or… to destroy my strongest adversary."

  River was out of patience. A chill of dread caused him to lash out. "Who are you?"

  The scars twisted as pale blue teeth appeared in an unfriendly grin. "You can call me Styx. I wish I could say I'm here for a family bash but—-actually, that might describe it perfectly. Just call it our last family reunion."

  River started forward though he didn't have any plan in mind. His thoughts were whirling with the implications of what Styx had said. Our father… a family reunion… our sister. How could this be? His heart started pounding like a jackhammer; he was surprised Styx couldn't hear it. Did he intend to call in the wish now? Was there anything River could do to stop him?

  With a wave of one hand as if to say 'ta-ta', the other touching the necklace on his chest, Styx said, "Relax, little brother. I own you, and with this wish I finally have what I need to destroy our father. But on my terms." Like a statue, he waited until that sank in.

  He raised the cowl, obscuring his face again, "I'll be in touch."

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