Fractured Legacy

4. 1. Kaylyn-2

Cole takes a couple of steps back, shaking her head. “I have a bad feeling.”

No. Not today. My fatigued muscles tighten in preparation for what’s coming. Whether Cole’s bad feelings turn out to be accurate or not, they always mean I’m about to have a shitty day.

When little sister has a bad feeling, everything gets done the hard way.

I close my eyes, reaching deep to muster enough energy to keep up, and whispering a silent plea for Mr. Edwards to rush out the front door and apologize for being late.

My request is answered by a crash somewhere on the second floor of the house.

“f**k,” I mutter with little regard to who might hear it. But then, I look around. An elderly couple on the sidewalk glares in my direction, probably convinced that Cole and I are about to rob the old house. We may be at the edge of town, but the historic district comes alive early in the day with sightseers and antiquers.

I duck my head when they continue staring. My mouth is always getting me in trouble. There’s a door around back we used to use when the museum portion of the building wasn’t open, so I hope there’s a chance Mr. Edwards might be around back there. “We’re not getting in through here. Let’s try the back entrance.”

Cole leads the way around the building to a door marked Employees Only. It stands slightly open, a rock being used as a doorstop, and the bricks around it reek of cigarette smoke.

“Nice to know his habit leaves an open path to the back room,” Cole says, her nose crinkling as she pushes the door open.

I grunt. Then silence falls around us as we squeeze through the tight and cluttered room. I’ve never seen such disarray in the storage area, and it bolsters my confidence that maybe Mr. Edwards got distracted. Or maybe he isn’t the most organized person to begin with. Between metal shelves that stretch to the ceiling and huge cardboard boxes, the pathway curls around in a pattern as confusing as the corn mazes we visited as children.

The wood above us creaks as someone takes a step overhead. I look up, getting an eye-full of dust when something stomps or falls above me. I squint and rub my eye, blinking away the last of the grimy filth. By the time I can see again, Cole is gone.

I rush forward to catch up, but even after finding the entrance to the main room, Cole is nowhere to be seen.

My heart thuds, pumping an abundance of adrenaline through my system. Following the wall, I come to the narrow flight of stairs that leads up to the second floor and finally spot my sister; halfway up, clinging to the wall.

The sight brings to mind the years we spent with our uncle tracking down bail skips before we were recruited to Aicil. We’d begged our uncle all through high school to let us work with him, and as soon as Cole turned eighteen, he finally agreed to take us out. I loved the non-stop action and thrill of it all, and we spent two years on his team. Ninety percent of our time was spent in tracking or research before trying to haul someone in—and even then, we mostly acted as backup, but we figured out some pretty creative ways to trip up runners. During that time, I dabbled in college, but not as intensely as I dabbled in spending my hard-earned money on partying.

And then, one strange encounter led us to Carlisle who laid out a proposal that was as hard to believe as it was to refuse, finish college with a degree in any research field, and let us train you to hunt down paranormal entities and objects.

That was more than three years ago, and even though Cole and I have only been on our own for a few months, Carlisle put us through some serious training while we finished our degrees.

And, with all of that prior experience, the tightening in my chest tells me that this is wrong. There is something more going on here than some local historian with a strange box. I don’t know if it’s just my insecurities popping up thanks to lack of sleep, but something deep down makes me also question whether it’s more than Cole and I can handle.

Keeping my footsteps deliberate and silent, I slink up the stairs to catch up to Cole and grab her wrist.

“What?” she mouths back.

I shake my head and tap my temple. Slow down and think. Watch. Wait. I don’t want to walk into a situation—just the two of us—with no idea what we might be dealing with.

Cole nods and steps to the other side of the door. Pressing her shoulder to the wall near the doorway. I wait as she pushes the door open slightly and peeks into the room. She squints, then jerks her head for me to have a look.

This storage room is more organized than the lower level, with a couple rows of metal shelves filled with artifacts, all neatly organized and labeled. In the center of the room, Mr. Edwards—at least I assume it’s Mr. Edwards since I’ve never met him—stands with his back to the door, and his head hung over the table where a brown, carved box sits.

He jerks like someone has pulled him upright by the greying hair on the top of his head, but continues staring straight ahead.

I glance back at my sister, whose face twists, one eyebrow dipping over her eye in a questioning expression.

“I think that’s our box,” I mouth, backing away from the door. And from the looks of it, he found something that changed his mind about handing it over.

That’s the best-case scenario.

“We can’t just barge in,” Cole whispers. “He’ll know we broke in.”

“Door was open,” I shrug. But I still have serious reservations about continuing.

A gust of air pulls past us as Mr. Edwards swings open the door. The heavy wooden door slams against its jamb and bounces back, but the wide-eyed man is unfazed.

Mr. Edwards lunges toward me, but I dodge him and stumble backward, hitting the wall on the other side of the hallway so hard it feels as if a bomb has exploded in my chest. “What the hell—”

Mr. Edwards stands at the threshold, staring at me without a hint of expression, like he hadn’t just tried to attack me. I don’t move. Not knowing what he’s capable of, I don’t dare set him off again.

Cole backs away from the door, holding her hands out in a defensive posture. “Mr. Edwards?”

He doesn’t acknowledge the disturbance; his gaze is set on me.

“We’re from Aicil. We’re here about the box,” Cole continues in her overly high-pitched business tone.

“The box,” he says in a dry, toneless voice.

“Yes, the box,” Cole says, taking a step closer to me. “You reported that something had been turned over to you that wouldn’t fit your collection, and spoke with Carlisle Palmer about turning it over to the Aicil Foundation for research.”

“Your services are no longer required,” he says, tilting his head. His voice almost sounds like one of those generic computer programmed voices.

I feel a tickle in my forehead—Cole’s bad feeling is turning out to be an understatement. I press my body into the wall and take a deep breath, hoping my voice will be steady enough to speak. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“Your services are no longer required,” he repeats, turning on his heel and disappearing back into the room.

I keep my back against the wall, letting the twitching in my nerves subside. My back still aches from the impact and my clenched jaw pulses with tension. I’m not sure what I just experienced, but all I want to do is get out of this building. Every instinct, every nerve, every hair standing on end is telling me to get the hell out. Something isn’t right.

Cole doesn’t give me time to say a word though. With a quick glance in my direction, she slips into the room, following Professor Zombie.

“You signed a contract,” Cole says.

I push off the wall and stumble into the room where Cole is closing in on the unpredictable man. Bad idea, Cole.

However, it does leave an opening. I sneak around the room, hoping Mr. Edwards doesn’t notice me while Cole is speaking.

“Look, Mr. Edwards,” she says.

He slams his hands down against the table on either side of the box, causing both of us to jump. I try to keep quiet, biting down on my thumbnail to suppress the effects of the adrenaline rush.

“Why don’t you tell us about the box?” Cole says, her voice calm and steady despite Mr. Edwards’s marionette-like stare.

“It’s my box,” he repeats, stepping between Cole and the table.

“Fine. All right. It’s your box.” Cole holds her hands in front of her—a frail attempt to keep the man back if he decides to attack again. “I just want to know more about it, like the carvings. Do you know what they are?”

Mr. Edwards c***s his head at Cole and crosses his arms over his chest. “Carvings. An object or design formed by cutting and shaping a material such as wood or stone—”

I’ve heard enough, but as soon as I step forward, Cole glares at me. And, following that glare, Mr. Edwards also turns to face me.

I shake my head. There’s nothing we can do. He can’t be reasoned with, and we have no idea how dangerous he might be. “The guy has gone dark. His power ring has faded.” I keep my jaw clenched, hoping Cole gets my message, but I have no idea how much—if any—of the conversation Mr. Edwards understands. “Let’s just get out of here before his head explodes.”

We need backup. More information. Anything. We don’t even know if this guy is Mr. Edwards. Is it just that I’m too tired to function on my own?

“There are no explosive devices in my head, Kaylyn.”

I bite my lip—I certainly haven’t offered my name. Sure, Carlisle would have given him our names, but how did he know I’m Kaylyn? Hands clenched at my sides, I hold my position. “Okay, Mr. Edwards—”

“Gib,” he says shortly.

“Sure….” I choke on my words as his lips turn into what I assume is supposed to be a smile. “Gib, what’s going on here?”

“You’re trying to take my box.” His eyes widen.

“Yeah.” I nod. This conversation is getting us nowhere. “We got that part. We’re quick like that, you know?”

“I do know.” He turns his body to fully face me, but his movements remain as awkward and stiff as his voice. “You thought you could find my box and take it away. But I won.”

“So you did, Gib,” Cole says, taking a step forward, but marionette-man spins around and hunkers over the box like it’s his heir.

Cole takes another step. “Where’s Mr. Edwards?”

“He… took a vacation,” his pitch increases slightly. “He’s probably sipping Mai Tais on the shores of Maui right now.”

I grunt. “That’s a quick trip.”

“Yes, anything is possible when you use your imagination. You two are particularly familiar with that, aren’t you?” Gib looks over his shoulder, staring right into my eyes. “Losing yourselves in a slightly altered unreality.”

I shake my head and stumble backward. For a dimwit, he has the creepy intuition and dictionary memorization down. If this is a possession, it’s not like any I’ve ever seen. Not that they’re all bad. Lost spirits sometimes look for any means to communicate or find meaning again, but everything is wrong about this.