Page 11 of Monsters and Mocha

Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Darby likely has dozens of other patients, given the massacre that happened today. Or was it yesterday?

His eye roved around the room, this time actually able to focus on and catalogue his surroundings. The ceiling above him was rough wooden planks with exposed beams, connecting down to brick-and-mortar walls. From his position in the center of the room, he could see a wall of shelves to his right, full of odd-shaped containers and piles of metal and wooden scraps. Beside the shelves hung a board with neat rows of hooks that displayed a variety of tools—wrenches, pliers, turnscrews, and several different kinds of thin, round blades. Beyond his feet was a tall, narrow door, and a tall frame that had been draped with a dark piece of fabric. To his left stood a tall-backed chair with deep green cushions and a narrow rack of clothes. A cot lined the floor parallel to him, underneath a narrow window close to the top of the wall.

His headache was returning quickly along with his lucidity, and he lifted his hands to put his fingers to his temples. His left arm was strangely uncooperative, and when he finally raised it high enough to see, it fell back limply to his side in shock.

I must still be asleep. My mind is playing tricks on me.

Fitz squeezed his eye shut, counted to ten, then opened it again. The room was the same as it was before. He let out a slow breath as he lifted his left hand once more.

There was no possible way the contraption of metal plates and gears in front of him was his limb. Sure, it might bear resemblance to an arm, complete with a hand and jointed fingers. It might even move as he directed it, albeit at a sluggish, slightly delayed pace. But it wasn’t his arm.

It couldn’t be.

Panic and shock were like two bands around his ribs, squeezing tighter and tighter until he could barely breathe. Fitz pressed his other hand—his real hand—to his chest, then drew it away as quickly as if he had touched a hot stove.

He slowly tilted the back of his head, tucking his chin and throwing off the thin blanket that covered his torso. His breathing deteriorated into shallow, uneven gasps as he took in the sight of his body.

Or rather, what had once been his body.

Metal plates covered the left side of his chest like half a suit of plated armor, somehow fused into the skin. They curved away at the bottom of his rib cage, forming an arced line that connected with his hip. His leg, from mid-thigh down, was constructed in much the same way as his arm, with small connected plates and visible gears and joints that ended in a heavy-looking metal boot in lieu of a proper foot. Large, curved metal pieces covered the side of his thigh, connecting the artificial limb to his armored side.

His joints creaked and squeaked as Fitz valiantly tried to force himself into a seated position. The weight of his new limbs was too much for his weakened muscles, however, and he succeeded in little more than causing dark spots to dance in front of his eyes from the pain and effort required. His chest squeezed uncomfortably tight, and his mouth tasted like iron.

Darkness swirled around him, accompanying the thoughts just as equally dark in his mind.

What kind of monster am I?

CHAPTER EIGHT

DARBY

“Well?” Henry slid a mug of steaming, frothy liquid in front of her as Darby collapsed onto the tall seat in front of the counter and laid her head on the cool surface. Every muscle in her body ached from the strain of the last 48 hours and her eyes burned with exhaustion. She blinked quickly, afraid that if she closed her eyes for longer than a few seconds she wouldn’t be able to open them again.

She sat up slowly and wrapped her fingers around the warm ceramic, bringing the drink up to her face and inhaling the delicious scent of chocolate and coffee. “He’s alive.” She took a sip, imagining the energy from the caffeine funneling through her body like a runner on a race track.

Her friend rested his palms on the counter and leaned forward. “For how long?”

“Ideally, a few decades.” Darby couldn’t help the smile that formed on her lips—the same expression that had captured her face when she stepped back from the makeshift operating table on her workbench and realized that her crazy idea had worked.

“You did it?”

“I did it.” She took another long sip. “He’s stable and sleeping right now, and hopefully will stay that way for the rest of the day. Even with the amount of healing I was able to do with magic, his body still has a long way to go.”

Henry raised a brow. “You mean you couldn’t bring him back from the dead in one day? I’m shocked.”

She made a face at him. “Stop it. Besides, he wasn’t dead.”

“Mostly dead.”

“Which is still a little bit alive.”

He shook his head slowly in admiration. “You’re amazing, you know that? But don’t forget that you’ll also find yourself mostly dead if you keep pushing yourself like this. When was the last time you slept?”

Darby waved his concerns away with her half-empty mug. “I’ll be fine. I have some of your special magic to keep me going. I knew renting a room above a coffeehouse was the best decision I would ever make.”

“Darby.” The edge of warning in his tone caused her to sober as well.

“I’m joking—kind of. But I promise that I will get some real sleep after my next shift is over.” She looked up at the clock and stood. “Which reminds me that I need to change before I go. Would you be willing to check in on Captain Monstrego every once in a while? Just to make sure he’s still breathing and that Raven hasn’t gotten in the window. I’m not sure what he’s going to do when he sees all the shiny screws.”