The Crime in Callahan's Morrow - being rewritten

Chapter 16: Shambles

        A true predator doesn't let the prey know it is being hunted.

~The Dark King Seadeuorrhus of the Unseelie Fey Court

XVI

A clicking sound continuously reverberated throughout the study. A screwdriver picked on one spot in between the clicks.

His hand was always steady, never missing; a true blessing compared to what had been once a long time ago a reality, now just a passing memory.

This metal contraption was one of the ancient tools for everyday life, useless at this time and age, yet completely fascinating. Long thick cords held the pressure and its mechanism worked almost on its own, only needing the first push to start and not stopping until someone made it. Truly magnificent.

He had tried to realize an idea of something similar that worked on the same principle but failed short each time. It was like nature didn't want him to succeed, pitting his own mind against him in a battle of perseverance. He scowled at nothing in particular after that thought, although a poor old antique balloon lamp took the brunt of it for just being in the way of his stare.

Bullshit! All of it.

He needed to get his head back in the game—

"Bro!" A hollering voice called out from somewhere in the residence, interrupting his musings and he noted that he actually welcomed the halt of this particular train of thought. "There's a letter for you."

A letter? Hm, not important right now.

"Would you stop calling me bro!" he barked back at the owner of the voice.

No response greeted him; although he was sure he heard faint muttering through the open door that led to the thin hallway and to other rooms. Words, if those were words – one could never be sure with that kid around – were purely incomprehensible even to his sensitive hearing. And then, like a disaster invoked, his ears picked up a sound of an ominous crack, sounding almost as if a small explosion had gone off, and then a loud yelp from a familiar voice.

Honestly, that kid would never learn. Who knows what he destroyed this time.

He heard the footsteps approaching before the door slid fully opened. Opting for making the kid speak first – he'd never said he wasn't an arse – he kept reclining in his chair, the muscles of his back enjoying the soft, red tapestry, and his eyes trained on the metallic tool on the antique table. Everything in this room was antique, from the pelage carpeting to the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It was almost like a pattern, though in reality just a memory of another life.

"Then," the kid spoke and the energy around him vibrated like when he was amused. Oh, no. "Should I call you Dad? Or maybe Uncle?"

"No," he drawled as if he was explaining something particularly easy to understand to an idiot. "However, you could use my name – Jackal. Ringing any bells?"

Jackal wanted to send a scalding glare at the kid to get his point across. But once he looked over his shoulder, his vision was filled with orange. So much orange of the brightest shade, he thought the light receptors in his eyes would get scarred. The usually pale caramel skin was orange, clothes on the kid were orange, the strands of black hair were orange and the only disruption of goddamned orange was the kid's silver irises. And there was a bright shine reflecting and almost blinding him – he guessed glitter was put into the mix.

"Did-" Jackal tried to form a sentence but the color made his brain mush. "Did you take a dip in the paint?" he managed after rebooting his short-circuited synapses. Honestly, what the hell? He had to turn the chair toward the bright neon orange since he couldn't get his head around the fact there was so much bloody orange in his study.