Wintermore (Aeon of Light Book 1)

by Sethlen, Aron

  The woman wiggles her giant boobs back and forth and up and down to the beat of the drums.

  Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom-boom—

  The men below jump in a frenzy, trying to grab the boobs. A few men stick their tongues out, pretending to lick them. Others raise pints to the tits, and in a crazed jubilation, dump ale over themselves and over others.

  A man on the balcony slips behind the woman without her noticing. He sticks his hands underneath her boobs while she continues to bounce. One boob flops into his hand, and he cups it and squeezes.

  The startled woman spins toward the man. Her eyes brighten and widen, and her mouth curls into a sardonic smile. She slaps the man across the cheek and grabs his head with both hands and shoves his face deep into her chest.

  The woman jerks the man away and yanks him up to her face, giving him a long, wet kiss, then she shoves him away as she bellows in erratic laughter, bouncing her body up and down.

  The man nudges the woman aside and steps out into full view. His arms held open wide, he lets out a barbaric howl while sticking his tongue out at the crowd and shaking his head and hips side to side violently.

  “Yaz? Oh my—” Preta says as her eyes bulge.

  The hole she’s peeking through suddenly goes black.

  A man bumps the door, pushing it open and knocking Preta onto her butt.

  “What you doing down there, boy?” the man says with a twisted face, eyeing Preta lying on the ground.

  “Just-just… Fixing my boot before I go inside.”

  “Well, watch where you’re fixing and get in before the wine and women are gone.”

  The man carries a barrel on his shoulder and steps over Preta’s legs.

  Preta gets up, gathers herself, and enters the pub. She scans the room. “Where do I go?” The pig.

  Preta smiles at the wench. “Can I have a piece, please?”

  The wench giggles. “Please? Aren’t you a cute one.” The woman snatches a metal plate off a large stack and slaps a piece of meat on it.

  Preta bites into the warm roasted pig. Her mouth waters and her body relaxes as the fatty meat melts on her tongue.

  A rotund man with skinny legs and a red nose and white goatee slides behind Preta and slaps her on her back, making her choke.

  “What? No drink?” The man shoves a pint of dark-red liquid into Preta’s hand. “Swill this wine with your swine, boy.” He lets out a deep belly laugh and coughs, spilling half his pint on his fancy suede boots.

  Preta gulps the tangy liquid, pushing down the semi-lodged pig in her throat. She scans the room and decides to go for a poker table.

  “You playing?” a man with a curly, oily, thin mustache says as Preta sits at the table. “Qid silver minimum to play.”

  Preta reaches into her bare pockets. “Oh—no, sorry.” She leaves the table and slides behind Deet playing at the adjacent table. Across the room, she eyes an overweight black-haired woman straddling Dix’s lap.

  The woman kisses Dix without coming up for air.

  Yaz swoops in behind both of them and rubs Dix’s mop-like hair like he would to Roscoe.

  Dix glances up at Yaz, stupid grin on his face and his head swaying.

  Yaz points to the front door, and Dix turns to see what he’s pointing at. Yaz snaps forward and kisses the woman on the lips.

  Dix turns back to his friend, shaking his head in confusion.

  With both hands, Yaz clinches Dix’s head and kisses him on the forehead. Yaz shoves Dix’s head away and lets out a barbaric yell. Spinning away from the table, Yaz steps up onto a chair and raises his pint high in the air for all to see. Yaz drains the contents, then with little care, tosses the pint to the ground. He jumps off the chair and prances and twirls, skipping around the room like a fool, bouncing from table to table and person to person, kissing anyone who will have him, man or woman.

  In the far corner, Grandpa reclines in a flimsy wooden chair—asleep. His head propped against the faded, peeling, flower-patterned wall, the pint of golden ale tilts precariously on his stomach, bubbly liquid rising and falling with every snore.

  “Nice hand, Lomasie,” Deet says with a sigh, tossing his losing cards on the table and leaning back in his chair.

  An older woman with shiny dark hair and a tanned worn face and wearing a lavender dress slides in next to Deet. She smooches him on the cheek.

  Deet grins, then kisses the woman on the lips while squeezing her butt.

  “You can’t win every hand, Penter,” Lomasie says in a slow, calculated, drawn-out voice.

  Deet comes up for air and smirks at Lomasie. “But I can win most of the time.”

  Preta catches Lomasie’s eye. He gives her a slow, methodical nod, which makes her shiver. He drags the silvers and coppers across the table with his strong, nimble hands.

  Lomasie appears sober; his cunning eyes narrow. His black pupils, hollow, pierce deep. Lomasie’s dark slick hair with sporadic white strands is pulled back behind his ears, and it contrasts with his strong linear features and wax-like skin. He leans back in his tailored black suit and taps the table twice with a gold coin, a gold coin ten times larger than a nib, and ten times larger than Preta has ever seen in her life. On his lapel, a silver pin shaped into a white lily with yellow-and-red speckles.

  Preta glances away, unable to keep her eyes on him. Lomasie emanates an aura of confidence and intimidation, which she’s never quite experienced before gazing on anyone else. But as if by force, Preta’s eyes drift back toward him, and Lomasie cocks his head to the side and coldly glances at Preta. He blinks and wipes his brow with a pure white silk scarf dotted with bright yellow and lush red specks.

  Startled, Preta’s eyes widen, and she steps backward. Mr. Felsten. She bumps into a round sweaty man standing behind her.

  The sweaty man pushes Preta forward with his big belly, making her tumble into Deet.

  Preta dumps wine on her brother and pushes off his shoulder.

  Deet throws up his arms in frustration. “Come on now, what the hell!”

  Preta turns away and shields her face. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, just be careful, you drunken fool.”

  Preta peeks back to the table and her eyes connect to Lomasie’s.

  Lomasie’s thin lips contort, curling up into a sinister grin, a grin reminiscent of the blonde woman who tried to kill Preta on the night the light struck her.

  Frantic, Preta lowers her head. The room spins and goes silent. People dance and yell and cheer though all Preta feels is the floor’s vibrations under her feet. Her heart palpitates and thumps and it echoes in her ears.

  Preta spins toward the front door though a crowd at the bar blocks her escape.

  She spins back, and Lomasie stands up, reaching into his pocket.

  The urge to flee surges through Preta’s veins. She knocks over a young couple dancing as she shoves past them.

  Preta’s body shakes uncontrollably as she makes her way for the back door. She bobs and weaves through the tables and drunks.

  The flimsy door within arm’s length, Yaz leaps in front of Preta, blocking her escape. His head swirls in circles.

  Preta stands still, not knowing how to react face to face with her brother.

  Yaz’s dazed eyes fix on Preta’s, his eyes swimming and silent. He leans in, the aroma of ale and vomit hangs thick on his breath. Yaz whispers gibberish.

  Confused, Preta squints, unsure of what he’s saying to her.

  “Ha-ha!” Yaz says, slapping Preta hard on her butt and knocking her off balance. He snorts like a pig and tilts his head up toward the ceiling. He screams incoherent words. “Raa-raa-you-yeh-raa-yo-yo’s-ha-ha—”

  Frightened and frantic, Preta scrambles to her feet and pushes by him. She hits the back door with her entire body and bulls her way into the back hallway.

  The door rattles and squeaks as it swings shut behind Preta. She readies to run, pressing off her heel then lunging forward,
and a hand grips her wrist, yanking Preta back.

  WHISTLE WHILE YOU WORK

  “Preta Penter!” Deet says. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Preta freezes and holds her breath for a split second. “I just wanted to go to your party.”

  “This is no place for you.”

  “I’m sorry I—I just wanted to see what it was like.”

  “Let’s go—now!” Deet kicks open the back door and drags Preta into the alley. “Don’t look over there,” he says, yanking her away from a group gathered cheering in the corner by the wooden garbage barrels.

  Deet walks faster.

  Trying to keep up, Preta’s short legs run with a sideways skip. She tugs her arm trying to break free from Deet’s viselike grip. “I’m sorry, please.”

  “Not a word and keep moving, young lady.”

  Ahead, the Penter horse and cart sits in front of Lurrus’s cottage.

  “Please, Dee, stop, I’m sorry—you’re hurting my arm.”

  Deet releases Preta and sternly points at her chest. “That’s no place for a young lady. I can’t believe you; what were you thinking?”

  Preta, not afraid, places her hands on hips. “And why isn’t it a place for me? It is for you.”

  “Not now, Preta Penter.”

  “No! I think we should discuss this right now. The party was good enough for you. And it’s definitely good enough for Yaz ‘the drunk and screaming kissing everyone in the pub’ Penter.”

  Deet, scolding, continues pointing at her. “That’s no place for a young girl.”

  Preta sways her head and laughs at the moon. “But it was good enough for the girl you were kissing.”

  “Hey now, that was—”

  Preta, doing her best Nala impression, glares at Deet as she points back at him. “Hey nothing! Your hand seemed to be good enough for her butt too.”

  “That was—”

  “That was what?” Preta says as she contorts her face in disgust and leans forward, invading Deet’s space.

  Deet backs away. “That’s just how those things go at these parties.”

  Preta stomps her foot, and Deet flinches. “Oh, is it?” She snorts in spurts. “So you don’t care if I tell Lurrus and Nala how those things go and how it went? How you kissed that woman and grabbed her butt?”

  Deet glances away. “You go too far.”

  Preta leans in closer, and the creases in her forehead deepen, not backing down now that she smells blood. “Do I? Do I? How about I don’t tell if you don’t tell?”

  Deet stares at Preta, estimating the threat. He eyes the cottage. “Fine, but straight in and not a word—I’ll be watching.”

  Preta shakes her head. “No, I need to go to the privy first, and then I’ll go inside.”

  Deet places his shaky hand on Preta’s back. “Okay, but I’m coming with you.”

  Preta wiggles away from him. “No, you won’t! You’re going back to your drunken fool party of drinking and butt grabbing and kissing and whores. I’m going to the privy by myself, then I’ll go back to the cottage when I’m done.”

  Deet puckers his lips and his brow arches. “Dammit, Preta, no more messing around tonight and straight to the privy, then to Lurrus’s. And I better not see you in the pub again.”

  Not pressing her luck, Preta sternly nods then makes for the privy without looking back. She makes straight for privy alley. Preta staggers with her hands on hips as she tries to catch her breath. Her mind floods with images, the euphoria of a successful Operation Deets now long gone, in its place, Lomasie’s smug face. Mr. Felsten’s scarf? Lomasie had it. How’d he get it? Who is he?

  Preta grabs her backpack hidden in the bushes and goes inside the privy. She strips off her clothes and scrubs her face and arms raw with a wet canvas-like cloth.

  She jams everything into her bag in a wadded tangled ball and cinches the top with a knot.

  Men’s voices grow louder approaching the privies.

  Preta pushes open the door and slides along the wall like a cat, hiding against the back side.

  Two men each go into a privy, and one stands outside, whistling.

  A couple minutes later, one of the men exits his stall and joins the whistler.

  “So he said he made contact?” the man says to the whistler.

  The whistler nods, and then he kisses a lock of detached fine blonde hair. “It won’t be a problem. We’ll leave this backwater cesspool for civilization soon enough, and you’ll get what you’re owed.”

  “I better,” the man says, and then he lets out a squeaky, annoying laugh.

  Preta inches her body along the privy wall, scraping her nose against the textured wood. Through the cracks, the aroma of poo fills Preta’s nose, making it twitch. Her arm aligns with the privy shed’s edge. Preta’s right eye pokes around the corner.

  The men stand together though apart.

  The whistler is tall and still.

  The other man slightly hunched over and fidgety.

  The fidgety man points toward the main road leading into Waighton. “Who’s watching the cottage?”

  “You, if you don’t shut up and quit bothering me.” The whistler turns toward the privies; his black leather duster coat makes his body hard to see. The faint oil lantern near the main road outlines a trimmed medium-length beard matched by his thick dark hair.

  The fidgety man nods at the whistler. “So to the camp now?” He laughs.

  The whistler waves off the fidgety man with a wrist flick. “Taking too long.”

  “What?” the fidgety man says, confused.

  The whistler bangs on the privy door with his palm. “Crap and move—now!”

  A thump echoes from inside. “Can’t a man get some peace? I’ll be out in just a minute.”

  The whistler strolls back to the fidgety man, his gait precise and fluid. His steps are silent, and his arms blend into his body, unseen. The whistler stops next to the fidgety man and stares at the lantern perched on a post on the main road.

  The fidgety man snorts between his whiny laugh. “Yeah, can’t a man get some peace?”

  The whistler’s left arm springs like a mantis, extending through the fidgety man’s neck with the butt of a blade resting in the man’s throat. The point pierces out the back of his neck, and a gooey black stream oozes from his mouth. The whistler removes the blade with a smooth pull.

  The fidgety man folds and crumples to the ground.

  The whistler twirls his blade, and with one controlled wrist flick, at the apex, black liquid sprays off the blade’s tip. His arm retracts, folding into his body in a mechanical manner. He lets out a soft cough, clearing his throat then whistles a faint, eerie tune.

  Preta’s head jerks back behind the privy. Her body rolls away from the edge, and she leans against the back wall. Oh my, he killed that man. She raises her hand and covers her mouth as she steps forward toward the bushes. Preta freezes.

  The man inside the privy opens the door and slams it shut behind him.

  Preta flinches as the man coughs and then spits to the ground. She spins against the privy wall and sticks her head out from the edge to watch the two men walk away.

  The privy man reaches the whistler still standing in the same spot, entranced by the glowing lantern. He stops a few feet away from him. “Any problem?”

  The whistler goes silent and strolls away toward the road.

  The privy man opens his arms, unsure of what he said wrong, then he drops his arms in frustration, slapping his thighs. “We’re not waiting for the new guy?”

  The whistler slows but doesn’t stop. “You can have the piece of shit next to you. Make sure you get rid of it where no one will find it.”

  The privy man opens his arms in confusion and looks at the ground. Seeing the new guy, dead, he gasps and lunges backward.

  Preta lifts her gaze back to the lantern on the road.

  The whistler is nowhere to be seen.

  A GIFT REVEALED

  Preta crouches
and hugs her knees in tight. Thoughts race through her mind as she waits for the privy man to leave: The whistler killed that fidgety man. Who are they? Whose cottage are they watching? Mr. Felsten’s scarf? Did Lomasie kill him? Why are they here? Could these guys be the same that killed the boy in the woods?

  The privy man grunts, and Preta flinches. She dives to the ground, lying flat on her stomach, face planted in dirt and grass.

  Peeking up, she watches the privy man stagger and lumber out of town, carrying the dead body over his shoulder.

  Once over the hill, the man disappears out of sight.

  Preta pops off the damp, cool ground and sprints for Lurrus’s cottage. She runs on the dark side of the road to mask her movements.

  The silence in the street amplifies Preta’s feet clapping on the hard cobblestones.

  She eyes the cottage in front of her and darts at an angle across the street, stopping next to the cart and horse to catch her breath.

  The horse jerks its head and puffs out some air welcoming Preta.

  Preta rests her palm on the horse’s neck. “Such a crazy night, Berta. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  The horse jerks its head again and puffs out more air.

  Preta pats Berta twice then moves toward Lurrus’s front door.

  Taking one step inside the cottage, Preta freezes.

  A faint whistle chimes behind her.

  She spins to the noise.

  The whistler steps out of the shadows from across the street just under a oil lantern.

  Preta stares in shock as she fixates on his puckered lips through his thick black beard, his face is mostly shrouded by dark, is eyes deep and hollow and black.

  He continues his soft, eerie tune to the tap of his foot. The whistler nods once, kisses the long lock of blonde hair, and then steps back into the shadows, disappearing.

  “Preta Penter!” Nala slams her hand flat on the door.

  Preta jumps and spins toward Nala.

  “Preta Penter, where the heck—”

  “I…” Preta peeks back toward the alley.

  Nala places her hand on Preta’s shoulder and pushes her aside. “What are you looking at over there?”