Wintermore (Aeon of Light Book 1) (33 page)

A pudgy, unshaven officer wearing a red armband points his billy club at the patrons.

They all glance and point to Yaz and Tages sitting on the floor.

“Seize them,” the officer says in a deep voice and a flick of his head.

Preta crawls to Yaz and hugs him tight.

Mara attempts to slip away from Tages, and the guards grab them both.

The guards lift Yaz and Preta to their feet.

Yaz’s eyes dance, and his head spins toward the guard. He vomits, black liquid shoots into the man’s face.

Yaz’s stout drips off the guard’s nose, and white chunks stick in the man’s beard.

The guard strikes Yaz in his stomach with the butt of his club, folding him over. “Drunken filth.
Dammit—
that smells horrible
.
”

Preta reaches out to her brother. “Please, please don’t hurt him.”

“No need for the aggression,” Tages says to a guard. “We were just having a little fun, no big deal,”

The guard yanks a wobbling Yaz to his feet, and he glowers at Tages. “Shut up, you, or you’re next.”

The officer points at the front door. “Bring them.”

The guards pull Preta and the others out of the pub and into the street.

Preta searches for any hope, and she sees Deet standing across the street in an alley. He shields half his face with his hand.

Deet’s eye meets hers, and the guard jerks Preta away.

The guards drag them down the road for a few minutes.

Preta peeks back to make sure Yaz is all right.

Two guards carry him on either side, propping him up.

Yaz is out cold, and his feet loudly scrape and catch on the grooves of the cobblestones.

Preta snarls at Tages. “
You
! You did this, this is all your fault.”

“Me? All I did was bring you a pint. How is this my fault?”

Preta shakes her head in disdain at Mara. “
And you
, you collected money when they fought.”

Mara chuckles and rolls her eyes. “Grow up.”

Realizing their predicament, Preta’s heart races. They’re taking them to jail, and by morning their heads may be on spikes. A glimmer of hope creeps in. She mumbles, “Deet saw.”

The guard yanks Preta forward through the dark. “Shut up,” and he faces a stone building on the corner of the main road leading to the docks, two lantern posts on either side of the stairs.

The smell of the sea is strong, though with the right gust of wind, Preta catches a whiff of the guard’s rank body odor and garlic dinner.

Preta gazes up, and four guards stand sentry by the jailhouse door.
Shoot, we’re so screwed
. She lowers her head and sighs. Her eyes open wide, and she raises her head as a familiar noise enters her consciousness. Her mind panics.
Oh no
.
What was that?
The hairs on the back of Preta’s neck bristle. She tilts her head to the side toward the tune of a faint whistle.

PRETA PRETA PENTER

The whistler approaches the well-lit street corner from a muted road along the docks. He waves at the officer. “Constable.”

The man holding Preta stops and sneezes. He wipes his nose and sniffs.

The whistler struts toward them through the dark with two of Lomasie’s black suit praetors by his side. Another one runs in the opposite direction down the road and disappears when he turns into an alley.

“Excuse me,” the whistler says, raising his finger. “These four, why are they being detained?”

The officer spits on the ground. “What’s it to you?”

The whistler strokes his beard on his chin. “I’m asking you politely. Now would you care to make a deal or not?”

Again, the officer spits a stream of liquid on the ground, this time closer to the whistler’s boots. “What kind of deal do you have in mind?”

“The girl. How much for her?”

The officer scans Mara and then nods to the man restraining her.

Mara scowls at the whistler and she squirms in the guard’s arms.

The guard pushes Mara forward.

“How much do you have in mind for this one?” the officer says to the whistler.

“Not that one,” and the whistler points at Preta. “
That one
.”

Yaz regains consciousness and gazes up at the whistler. He thrashes his arms. “You! I’m gonna kill you, you’re a dead man, let me go!”

The officer calmly points at Yaz. “Will you please control him.” And he waves for the men at the top of the stairs to come down to them.

Tages tugs on his bindings. “This is such bullshit, you’ve got no right to hold us.”

The guard punches Tages in the stomach, and he folds over. “Shut up.”

The officer nods at the whistler. “What do you want with the young girl?”

The whistler steps forward and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a thick coin pouch that jingles. “That’s none of your concern. So how much do you want?”

“How much do you value your life, music man?” Mara says and then she snarls.

The whistler chuckles. “Brave girl, Mara, brave, brave girl, isn’t it interesting how fate brings everything full circle?” The whistler nods at the officer. “On second thought, provisor, how much for both girls?”

Pinching his chin, the provisor calculates Preta’s and Mara’s worth. “
Mmm
—these two definitely have value. How about a gold qid apiece?”

“Done,” the whistler quickly says, and he tilts the pouch to dump the coins out.

The provisor coughs. “Did I say a qid? I meant a half.”

The whistler moves forward with three calculated steps. “And done. Though I expect you’ll remember no more.”

“We have a deal,” and the provisor nods to the two men holding Preta and Mara.

Yaz and Tages both jerk forward and reach their hands out at the same time. “No!”

Mara scowls and peeks back at Tages. She calmly shakes her head
no
.

“Take them,” the whistler says. “Pleasure doing business with you, provisor,” and he drops two gold halves into the man’s hand.

“Slippery little one, you are,” the whistler says to Preta.

Preta spits on his chest. “I hate you—you’re going to pay for this.”

The provisor laughs as he ogles his gold coins. “Looks like you’ve got a real live one there, good luck breaking her in. You better keep it on a leash.”

The whistler gives the officer a sinister grin. “I’ll get much pleasure in training her to obey.” He motions to his men. “Bag them.”

Preta peeks back at Yaz, and a black bag is pulled over her head. Everything goes dark, and her breathing amplifies.

Yaz head butts the guard and lunges forward. “Preta!”

The officer strolls over to Yaz. “I said control him.” He crouches down and punches Yaz in the gut, dropping him to his knees.

A skinny younger praetor yanks Preta forward, making her stumble off balance. The sound’s of the city, muffled from the cover over her head, the echo of her breathing intensifies. After a few minutes, the fountain in the massive city square makes its presence known as she passes it by.

“Bring the seeros this way, along the wall and out of sight,” the whistler says. “Keep your eyes open, anyone can be it.”

The praetor jerks Preta to the right, changing her direction. In the distance, she hears the town’s guard marching in formation through the square as every one of their steps hits the cobblestones in unison.

“This way,” the whistler says.

The praetor yanks Preta to the right again. They walk straight for a few minutes. Chickens cluck on Preta’s right, bells chime on her left, a dog barks, and a woman yells.

After a couple more minutes, the praetor leads Preta to the left until her feet hit a stone step. He tugs her rope. “Step up, you filthy sitic. Lift your foot and move.”

Preta doesn’t budge. “Why should I do anything you ask?”

“I said, step up now!”

“No,” Preta says, defiant, her feet locked to the ground.

The whistler slides behind Preta and gently places his hand on her shoulder. “Preta Preta sweet Preta,” the whistler says, “we won’t kill you, though we also don’t have to deliver you in one piece as long as you are delivered. Do you understand me? Nod if you understand.”

Preta stands motionless contemplating the threat. “I’m not going anywhere with you, whistler.”

“
Hmm
—Preta, Preta, Preta, so young you are, so pretty, so stupid.” The whistler’s hand squeezes her left wrist.

Preta tries to pull away, but her hands are bound behind her back.

The whistler pries open her sweaty fingers and grips the left pinky, separating it from the rest.

The skinny praetor laughs, and Preta shakes from his hip bouncing into her. “Stupid sitic, you should’ve listened the first time.”

The whistler yanks Preta’s little finger to the side, breaking it with a crack.

Preta’s eyes snap open in shock, and she inhales, sucking the bag into her mouth as the sharp pain shoots up her hand and into her arm. The scratchy wool cuts into her cheeks as she struggles to breathe.

A cold blade slips between her pinky and ring finger, pressing slowly into her skin, then slicing back and forth.

Faint and about to pass out with each slow, agonizing cut, Preta lets out a muffled scream. The knife reaches bone, and her body convulses. Preta coughs and chokes on the bag with every exaggerated breath.

Again, the whistler yanks Preta’s little finger sideways, separating it for the knife to slice through the bone. He lets go of Preta’s hand, and her arms drop limp behind her back.

“For Vae,” Nelek says.

The praetor laughs. “Don’t worry, sitic, I’ll save your finger for your stupidity.”

Preta’s breathing slows. Her body sways—everything spins, then black. Preta passes out, falling to the ground.

Preta wakes in a fright, sitting upright, dripping wet with water. Her hand throbs in pain, and she opens her eyes to the black bag. Preta’s head sways back and forth. Her muffled breath echoes in her ears. She calms herself for a second, but horrible images flood through her mind. Tied to a chair, she rocks and screams.

A hand gently touches her shoulder, making her shiver. Fingertips lightly graze the skin at the base of her neck. “Preta, Preta Penter,” Lomasie says in a slow, calculated, deep voice.

Preta flinches and quivers in her seat.

Lomasie cups the side of Preta’s head.

Her head twitches.

He pinches and removes the bag covering her head.

The room brightens.

Preta’s body undulates to the rhythm of her thumping heartbeat, the pounding sensation making her nauseous.

Lomasie lifts a chair, strolls to her, and sets the chair on the floor five feet away. He sits down, casually crossing his legs. Lomasie points to where Preta’s finger used to be. Blood drips to the floor one slow drop at a time. “I see you had an accident. So you finally met my friend Nelek up close and personal—handy with a blade, isn’t he?” Lomasie glances away and the left side of his lip rises. “Amongst other things.”

Preta focuses on Lomasie’s waxy face, trying to keep her composure and dignity. Her head and eyes roll to the floor, dizzy.

Lomasie snaps his fingers in front of Preta’s face. “Eyes on me.”

Preta’s head flinches from the sound and motion.

The door swings open, and a young woman praetor with black hair strolls into the room.

Lomasie waves for her to come closer.

She leans in and whispers into Lomasie’s ear.

Lomasie nods. “Notify the Acue that Preta Penter, candidate number four, has been taken into custody.”

Preta’s head swirls at the sound of her name.

“And what of Lux, sir?” the praetor says.

“In this particular case, they can find out by other means.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lomasie waves off the praetor, and she leaves the room. Lomasie’s eyes narrow, and he shakes his head in pity at Preta. “You know, this would’ve gone so much easier if you would’ve just come with me the first time. I’m usually quite reasonable and try to refrain from any kind of violence; it’s bad business, though we have to do what we have to do for the Republic, and my family. And if you’d just listened to me, your grandfather would still be alive—and your sister and your brother’s wife and well, most of your town.”

Preta tries to speak, but her brain, affected by the pain of her hand, is unable to process what’s going on in front of her. Her mouth and tongue can’t form complete words. “
You
—”

Lomasie reaches out and softly pets Preta’s head like a dog. “I know, Preta, I know.”

The pain in her hand pulsates up her arm, making her head pound with every beat of her heart. She squirms in her chair, her pants wet with water and sweat. Preta gazes up at Lomasie, who is still caressing her head. His lips move, saying something, but she hears nothing but static. Her breathing increases and becomes irregular. Her eyes wander aimlessly. She lurches forward and vomits.

Lomasie springs out of his chair and backs away. “Looks like you lost something else too.”

Preta’s body sways back toward him.

Lomasie faintly chuckles, and he snaps his fingers in front of her face again.

Preta’s vision drifts away; Lomasie’s fuzzy fingers double, and then triple as his laughter quietly echoes inside of her head, then silent.

Her body shuts down and everything goes black.

UP IN SMOKE

Curled in a ball on the floor, Preta wakes, her hands free and unbound. She rubs her eyes. Preta stares at a bloody bandage wrapped around where her finger used to be. She sits up, nauseous. Leaning against the wall, she dry heaves in fits.

“Breathe, Seeros,” Mara says from the other side of the well-lit room.

Taking in the white walls, paint peeling, pockets in the plaster exposing the studs, dust piles and white plaster chips dot the wooden floor, Preta blinks and focuses on Mara. “How long have I been out?”

“All night and the better part of a day.”

Preta’s body convulses from the shock.

Mara nods at Preta. “Calm yourself—save your energy.”

Preta gains control of her stomach, and she cries.

“Crying won’t help either, Seeros.” With legs propped up, and her wrists resting on her knees, Mara sits, leaning against the wall.