Wintermore (Aeon of Light Book 1) (13 page)

Lurrus squeezes by Preta and through the door and waves goodbye to Deet. “You better be good.”

Deet smiles and waves back. “I will, don’t worry, my love.”

Yaz snatches Deet’s forearm and pulls him forward. “Let’s go let’s go, we’re wasting time, my Deets.”

“I’ve got a cold pint of Dazzle Razzle Golden Ale with my name on it,” Grandpa says, licking his lips and rubbing his hands together in eager anticipation.

Preta watches on as the boys turn into an alley across the street.
So, Kleg Alley to the Northside pubs. Got it, Operation Deets phase two is now a go
. Preta grins and goes back inside the cottage and sits at the table.

Over the next few hours, Lurrus and Nala talk in deep conversation while Preta times her moment to escape.

“What do you think, Preta?” Lurrus says.

Preta snaps out of her daze. “Huh?” she says, no clue what Lurrus is asking her.

“What do you think?”

“
Umm
—Yes.”

Lurrus beams. “I thought so too. Great minds,
eh
?”

Preta smiles and agrees, not wanting to have the conversation go any further.

As the time passes, Preta keeps an internal clock in her head:
the timing’s got to be perfect
. Preta watches on as Nala and Lurrus go on and on and on like mumbling hand puppets. Their mouths move, and words vibrate in Preta’s ears, though she doesn’t pay attention to what they’re saying. She just nods and stares through them. The hand on the clock hits 8:22.
It’s time, commencing Operation Deets phase two in five, four, three, two, one, go
.

Preta lets out a sickly breath. “I’m… I’m not feeling quite right. I need to go to the privy.”

“I’ll go with you,” Lurrus says, quickly standing up.

Shoot, didn’t plan for that, uh—
“Thanks, but I’ll be all right by myself. I just need some fresh air and a short walk.”

Nala squints, scanning Preta’s soul.

Preta gives Nala a sickly smile and cough. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

“
Uh-huh
, all right, don’t be too long.”

“I won’t,” Preta says, stepping through the front door. She gives a slight fist pump as the door clicks closed behind her. “Yes!” She rushes to the cart, grabs her pack, and races toward the privy as fast as her legs will move.

The dark streets mask her movements though every fifty paces, a single glass-encased lantern hangs from a tall iron post painted black.

At the public privies, Preta picks one, goes inside, pees, removes her clothes, and rummages through her pack, pulling out her plan. First, she removes a thin cloth and wraps it around her breasts, pulling them in tight. Then, she slips on soiled grey wool trousers and a raggedy old black sweater with holes in it. Preta ties her hair back in a tight bun and places a black leather cap over top. Last, Preta grabs a handful of a greasy black dirt mixture and smears it on her face. “Good enough,” she says, eyeing her reflection in a broken mirror hanging crooked on the wall. She smiles. “Operation Deets phase two complete—commencing phase three in, three, two, one, go.”

Preta exits the privy in the best impression of a dirty boy she can muster. She hides her pack in the bushes and takes a few steps toward the road.

A man and woman approach giggling, and Preta squats low in a shadow cast from a large bush.

The man and woman, arms locked, sway together step for step, kissing and staggering at the same time.

The man opens the privy door.

Preta waits a minute to make sure they’re inside before moving. She leans forward and freezes in place; a loud bang against the rickety privy wall startles her. Preta holds her breath.

The privy walls creek and moan in rhythm.

Preta slithers away through the bushes until she reaches the road, glances back at the privies for a second, then she sprints to her date with Operation Deets.

Jogging through Kleg Alley that Deet and Yaz turned onto, the procession of fiddles, drums, and laughter grows louder, announcing the party is near.

The melody leads her to a two-story cobblestone building in the middle of town. The bright yellow painted wooden shutters glow like lanterns leading the drunks to their port of call. She rests her hand on the stone’s masonry to catch her breath; the stone speaks, vibrating, alive. A yellow-and-green flag flaps in the wind. A coat-of-arms with two fish and two wine bottles is embroidered in the center, and an old bald man holding a plaque labeled
Etzle’s Pub
is underneath.

Gazing up, a wooden sign swings in the breeze. On it, a hand holding a pitcher pouring yellow ale into a man’s mouth.

Preta snakes through the alley next to the pub. She cuts the corner fast.

“Hey, watch it, kid,” a woman wearing a sleazy red dress says, leaning against the wall.

“Sorry,” Preta says in her normal voice.

The woman twists her face and flicks her hair. “Whatever.”

Preta touches the pub’s lime green back door and spins back toward the woman. She repeats herself, this time saying it deep and scratchy like a man. “I mean, sorry.”

The woman, not caring, waves Preta off and strolls away.

Preta stumbles through the pub’s back door. A rat scurries across her path, and she skips to the left.

The aroma of wine, ale, and sweet pipe smoke fills the hallway. The sticky floor grabs Preta’s feet with every step.

A procession of music and laughter and frivolity grows louder as Preta reaches a flimsy wooden door with the appearance of swiss cheese. She squats and peeks through one of the many holes.

Circular and linear wooden tables of varying sizes fill the pub.

People cheer, wave their arms, jump, skip, and dance in folly and joy.

Straight across, next to the front door, a long glossy mahogany bar top is loaded with empty pints. A sweaty bald bartender with sparse long grey hair strands plastered to his shiny head, pours drinks as fast as he can. The tin pints, touching each other, are lined up from one end of the bar to the other. The bartender side steps from pint to pint with a small barrel, pouring golden ale into the cups. The yellow liquid bubbles and foams, oozing over the metal lips.

The patrons clamor, counting down from ten as they pound their fists on the bar top, rattling the pints.

Left of the door, in the corner, a charred pig twirls on a spit overlying a square stone pit filled with coals and wood. A brown-haired wench wearing a tattered blue dress stands next to the hog, rotating the beast attached to a metal handle.

A broad-nosed man standing seven feet tall and wearing his thick blond hair back in a ponytail, lumbers toward the wench. With his enormous hand he extends a metal plate.

The wench rips a sickle-like knife out of the twirling pig and slices a steaming piece of meat off the cooked carcass. With little care, she tosses the pork on the metal plate with a plop.

Along the pub’s left wall, two fat men wearing brown suits stand one on either side of a rail-thin woman wearing a lacy-white dress as they all thump on drums.

In the center of the pub, two old men with white beards down to their belly buttons skip and twirl. They nod at each other and play fiddles, taking turns strumming the strings one at a time.

On the far right side, stairs lead to an open balcony spanning the entire front wall above the bar top. The balcony is jam packed with patrons pouring ale on the onlookers below.

Men and women throughout the pub drain entire cups, either in their mouths or in the air, throwing their arms up in joy.

Men collapse to the ground in a drunken stupor while other men punch each other in the face until one passes out.

A barrel of a woman with a hairy mole on her chin scoops up a fallen comrade and bear hugs him while onlookers cheer.

Men play cards, and pipes droop from their mouths. Some players are serious; some are animate; others’ heads bob to and fro, drunk.

Deet holds the ace of hearts high above his head and tosses it on the table. He stands up, grins, and points at his full house lying face-up.

The other players throw their cards in disgust and wave at Deet in disapproval.

One man, still holding his cards, drops his hands on the table followed by his head. His forehead bounces off the wooden table twice, and he collapses sideways out of his chair.

Men and women point and cheer, pouring pints on the man lying in the fetal position on the floor.

A large blonde woman with matted hair and wearing a light-blue dress leans over the balcony above.

Men below wave and shout.

She gyrates her hips and teases the men by shaking her finger at them.

The men whoop and holler, jumping and waving their arms.

The woman blows a kiss and rips down her dress top.

Two pale breasts larger than Preta’s ever seen or imagined flop out.

Preta presses her forehead harder against the door. “Oh—my—gosh.”

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.