Wintermore (Aeon of Light Book 1)

by Sethlen, Aron

  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.

  “My name’s Preta, not Seeros.”

  “Seeros, Preta, whatever.”

  “So you’re with these murderers?”

  “Does it look like I’m with them? I’m sitting in this cell with you.”

  Preta cradles her bandaged hand and looks at it again.

  “You growing up yet?” Mara says.

  Preta ignores her and tucks her knees tight into her body, trying to comfort herself.

  “The world’s a harsh place, filled with evil people.”

  Preta whispers at the wall, “There are good people too.”

  “You’re right, there are good people. Tell me, what will you remember looking at your hand, the good or the bad? And what will you be?”

  “Should I remember you?” Preta says.

  “Depends if I like you or not,” Mara says with a shrug.

  “And what do you like?”

  “Not these scum suckers, so we have that in common.”

  “It sure seems you know these scum suckers, and were friends in the past.”

  Mara slowly nods, recounting something deep in her mind. She scowls. “I gave Nelek a mark on his face to remember me by, so now he wants my blood.”

  “Why did you attack him?”

  Mara spits on the floor. “He killed my friend, so I tried to kill him. Then he tried to kill me—big mistake.”

  “Looks like you both failed the first time,” Preta says. “It doesn’t look so good for you now, stuck in this room with me, a prisoner.”

  Mara chuckles. “Doesn’t look so good for him, either. He just doesn’t know it yet. He’ll fail the second time too, though I won’t.”

  Preta sits up straight and leans toward Mara. “You’re going to kill him?”

  “Yes,” Mara says.

  “And Lomasie?” Preta’s pain subsides at the thought, and a flicker of excitement builds, a ripple of aqua-blue light flashes over her pupils.

  “What of him?”

  “Are you going to kill him too?”

  “He didn’t kill my friend.”

  “But the man working for Lomasie killed your friend, and he killed my family and friends.”

  “Then you kill him if you want him dead, Seeros. He’s scum, but he didn’t kill my friend, so I can care a less about him unless he comes at me.”

  Preta squints, trying hard to convince Mara. “Well, Nelek works for Lomasie. Maybe he ordered him to kill your friend.”

  “Girl, some people in this crap-filled world kill because they get paid to kill; some kill to protect their family and friends; some kill to protect themselves; some kill for glory and duty; and some kill because they like to kill.
Nelek is all of those, Seeros, and in particular, from what I gather, he’s the last one.”

  “Why do you keep calling me Seeros? How do you know me?”

  “Because you’re a seeros. That’s why they took you. Probably for a lord, or a filthy rich shit eater in Ardinia. One of Nelek’s men hired my friend, Tages, in Bielston for a job, and by association my friend, Van, and me as well. When we showed up to the meet, Nelek didn’t take kindly to our presence. We tried to back out and slip away. But Nelek had other ideas.”

  Preta crawls to Mara and sits next to her. “So what’s your plan?”

  Mara scowls. “Kill the music maker and slip on out of here.”

  “With me?”

  Mara says nothing.

  Preta watches the calculations ticking away in Mara’s eyes, an internal debate of numbers and scenarios. She touches Mara’s arm. “Please, be good.”

  “Fine. When they come in here to do whatever they’re gonna do, just stay calm, and stick close to me. When you find yourself not behind me anymore and all that’s in front of you is scum, run in the other direction, got it?”

  “Huh?” Preta says, contorting her face, not following along.

  Mara pushes Preta. “Keep up, or I’ll change my mind, got it?”

  “Okay, I got it.” Preta cradles her hand and stretches out her legs along the floor. “So where are you from?”

  “No questions,” Mara says.

  Preta turns away. “All right, no questions, touchy.”

  Mara sneers at her. “And no talky talk either.”

  Preta leans back and stares at the wall across the room. She draws a picture with her eyes, trying to forget her predicament. Hours pass as she subdues the pain and the thoughts of whatever is coming next. She keeps her hand still; the throbbing almost subsides until she moves, reminding her all is not well.

  The door swings open, and three men wearing black suits stride in followed by Nelek.

  Nelek brings in a chair and sets it twenty feet in front of Mara and Preta. Sitting, Nelek snaps his fingers to the two men standing next to him.

  The men snap to attention, one muscular and pasty, the other tan, worn, weathered, and wrinkled.

  Nelek grins as he eyes Preta’s bandage. He raises his right hand and wipes his forehead with a small blue cloth. On his ring finger, a silver ring with LI sculpted from citrine glimmers from a thin ray of light seeping through a half-covered window with bars over the glass. “I see you’re up and about. How’s the hand?”

  “Scum,” Preta replies.

  “I imagine you think so, Preta Penter. And Mara, what a surprise seeing you again, it fills my heart with joy that you can rejoin us.”

  Mara snorts. “You have a heart?”

  “Charming as always. And yes, I do have a heart, and today, today my heart beats particularly strong in anticipation of the things my men are going to do to you.”

  Mara spits on the floor. “These are men? Humph—”

  Nelek nods at Preta. “You’re welcome to watch if you like. Maybe even take part if you feel up to it. I think you’ve got an idea of what festivities lie ahead for my dear Mara.” Nelek draws a blade and taps it on his left pinky finger.

  Preta leans forward, foaming at the mouth. “You’re a sick, evil, twisted, piece of dung-eating rat filth.”

  Nelek shrugs. “Sick, healthy, good, evil, what’s the difference really?”

  Preta shakes her head. “I don’t want to listen to your twisted philosophy. You’re just sick and evil, and that’s it.”

  Mara smirks at Preta. “You got that right, Seeros.”

  Preta glares at Mara. “I said don’t call me that!”

  Nelek leans forward. “Now, now, ladies, no arguing. And if you don’t want to discuss philosophies with me, Preta or seeros, or sitic as my men would rather call you—then what else is there to discuss?”

  Preta eyes Nelek. “Why do you call me sitic?”

  “Preta Penter, you’re a very lucky girl. You’re already used to your first name beginning with the letter P. See, many who know of your kind think of you as, well, parasites, leeches, killers. Bloodsuckers who drain the life out of others for their own gain. So they call you sitics, short for parasitic. You’re a parasite, Preta, a filthy, bloodsucking parasite, things which connect to other living things and drain the life force out of them until they’re dead.”

  The weathered praetor spits on the ground. “You’re the unnatural scum, sitic trash.”

  Nelek lets out a faint chuckle. “As you can see, many have strong feelings toward your kind, and most don’t view your kind favorably. On the other hand, it may be hard to believe, but I have a very soft spot in my heart for your kind. Though recently my soft heart was ripped out of my chest, and I will be forever lost.” He raises a lock of blonde hair and kisses it, then slides it into his front pocket.

  “I don’t care what you or he thinks,” Preta says.

  Nelek nods in agreement. “Right, I’m sure you don’t. Men, you may begin.”

  The muscular and weathered man remove large daggers while the others watch. They step toward Mara and stop as a knock on the door distracts them.

  The door swings open, and a timid man with large nose steps in, leaving one foot out in the hallway. “Umm—sir.”

  “I said no one was to bother me,” Nelek says, pointing his dagger at him.

  “I-I’m sorry, sir, but Lomasie needs you upstairs right away.”

  Nelek glares at the nose man. “I’m busy, go away.”

  “Sir, he insists you come right now.”

  “Dammit.” Nelek flings his dagger to the ground, sticking the point into the spongy wooden planks. “Always something.” Nelek pushes off the chair and struts to the door. He winks and nods at Preta. “Take care of the hand, wouldn’t want it to get infected.” Nelek circles his hand with his finger extended. “Men, I assume the older one will be dead when I return. And don’t touch the girl unless she misbehaves.”

  Mara stands up and rolls her eyes, then she nods at the skinny praetor on the far left, mocking him; she blows him a kiss.

  Preta follows Mara to her feet and rests her hand on Mara’s back.

  Mara steps in front of Preta and stretches her neck and arms, preparing to fight.

  Nelek shuts the door and the two men laugh and resume moving toward Mara and Preta.

  Preta’s heart races, her bandaged hand twitches dangling at her side. She presses into Mara’s back with half her weight, trying to stay close. She trips forward as Mara’s back disappears. Preta falters, her momentum flings her forward, and she falls to her knees and then onto her stomach. Preta’s cheek scrapes the pitted wood floor, and she coughs from the dust.

  Within an inch of her ear, a blade crashes next to Preta’s head. She springs up, pushing herself off the ground, and rolls onto her butt and shuffles her feet, scrambling along the floor back to the wall. Preta’s mouth agape, she watches the action unfold in front of her.

  Mara ducks and weaves, spinning and striking the muscular and weathered praetors with her fists and feet.

  The skinny man’s expression shifts from sinister playful to concerned. A blade slides down his arm as if a smooth extension of his body. His fist clinches the hilt like a vise.

  Mara strikes the muscular praetor in the knee, breaking his leg.

  He stumbles and falls to the ground.

  Mara spins and kicks him in the face, sending him onto his back. Mara’s momentum lands her in a fighting position facing the weathered man.

  He slashes at her head.

  She catches his wrist, stopping it in midair. Mara spits in his face, then she head butts him on the bridge of his nose and knees him in the crotch.

  The veins in the weathered praetor’s neck pop out as he grimaces and presses down on his blade, gaining ground toward Mara’s face.

  Mara’s feet slide back on the dusty floor.

  The man grunts and pushes forward with all his weight.

  The skinny praetor s
teps behind Mara and flicks his wrist. His blade slashes at Mara’s neck.

  Preta springs to her feet and she frantically points at the skinny man. “Mara, behind you!”

  Mara’s body completely disappears in a clear, faint smoke, invisible. Her duster, sweater, and trousers drop in a dusty whoosh.

  The skinny praetor’s blade crashes to the floor. In the midst of standing up, the weathered man’s blade strikes him with a downward slash to his throat, slicing through until exiting the skinny man’s neck.

  Blood sprays in the weathered man’s face. “Ah—” He spins with his blade, chasing Mara’s smoke circling him. He pokes and slashes the air in a chaotic rage. “No, Grine!”

  Mara’s arm reappears; it strikes behind his knee, dropping him to the floor.

  The weathered man loses his balance and stumbles forward.

  Mara, naked, reappears behind the praetor.

  His blade still in hand, his arm raises from not of his own accord as Mara grips the hilt. She leans in close and whispers something into his ear as she slices his throat. She lets him go, watching him fall forward to the floor in a lump.

  The muscular man with the broken leg crawls away, digging his fingernails into the planks of wood.

  Mara presses a blade deep into the man’s back, putting him out of his misery. She mockingly scoffs at him and yanks out the dagger.

  The muscular man’s cheek drops to the floor with a thud. A red pool of crimson seeps along the floor and away from his thick chest.

  Mara strolls to her pile of clothes, bends over, and picks up her trousers.

  Preta’s mouth agape, she shakes her head in awe, eyeing Mara, naked and covered in blood. That was, that was— “What, Seeros?” Mara says, looking at Preta appearing to be in shock. “Never see a naked woman before?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said, haven’t you ever seen a naked woman before?”

  Preta’s mouth closes and then opens. “Er—well—I am a woman.”

  “Are you?” Mara chuckles. She flips her shirt and sweater over her head and gives a body shake with a tug, making sure everything is aligned just right, then flicks her head toward the door. “Time to go.”