EPILOGUE

A WEEK OR THREE LATER…

 

A branch of cloud covered the evening skies of the Trite world; cloudy fingers reaching o’er the city of Waterloo like the hand of a soggy, grayish sea ghost.

Zane Cohen eyed it as he stood on the sidewalk’s snow-dusted edge, anticipating an oncoming storm. He slid his hands into his pockets—rough Trite pockets, inside the scratchy Trite coat. A common toque also covered his Rime ears, which drooped off the top like a lazy, ugly thing, refusing to hold a pointed shape as any good hat or hood should.

He leaned to look down at his bland boots with plain laces and rubber soles. There was also no curl in them, whatsoever.

A large, Trite vessel rolled to a stop on the road before him, and Zane nearly jumped at the sharp hiss of its brakes as it arrived.

“Ragnashuck,” he muttered to himself, glancing both ways to ensure no one had seen his almost-jump. In doing so, he spotted a peculiar fellow waiting for the vessel’s door to slide open. The fellow had a rather familiar arrogance to his tall, slender stance.

Zane turned, bright eyes narrowing on the hood which did not cover the folk’s face well enough. The Patrolman’s fingers flew over his shoulder to feel for his weapon but found only air. He balled his fists instead.

But when Jolly Cheat turned his head as though sensing he was being watched, his nickel irises settled on where Zane stood. And it was then that Zane realized; Cheat was in Trite clothing, also.

Jolly studied Zane for a measure but did not cast him a gloating stare, nor a warning look, nor a threat of any sort. He simply offered a modest nod of greeting, and possibly, of farewell. That was all.

In fact, the madman was not aiming in the right direction if he had come to seek out Helen Bell. Zane’s gaze flickered to the lit sign on the vessel, which read:

 

TO CONESTOGA

 

Jolly redirected his silvery gaze to the vessel door when it opened, and without another glance back at Winter, he climbed aboard and disappeared behind rows of reflective windows.

Zane watched until the vessel rolled away into the first sprinkles of snow descending upon Waterloo. He could not guess where Conestoga was, but he imagined the poor souls of the village were in for a scotchy treat.

With a deep breath, the Patrolman began his march through the piling snow on the sidewalks, trying to remember that the common folk could see him now, and he could not simply walk through them. ‘Twas a pinch of an adjustment to weave around the unmerry Trites hauling bags and packages and loading them into nearby vehicles.

They were all so very boring and blind and busy, with lazy hats and flat boots.

When Zane reached the end of the block, he paused by a familiar lamppost whose bulb had burned out.

Yes, this was the place.

With a deep breath, he faced the corner shop where a soft glow against the fogged windows indicated someone was inside. A sign was taped to the glass, depicting the handwritten words:

 

Coming Soon:

The Steam Hollow Corner Café

Help Wanted

 

The weaponless Patrolman fiddled with the buttons of his scratchy coat and peered through the frosted glass. He spotted a Trite girl hauling a box from the back and setting it atop a table. She had the plainest hair and the dullest eyes. But she looked like she had slept well. And anyway, she was perfect in every way that mattered.

The Patrolman’s mouth curved into a smile as he realized he hadn’t the faintest clue how to get a job.

 

 

 

 

A pinch and a dip away, an aged man leaned over his trinkets, tightening a wheezpin with his twisty-tube, and peering at the tiny metal parts through his spectacles. When the wheezpin fell out, he sighed and dragged a hand down his white beard.

The flap of his navy tent swished open, rattling the star chimes overhead, and he started as whispers filled the shelter—ones of promises, blasphemies, and lies.

He sat up straight and pulled off his spectacles. “What do you want?” he called toward the flap. “I have work to do.”

A cold breeze brushed the man’s arms as someone entered—not a circus clown, nor an acrobat, nor a dancing elf. But a body encompassing the darkness of night.

“Asteroth,” the aged man cussed. “Or should I greet the one who really possesses this body? Which of your ancient names shall I use? Night Beast? Serpent of the Eve? Nightflesh?”

The once-prophet’s long, diamond-white hair was tangled, his flesh wrinkled with gray patches. He had lost weight since the season Obb had spotted him as a young, sputtlepun scribe of the Red Palace. “You have wasted your time coming here. I am a Guard of Doors no more. And even if I was, I wouldn’t help you do such a despicable thing, and violate the rules of… ”

Asteroth settled his hollow, dark gaze on the aged man, and Obb’s throat constricted. He looked to the tent flap but jumped to discover gruesome, wispy creatures in torn burgundy fabric blocking his path. ‘Twas from them the terrible whispers came, and Obb felt bile rise from his aged stomach as he beheld the abominations of this new age.

When Asteroth Ryuu spoke, it was with a voice not his own. “Choose your fate: death or obedience?”

With tight skin, Obb made his choice. “Death,” he said in the face of evil.

A beast stared through Asteroth’s eyes.

“Wrong,” it said.