Excerpt:
Echoes of Noctumbria: Fatty 3
The tray rang with a metallic chime as the loaf of stale bread crashed amidst the coins.
“My thanks, sir,” the ragged figure murmured from her corner of the pavement.
Beneath a frayed hood, Soledad’s hazel eyes glinted with a sharp, intelligent malice. The fog clung to the gas lamps, which cast dancing shadows across the cobblestones. Beyond them lay Le Petit Gourmand, flooding the street with cheerful chatter and the rhythmic clink of silver against porcelain.
Inside, the diners indulged in their delicacies, bathed in a warm glow—oblivious to the cold, the hunger, and the surprise Soledad had prepared for them.
She smiled, revealing three broken teeth and a scar that bisected her lips. It was a souvenir from her days as a cook, before the bovine plague. The master of the house had caught her setting aside a chicken for the orphans camped near the manor. As she left that night, pressing a bag of ice to her mouth, she had seen the bird in the rubbish bin; the master had eaten only a single thigh.
High above, smoke ceased to billow from the chimneys. A small silhouette was framed for a fleeting moment against the sickly green clouds: one of her pups. Bony children who would never have to beg again, provided they obeyed her, of course… The plan was in motion.
Soledad rose, kicked the tray of bread aside, and crossed the street, feigning a heavy limp.
She hadn’t even reached the opposite curb when the kitchen door burst open, vomiting a cloud of black smoke and a swarm of cursing cooks amidst fits of coughing. The diners abandoned all decorum and surged out in a stampede, overturning tables and trampling fine china.
Soledad slipped into the alleyway behind the restaurant. Five of her pups, aided by two footmen, were darting in and out of the cellar laden with sacks of vegetables and flagons of clean water. They dropped the haul into a nearby drain, where it was caught by eager, filthy hands.
The echoes of coughing and the indignant shrieks of the gentry calling for help bounced off the walls. One lady screamed louder than the rest: her dress was ruined.
One of her pups trotted up, a massive sack slung over his shoulder. Soledad could see his eyes shining above a wide, euphoric grin.
“Loba! Loba! Look what I found… it’s meat!”
The boy spun around, and Soledad caught sight of the label printed on the fabric: a smiling, chubby-cheeked man holding a fork.
“Gorditos. Special Meat Blend,” she read aloud. “Mmm, this is new. We’ll have to try it. I don’t suppose these respectable gentlemen are eating rat meat.”
Still pensive, she moved toward the cellar entrance. Two young men in footmen’s uniforms sat atop wine barrels, jesting and laughing as if already drunk.
“You’ve no idea how many mouths you’ve fed today. Thank you, boys,” she told them.
“The pleasure is ours, Loba. Besides, we’ve already claimed our reward,” one replied, patting the barrel.
Down in the sewers, The Loba waded forward with her pack, carrying their plunder through faint splashes and whispers that mingled with the squealing of rats. Everyone was smiling, but she was not. She was already charting the next strike. Today was another victory… but it smelled of the gutter, like all the others.
Furthermore, there was the matter of that sack of meat. Aside from the rats (which were infected), there wasn’t a living animal left in Aurinburg. The quarantine imposed by neighboring cities was absolute, and she knew of no trade routes to the outside world, legal or otherwise.
She ran her tongue over her broken teeth…
…"
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