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  Pepper

  Copyright © by Carol Buhler, 2019

  Cover by Les Petersen

  Book Thirteen of the Lillith Chronicles

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are products of the author's imagination and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced for any purpose without the express written permission from the author.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilog

  Author’s note

  Pepper Glossary

  Pepper Characters

  Other Books in the Lillith Chronicles Available on Amazon

  About Carol Buhler

  Chapter 1

  The scraggly, brown-haired urchin crouched behind a crate of onions, peering around it to savor his brother’s performance. He didn’t wait long. Down the street came exactly the right mark: well-dressed, middle-aged, benevolent face. Byron dashed from the side market clutching a carrot and smashed directly into the man. Behind him charged the owner of the vegetable cart Laird knew the carrot had been stolen from.

  The stranger, as expected, grabbed the cherubic-faced boy and thrust him behind his back as he confronted the greengrocer. At the age of five, Byron retained the chubbiness and innocence of a much younger child. Everyone took his side, sometimes even the shopkeepers he snatched his treasures from. No exception this time, Laird thought.

  Skidding to a stop, the grocer yelled up into the taller man’s face. Byron cowered behind long legs, peeping around a knee with a confused and frightened expression. The man glanced down—the vendor followed his gaze—and instantly, they fell silent. Then, a woman ran into view, gasping for breath, looking like a disheveled angel with the same blond-blond hair and blue eyes as Byron.

  “What have you done?” she screeched at the man and the grocer. Reaching for Byron, she swung him into her arms and began soothing the now sobbing baby. Byron, of course, continued to squeeze the carrot with his fat little hand.

  Both men broke into confused explanations before the gentleman—has to be one from the sound of him—held up a hand and stopped the other from speaking. Laird sneered from his hiding place. Here it comes, he thought. He could almost recite the words himself.

  “Madam,” the man said in a deep, cultured voice, “I have done nothing to this child. I don’t think this good vendor has, either.”

  The greengrocer backed quickly away from the tears the boy’s mother turned on in an instant, saying quickly, “I never touched ‘im. But he stole that carrot he’s got such a grip on.”

  The tears dried and the woman turned to scold the child. “I’ve told you and told you not to just take things!” With her right hand, she peeled the boy’s fingers from the carrot and handed it back to the grocer. Byron squealed in fury.

  The woman glanced anxiously from the mark to the vendor. “He doesn’t understand. He’s…slow, you know? When he’s hungry, he just takes whatever catches his fancy.” Tears threatened again.

  The grocer gulped and handed the carrot back to Byron. Beaming, the kid stuffed the end into his mouth and bit down. His hidden brother, watching, never could understand why grown-ups looked at his plump little brother and believed the kid was hungry. But the ploy always worked and got them dinner for another night, without his mom having to show up at the brothel to work.

  The mark tossed a coin at the vendor who turned and hurried away. “Madam,” he said to the woman. “I’m sorry to have frightened your child. And he seems really hungry. Would you join me at that stall over there...” He nodded at the open-air eating stand a few steps away. “I’d be glad to buy him, and you, something more substantial to eat.”

  Laird’s mouth began to water. They’d determined where to intersect a mark by the closeness of Jub’s food stand. That old man made the absolute best beef rolls in the whole market. And, he was always good for an extra loaf of crude bread. If she plays her cards right, we might have food enough for breakfast and dinner tomorrow.

  The gentleman offered his arm. Byron’s mother put him down, took his tiny hand in her left one, and daintily placed her right on top of the gentleman’s wrist. Together, they strolled toward Jub’s.

  That was the signal for Laird to enter the scene. Rising to his full height of four feet, he sauntered boldly toward the trio. As he reached the couple with the beautiful baby, he snatched the carrot, making sure he tripped over Byron and knocked into his mother while doing so. She fell against the man, then to her knees, picked the silver pocket watch off its chain, and slipped it to her older son. Laird raced down the street waving his stolen carrot as if it were a trophy and the only thing he’d gotten. No one else paid attention to the ruckus the gentleman made brushing the dirt carefully off the woman’s coat and his own jacket after plucking young Byron up off the dusty road.

  By the time the couple calmed the wailing child and walked to the food stand, Laird had circled around and hidden behind Jub’s stacks of bread. Old Jub knew exactly what was going on and cajoled the gentlemen into buying enough beef rolls and bread to last Laird, Byron, and their mother for several days.

  She graciously refused the mark’s offer to escort her home and, carrying the boy, made her way through the market, closely shadowed by Laird. They arrived together at their tiny home: one room furnished only with a big bed.

  Laird, only two years older than Byron but several inches taller and with brown skin and dark hair rather than pale, bounced with his brother on the bed as his mother handed out the first of the goodies from the heavenly smelling bag. “You won’t have to go to work for a week—maybe two—after I sell this watch to Croger,” he said as he dangled the bauble in front of her eyes, grinning hugely. She gave him a wan smile, sat on the other end of the bed, and bit carefully into the beef roll.

  “You will be careful dealing with that crook,” she mumbled. A genuine tear dripped from her eye.

  Laird stood and wrapped his thin arm around his mother’s shoulders as she doubled over and broke into sobs. She was not used to this life and the things she’d learned to do to keep herself and her boys alive. He doubted she ever would become accustomed. Staring at his blond brother happily stuffing his roll into his mouth, he wondered how long their mother could hold up. She seemed to be getting thinner and weaker. He and Byron were all she had left of a life that had been much better than this, one he only vaguely recalled.

  Byron climbed into her lap, the end of his supper dangling from his clamped jaw, and tried to hug her neck with his chubby arms. Laird pulled him in closer. His little brother didn’t remember anything but this hut; he’d been so young when they’d arrived in this neighborhood where he looked completely out of place. Laird remembered a big house.
Also, shouting, a beating, and being sent away.

  Quietly, he finished his meat roll, helped his mother get into bed, then pulled Byron close into his arms to try to sleep. At least my belly is full.

  Chapter 2

  The two boys raced down the steeply inclined street, a city guard close behind frantically blowing his whistle. Although one dark and the other fair, their body shapes and facial features proclaimed the boys’ close relationship. As one, the brothers rounded the corner at the bottom only to see two more city guards running toward them in response to the first guard’s whistle.

  “Break!” the darker one said sharply.

  “Right!”

  Laird slithered through a narrow opening between tall townhouses knowing his younger brother Byron would scramble under the hedge to the right and disappear in the poorly cared for park beyond. Stopping, he gathered up a pair of broken paving stones that littered the tiny space and waited for the guards to arrive outside his hiding place. A head appeared and he smashed one of the stone fragments into the unprotected forehead. The guard fell back and the second stupidly peered down the narrow distance. Laird let loose his second stone, then whirled to climb the fence like a monkey and disappear into the yard beyond.

  Between the boys’ small, lithe bodies and their total knowledge of the alleys, crevices, and backyards of the city, they always escaped the heavier, clumsy guards. Slowing his breathing now that he was out of direct danger, Laird continued in a southwesterly direction, slipping through narrow crevices, crawling under broken fences, making his way toward home. Byron should be doing the same from a different direction.

  But, someone among the guards had grown a brain since the day before and Laird found his way blocked ahead. Sturdy legs stood just outside the hole in the hedge that marked his next street crossing—they’d discovered his exit. He paused a moment huddled beneath the branches of a brambleberry bush. What now? Is Byron having these same troubles?

  Since there was no way he could help his younger brother, he shrugged and headed in a new direction, leaving his current hiding place by easily scaling the fence to the north. Across the way, he slid through another narrow opening between a meat shop and a bar. With a new destination—not home—he made quick time to the back yard of the laundress that his mother had once worked for.

  He peered through a hole in the stone wall, scanning the broad courtyard that held huge steaming tubs of water and piles of linens from the hotel that was Simone’s major client. Must be lunch break; the courtyard was empty. Tiny fingerholds and toeholds in the wall helped him scramble quickly over; he dashed to the nearest pile and wiggled underneath.

  His hiding place was damp and smelled of unwashed bodies and mildew; he much preferred the fresh greenery of his usual haunts. Wrinkling his nose, he thought back over the last three years in an effort to stay awake and alert to possible discovery.

  After his sixth birthday, Byron had shot up, just as Mama said he himself had at the same age. Gone were the chubby cheeks, arms and plump calves that had made him so attractive to suckers as a spoiled, well-cared-for, cherubic child just wanting a treat.

  And Mama could no longer appear as a charming matron to beguile strangers into buying her darling son a meal. She’d grown thin and very pale, with dark rings under her eyes. Then, she’d developed the cough. Even Madame had stopped allowing her to work in the brothel, saying her coughing made the clients fear she was contagious.

  Their provisions had gradually dwindled to nothing and Laird had turned to downright stealing to keep them fed. He chuckled as he reviewed his triumphs—but he and Byron had had to thieve in areas further away as they became too infamous in the markets around their hovel. The guards there had dubbed them Salt and Pepper—the names followed them around the city as they sought out other targets.

  As a petty thief, Byron had excelled. He was quick and subtle, much more so than Laird himself. Between the two of them, they managed to keep Mama fed. However, it was always Laird who got the medicine to help relieve the agony of coughing. He fumbled in his pocket. The bottle was there. He needed to get home and give her some.

  He pictured his mother as she’d been as they’d left that morning; she’d barely had energy enough to grip his hand. The words “be safe” rasped out between coughs and Byron had dashed outside, tears trickling down his cheeks.

  His own eyes welled just as he heard loud voices over the pile he was snuggled under.

  “What! You think we be hiding someone under our dirty linen?” Simone bellowed. She was a huge woman, probably bigger than any guard she would be talking to. And her voice was deep and threatening. “Come! Swirl dis pole through dis water!” She was walking away from his mound. “Nothing but cloth in dis tub. Here, try dis one!”

  Does she know I’m here?

  A man’s voice rumbled; he couldn’t pick out any words. The only men who would be in this courtyard would be guards. Multiple pairs of boots stomped past his hiding place and then it was quiet.

  A hand closed firmly over his ankle and he swallowed a shriek as Simone pulled him up to dangle head down over the disturbed heap of linens.

  “What you doin’ here, boy?” She boomed as loudly at him as she had at the guards.

  Frantically, he looked around. The only ones in the courtyard were Simone and her washwomen. He didn’t get a chance to answer.

  “You stink!” She swung him around and began to lower him headfirst into a tub of wash water brimming with soapy foam. He caught his breath just before he went under. Brushes scraped at his back, legs and arms, washing his clothing and his body at once. She lifted him up, peered into his reddened eyes, and nodded. One of the other women scrubbed his hair and face as he sputtered objections. Then, Simone dunked him once more in a rinse tub, and then in a third of clean water.

  By the time she set him on a bench in the sunshine, he’d stopped trying to talk and just struggled to catch his breath.

  “You sit here. You dry in sun. You smell better.” Without another word, she left him and joined the others scrubbing and swirling the laundry in the vast tubs.

  He suddenly realized he was exhausted. Laying his head on the folded towel Simone had handed him, he went to sleep, feeling safe for the first time that day.

  A gentle touch on his shoulder woke him. He jerked upright and stared into Simone’s big brown eyes. “You best be getting home now, boy. Your mama need her medicine.” She was holding the bottle from his pocket.

  “Thank you, Simone,” he stammered.

  **

  Laird approached the hovel they called home carefully. Something was wrong—he had a very bad feeling. He sidled silently along the wall, listening for a noise that might show someone besides his mother was inside. It was eerily quiet. His mother wasn’t coughing—she coughed even in her sleep. Then he heard a sob, quickly cut off. Grabbing the knife he always carried, he rushed in.

  Byron knelt with his head on Mama’s belly, crying soundlessly. She was too still—too white. Laird stepped reluctantly forward and picked up her wrist. He was too late with the medicine—he’d hidden and slept at Simone’s too long! Mama was dead.

  “What we do now?” Byron muttered through his snuffles.

  Laird slapped him across the back of the head. “We don’t forget what Mama taught us. Speak correctly!”

  Byron looked up. “What are we going to do, now?” he reiterated carefully, sniffing back his tears.

  Laird tried to remain strong for his baby brother. He failed and sank by the younger boy’s side, weeping.

  **

  It was well past dark when Laird and Byron knocked on Simone’s door. One of her daughters opened it and gawked at them. “What chou want?”

  “Please, Cherry. May we talk to Simone?” Laird gripped Byron’s hand hard and stepped into the doorway, forcing the much larger girl to move back.

  “Since ya be in, I guess ya can.” Cherry slammed the door and hollered over her shoulder, “Ma! It’s dem boys o’ Charlotte’s.” />
  Simone came into the small entryway, wiping her hands on a towel. For the first time, Laird noticed how red and chapped her hands were. Working in soapy water all day, I’m not surprised. He was grateful to see only surprised inquiry—not an angry scowl on her brow. Then, her expression dropped into deep worry.

  “What’s happen’d?”

  Despite his firm resolve to not come apart, he burst into tears. “Mama’s dead—afore I got home. I slept here when I should’a been gettin ‘er the medicine.” Byron sank onto the floor next to him, sobbing deeply.

  “It’s my fault!” Laird wailed as he ducked and put his hand on his brother’s head.

  Simone surged forward and wrapped them both into an embrace that lifted them from the floor. Laird felt as if he were a baby but relaxed somewhat against her shoulder.

  “I really doubt dat,” Simone said loudly in his ear. “What she missed dis afternoon wouldn’a made much difference, I’m a thinkin’. Tell me, Boy. Did you feel her?”

  “Um,” Laird muttered into her rough smock.

  “Was she cold?”

  “She was so cold,” Byron said clearly from his place snuggled into Simone’s right armpit.

  “Den, I bet she died in da morning. After y’all left. Aft’anoon medicine wouldn’a helped. So quit yer blubbering. Y’all’ll miss her—that’s a fact, but you can stay here ‘til you decide to head out on yer own.”

  “But, we just left her there—all alone.” Laird’s voice broke and he continued in a whisper, “What should we do with her?”

  Simone set them on their feet, ruffled both sets of hair, and turned toward the big room behind her. “Best we go collect her and bury her proper.” She hollered, “Cherry, Patsy, Bud, get your pa. We got work to do.”

  Cherry appeared with a scowl, followed by Patsy and Bud. All three were older and bigger than Laird, and as sullen as they usually were. Simone always had a smile on her face; Laird wondered what had happened to her kids. Then, a small man shambled after them through the door—same look as the boy, same dark and unfriendly eyes as both girls. Laird hadn’t even known Simone had a man living with her. This guy was obviously their father but Laird could hardly believe the big, energetic woman would tolerate such an unsavory man.