A Cold Sin Too Far

“She’s prime for the taking, boy,” spat Eustice, his milky eyes leering with a lust of a much younger man.

“Yer a sick old man, uncle.”

“Boy,” the elder shot, grabbing a lapel with a gnarled hand and pronouncing in a rapid speech, “You’s got one role in this, one role only, to be the tasty-tasty fer the lady-ladies so we gets the money-moneys else we ain’t got but a pot to piss in!”

The lad jerked himself away, “Be that what it is, she is too young.”

“An’ yer too prissy, all afraid to get yer widdle soul good and tarnished, eh Mackey?”

Mackey huffed and tugged his collar up against the cold. He glared across the scantily populated square, humble shopkeepers and a few assembled Lords and Ladies. Something like hate, or just supressed self loathing stung his eyes with the chilled sea breeze.

“My soul, good uncle, is well past tarnished,” he spoke through gritted teeth, then insisted, “But there is better prey to be had.”

“You best hope there is, boy. I ain’t the patient man I was ’afore.”

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