DEAD WINTER: A CRYPTIC Anthology

'Tis the Season to be Melancholy • Queen Saralee

The tingling of bells and the laughter of children nearly drowned out the usual, mundane noises of the city. Snow fell, both from the slanted rooftops and from the sky, forming pristine, white mounds at the ends of every sidewalk. Wreaths were carefully hung, freshly felled fir trees were proudly decorated, and families gathered in their living rooms amidst presents and hot chocolate.

Yet, one dwelling remained painfully silent. It was a squat, little house at the end of a long street: one that was often forgotten. Its shutters were left slightly open, allowing the cold, winter wind to whistle through, chilling the already frigid heart of its sole inhabitant.

The inhabitant in question currently occupied a worn armchair in the corner of her bedroom, sipping on a tall glass of iced tea.

She did not care much for warm things. Not even in the dead of winter.

Nor did she care for Christmas.

However, scarcely had she thought this thought before she took it back. The holiday season was most advantageous to her. While all the world was out celebrating like the bunch of fools that they were, she was the only one who kept her wits about her.

Yes, indeed. This thought brought a rare smile to her usually stoic face, followed, as thoughts commonly are, by the foundations of a plan. A most glorious feeling of triumph came over her as the pieces of her plot began to fall into place within her precise, mathematical brain. It was so simple, yet so perfect, like it had been sitting in front of her, in plain sight, for all her life.

How could she not have thought of it before?

At least, she thought, the idea had come to her in the morning, instead of later in the day. Now, she would have sufficient time to act.

Grinning uncontrollably, she reached out to the table beside her, her long, pale fingers closing around the cellphone that rested atop it. Her hand began to shake with the excitement that she often felt before a big job as she dialed the number of her best friend- no, accomplice, for people like her had no use for friends- and held the phone up to her ear.

"Hello? Ileara?"

"Sam," the woman- Ileara- sighed, relieved that Samantha Oliver, at least, had been in possession of enough sense not to go scurrying about with her supposed "loved ones."

"'Sup?" Sam asked casually, her voice crackling slightly due to her friend's poor reception.

"My place in five. Bring a weapon," Ileara ordered tersely. She wasted nothing- not even words.

"What has gotten into you? It's Christmas! I'll lose my place in Heaven for this," Sam complained.

"As if you had one in the first place," Ileara let out a hollow, chilling laugh. "Now, be here or you don't get a penny of the profit."

Sam's response was nothing more than an unintelligible grumble, before Ileara heard a soft thump on the other end of the line, indicating that she had put down the phone.

Almost instantly, Ileara sprung up from her chair, a devilish glint in her eye. She had no need to arm herself, for she kept a knife and a pistol constantly strapped to the inside of her leg. The feeling of the cold metal against her skin as she walked gave her a sense of power and security that nothing else could. She tiptoed to her door, turning around so that her back was pressed against it.

Taking in a deep breath of the stale air, tainted with the smell of burnt bread and cigarette smoke, she surveyed her paltry living arrangements one final time. The corners of her lips turned slightly upward as her eyes fell upon the stained coffee table, covered in various notices regarding her rent and bills.

After this one big job, she and Sam would return to their lavish Floridian estate.

The landlord could have his stupid house back.

Although she was now in a ridiculously good mood, Ileara made sure not to show it. She pressed her crimson lips together as she turned the doorknob, ever so slowly. Now out in the empty hallway, she untied the deep, red coat from around her slender waist, pulling it around her shoulders.

She glided down the stairs with the grace of a dark angel, stopping by the coat closet to retrieve her combat boots, which she put on and laced up in a matter of seconds. Now ready for the mission she was about to embark on, she arrived at the front door of her house just in time to receive Sam, who stood at her doorstep.

"I still think this is horrid," she said blandly, as Ileara enthusiastically beckoned her inside. "Just think about all those people who are gonna go back to work the day after Christmas and realize that all their money's gone? Stealing, I'll tolerate. Even an occasional murder's okay. But a major robbery on Christmas Day? I think that's where I'll draw the line."

"Sam," Ileara said seriously, her deep, blue eyes locking on her friend's brown ones. "You're falling for the exact idea I'm trying to take advantage of. What makes the twenty fifth of December any different from the three hundred sixty four other days of the year? Honestly, religious stuff aside, why is it alright to commit a crime in November or January, but not anytime in between? The holiday season is when people are at their weakest, and we can't exploit that unless we make it the time at which we are the strongest."

Sam nodded slowly, attempting to absorb the influx of information that her partner had just thrown at her.

"So, what's the plan?" she asked.

"Kent and Walden are already situated at two different public libraries in Montana."

"Montana?!" Sam gasped. "How on Earth did they-"

"Don't ask," Ileara cut her off, shaking her head. "We're also going to head to two unrelated locations at which we can access the Internet anonymously. Once the techies and I've gotten into someone's system, I'll create some sort of diversion- a messed up sprinkler, or an alarm. You know, the usual. All I need you to do is have your phone out and your car ready. I will text you an address as soon as I've got one. You need to go to that address, and finish the job."

"I'm still not sure what we're looking at here," Sam frowned. "Is this going to be a home, an office, a bank?"

"I don't know," Ileara shrugged. "Whatever we can hack the fastest. All you need to know is that, for whoever they happen to be...'tis the season to be melancholy." At this, she began to laugh at her own joke, reveling in her nasty play on words.

Having clarified what it was that they were going to do, the two women each headed to a separate car.

It was time for their most crooked act of crime yet.

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