Den of Smoke: Absolutely gripping fantasy page turner filled with magic and betrayal. Christopher ByfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
fall into line. Now I hear they openly compete with you for territory. Ridiculous.’
Jack stepped forward, cautious not slip on the wet floor. The blood, he had little care for.
‘I can’t buy off the Bluecoats any more than I have already. If I could, I would march into each of their hovels in turn. I operate on restraint. Since Wilheim’s death, the law seems galvanized to be doing the right thing. Foolish notion for sure, but one they adhere to. Now some of these gangs you talk about have been taken off the board. The head of the Highwaymen had a tragic accident when shaving. His neck was opened up, ear to ear. Blakestone jumped all of the Travellers Three when they were preoccupied with working girls. Why only last week did Chester’s goons suffer the unspeakable tragedy of dying in their sleep via natural causes.’
‘Natural causes you say?’
‘Fire is a natural thing. Dynamite not so much, but the two go hand in hand. The bottom line is …’ Jack stabbed at the table repeatedly, turning the tip of a finger crimson ‘…I’m keeping my part of the bargain. Sure there are some out there who want to take risks and test my temper but I assure you, I’m holding the line over there.’
A knife taken from the rack. Donovan knelt slightly to perfect his angle, before slipping it inside and cutting into the shoulder. Strings of fat clung to the flesh, encouraged to separate with strokes of the blade.
‘Your agreement was with Wilheim Fort,’ Donovan stated.
‘You’ve taken over his operation.’
‘That I have. Yet I am not him. For all his terrors it may surprise to hear that he was unduly lenient with you in the past. I recall the day you walked on in to his place, a spit of a lad, demanding an audience. You cut down the legs of one of his men to get his attention. You gave your demands. Do you remember what you wanted?’ He pulled a mass of pink and white from the carcass, the skin immediately sagging. The shoulder was placed beside the other cuts of meat in sequence with a thump.
‘Revenge.’ Jack’s face fell, cold and hard.
‘Of course you did. It’s a fine purpose. And you were given that town –’ Donovan wagged the tip of the knife between them, a streak of blood dashing its way to the handle thanks to gravity.
‘I earned that town,’ Jack challenged, his expression as resolute as his words to ensure there was no misunderstanding. ‘I took it. Spit of a lad, like you said. Yet I took it. Don’t forget that little detail.’
‘Doesn’t change the fact you’ve done nothing with it. No enterprise. No venture. Just money in, money out, living the same way you’ve always done. I don’t know how many years it’s been. What I do know is that it’s been too many.’
The knife was swept back and forth upon his apron to wipe away the blood and then dropped into a rack.
‘Some of us pave the roads. Others simply travel upon them. Years down the line, the horse and cart will fade to bones and dust. Yet the road will always remain.’ Donovan chuckled to himself, amused at something so surprisingly poetic. He rested his elbow on a sad, protruding bubble of pink at the height of the strewn-out animal carcass. The pig’s head sank somewhat under the weight of the man, its lolling tongue slipping further out.
‘Make progress,’ Donovan ordered, ‘for your own sake. Or I’ll get someone who can. Do we understand one another?’
Jack scowled over his glasses, not enough to show outright defiance but enough to convey his dissatisfaction. The stench of blood had never sickened him before but here, in these confines, he felt it contributing to his feeling of undue queasiness.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Good.’ Donovan patted the pig’s face with a pair of slaps, then scooped up the cleaver, tuning the head to line up his blow. ‘Tribute will be going up an extra fifteen per cent going forward. I trust that won’t be a problem for the famed Jackrabbits?’
‘Without a doubt,’ Jack cockily responded. He lied of course. That increase would sting anybody and already decent jobs seemed to be tougher to come by. Yet atop the previous increments, Jack knew full well that this demand would be one ask too much.
‘Good! Then we’re done here. You can go.’
Jackdaw shuddered before he made his way out the door and back into the daylight. A flurry of cries was coupled with dramatic, mighty strikes. Bone cracked violently before the tool struck the wood beneath. Then there was nothing but arduous breathing.
As he passed, the sentry outside spied the slight decoration of red that dotted over Jackdaw’s shirt, unbeknown to its owner.
‘You got some blood on you, pal,’ he called.
But Jackdaw just walked on. Blood upon his person was nothing new.
Roses in the sand
Returning to Esquelle with additional woes, Jackdaw hungered to blow off steam. Dusk-soaked tawny streets seemed maze-like to the visitor but Jack’s feet knew full well where they travelled. He crossed the district, weaving past warehouses and small factories before emerging out on the cusp of the tailors’ square. A water fountain, once built by the founders as a symbol of self-congratulation, was being slowly eroded by both time and the elements. Its depiction of the Holy Sorceress, gown in frozen motion and sword raised high, was tarnished with gentle pitting.
He wandered over and cupped the tepid water in his hands, freshening his face and wrangling his beard back into design. When content at the reflection staring back, Jack paced between buildings until the space extended out into a loading yard.
Except it was anything but.
The yard was free of crates, free from anything of substance apart from the fire escape that spidered up the red-brick building side. Women hung over the railings, beautiful women in fact, wrapped up in fashions both bright and fair. Those who lived at the Ten of Hearts were sirens to the dockhands who passed, working girls but selective ones, for their tastes were far too exotic for just anyone to accommodate.
As Jackdaw strolled into the yard, the figures clad in satin and silk eased their conversations. The ones entangled with men broke from their embraces, looking down the line to one of their own in particular.
She draped herself over the fire escape, letting her cyan satin hang quite elegantly. Raised to her cherry red lips, pinched between fingers, was a cigarette, the smoke initially restrained and then eased away gently. Her voice was rich and sweet, confectionery for any red-blooded man.
‘Well looky here. Howdy, trouble. Are you causing mischief again?’
‘Perish the thought, Bounty,’ Jack answered.
Already he had begun to ascend the green fire escape that clenched onto the red-brick premises like a hungry lover. Each woman he passed received a nod of respect. As he moved past silk and skin and satin the women batted hypnotizing eyes and pursed inviting lips. They each cooed and offered saccharine smiles. They knew Jack by reputation, though only the good parts and even most of them were embellished.
‘And I suppose you’re just sniffing around this here premises on the way to church, right?’ Bounty called, dangling her hair over the railing as he approached. He paid the same courtesy as they came toe to toe. Hazel-brown eyes flicked to Jack, who met them with his own blues.
‘I prefer to talk to those who are willing to answer me,’ he quipped, ‘but between the pair of us, and correct this if it’s a falsehood of mine, I believe you’re the one who prays on her knees now.’
Bounty curled her mouth, teething the cigarette. The gaggle of accompanying women chuckled at the banter. It was a show they had witnessed many times previously, though it never got old.
‘Ever the clever