Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy

The dawn chorus of birds was soon joined with the sharp scraping of metal. Over and over the spade bit into a mass of coal, transferring it from its place on the adjoining tender to the locomotive itself. Franco grunted with every scoop that was fed into the train’s gut.

‘Okay, pile it in; it’s doing good,’ Pappy crooned, checking dials and easing valves with precise turns.

Coal clattered by the spadeful, tossed into the hellish heat of the firebox. The coals burnt white-hot, brilliant in their illumination, coupled with a swirling wash of tempered flame. It was quite incredible and mesmerizing to behold. Franco had heard stories of such fires turning metal into raining slag, where it could bend like rubber or drip like water. But to see it was quite extraordinary. To feel it was akin to standing at the precipice of the end of all things.

Over and over the shovel worked, scooping from the tender behind, where scant measures of coal sat where it would have previously been filled to a height that dwarfed both men.

‘What are we up to?’

‘Pressure is at one-seventy. Keep it going,’ Pappy encouraged, making his adjustments.

Another few heaps were tossed into the train’s stomach, which it consumed in delight. Finally Pappy signalled to stop with a wave of his hand.

‘That should be enough; close her up.’

With a heave of a latch the firebox door was brought shut, two slides of metal scissoring together and sealing the blaze inside. Finally Franco could take his first breaths without his throat being scorched by the hot air. Sweat soaked his face. His skin itched and was reddened.

He recalled an old children’s story about a creature that lived out in the dunes, swimming under the desert like a fish. When it breathed, it was as if the sun itself resided in its core. It was a fable for sure, but oddly poignant and Franco assumed that if it was a truth, then it would have been quite similar to this here boiler.

For a brief moment it could have been mistaken that Pappy’s hands lingered on the Johnson bar. Even to Franco it seemed that his cracked lips trembled in a silent prayer before heaving the bar forward. Pipes juddered. Steam blasted outward, dousing the ground in a blanket of white.

‘Hold the cylinder cocks and seal ’em up when I say so,’ he ordered.

Franco got himself ready.

The train juddered slightly in response.

‘Okay, now,’ his grandfather confirmed.

Pappy reached forward and freed the engine brakes. The train shuddered once more, conversing with thick eruptions from its chimney. Smoke arced into the brilliant blue sky, chasing lingering clouds that rode the wind.

Pappy reached up and pulled the throttle bar forward a little and shudders ran along the cab floor.

Franco took to the window, half leaning over the side. He stared downward. Sure enough the rail sleepers began to edge along one by one.

‘We’re moving.’ He exploded with joy. ‘We’re doing it; it’s moving!’

A mighty surge of steam enveloped the train’s sides as it took its first breaths of a new life. There were spluttering gasps as the locomotive found itself once again, familiarizing itself with every pipe, wheel, crank, and piston upon it. Grease and oil massaged bearings, slowly making their movements supple. The Eiferian 433 advanced gradually, carefully, shaking off the restraints of its hibernation. It was once again alive.

* * *

‘I’ve never known joy quite like it,’ Franco stated, his attention firmly back in the present. Misu had hooked him by the arm as he accompanied her back out into the street, letting the daily bustle carry them along the pavement. Their pace was relaxed as they ignored the concerns of the legal trouble that had plagued their arrival.

‘Not since?’

Words failed him. Instead he nudged her playfully with a shoulder.

Misu’s fingers gripped into his jacket, dragging out the serenity for as long as it could last. For a moment she noticed a scruffy-looking trapper watching from across the street, clad in a leather apron, a garment used for skinning the caught wild beasts of his trade. He watched with piercing eyes, seemingly taking great notice of the pair, or simply enjoying a brief cigarette during a lull in the day’s work.

Misu’s clenched Franco’s arm that little bit tighter.

Rather than walk the rest of the way to the station, Misu had suggested that they take the penny tram to rest their already overworked feet. Its network of rails climbed through steep streets, connecting district to district, mainly to provide locals an easier, and speedier, commute to their destination. Plus it was a moderately scenic tour, which Misu pushed as worthwhile.

Windberg, though eccentric in construction, had plenty of sights to observe, she preached. The town clock was large and ornate, the centrepiece dwarfing the square that held it. A cathedral’s spire announced its edifice, peppered with stained-glass windows, their imagery both abstract and figurative. When asked how she came to know all this, Misu’s face fell. She stated that she had ventured this way once a very long time ago, though declined to elaborate further.

As they boarded the tram, two dockhands who had clearly just finished their shift rose to relinquish their seats, though stopped at Franco’s instance that he and the woman accompanying him would stand instead.

The ground trembled as a sand ship rolled alongside a wharf, a mighty thunder from its horn announcing its arrival. For most, ships of this size would only be seen in water, though here, with heaving caterpillar treads and belching flumes that spat soot into the clear azure sky, their coming and going was commonplace. Their routes, normally cutting through scorching the Sand Sea itself, allowed the transport of immense amounts of cargo in relatively quick time. Where trains were limited by terrain and line, these leviathans of the desert succumbed to no such constraints.

Eclipsing the sun, the ship’s shadow fell upon two entire streets, darkening the structures therein, and crept across the road to cover everyone who watched this whole spectacle. Others in the streets continued about their business, quite unfazed by this whole affair, being that they were of regular occurrence. The tram clattered through this obscurity and back into the brightness of the day. Misu lowered herself to take stock of the vehicle through the glass.

‘Have you ever thought of upsizing?’

‘To something like that?’ Franco recoiled in surprise. ‘I can’t even count how many decks it has. Even if I had the money we would need three times more staff and don’t even get me started on the running costs.’

‘Some fancy paintwork, lights making it shine like the moon itself. Come on, don’t tell you me you can’t picture it.’

‘I can already imagine going broke in what we have, thank you very much.’

‘Still, handsome though, isn’t it?’

‘You and I have very different ideas of what sets a heart aflutter.’

The tram rocked and its little bell jangled as it pulled into each stop, its simple wooden construction awfully quaint yet perfectly functional for its task. An influx of bodies ended up pressing Misu and Franco together, holding straps from the ceiling to ensure balance.

‘Look, I don’t pretend to know everything about your grandfather nor the circumstances …’ Misu hesitated, apparently attempting to articulate her thoughts correctly ‘… but you’re our manager and we follow you. You’ve done your best with this whole thing. Don’t convince yourself otherwise.’

‘Have I?’ Franco stared back, shocked, as if he had confessed to a great wrongdoing. Of course there was more he could have done. The times spent in frustrated dialogue could have been quelled if he had listened just that little more. He needn’t have been so difficult when it came to negotiating, letting one of the showgirls deliver bad news to local traders because he made the excuse of being indisposed. By his own admission he could have been less of an ass.

‘There’s not a single person unconvinced that they couldn’t do better in hindsight.’ She sighed, rested her head against his chest, eyes folding to a close. ‘That’s something I’ve yet to be blessed with, so let’s just accept these choices and leave it at that.’

Reaching their stop, the pair were surprised by Jacques who had been sitting outside the rail station for some considerable amount of time. Upon seeing them disembark he waved with urgency, sprinting over to the pair who clearly misunderstood his eagerness with an unchanged pace. With a fistful of documents, Jacques drove them into Franco’s chest for review.

‘What’s this?’ The papers were unfurled and scanned.

‘Write-up papers, boss. The Bluecoats are done. They’re letting everyone back on the Den.’

Chapter Six (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73)

High Rollers

When the Gambler’s Den was finally cleared to be boarded, Franco found himself the last to arrive. The showgirls had already begun to work though the mess, sorting spilled papers, making the overturned beds, hanging the multitude of dresses and gowns that had been carelessly thrown onto the floor. Nothing had been claimed as evidence of wrongdoing and scant items were damaged in the vigorous search for hidden trapdoors or compartments.

The residence carriage was totally pulled apart. The dining car tables had been tipped over. The storage cars were in a huge mess with every table, chair, stool, and game disorganized. There was work, much work indeed to do, and everyone set about it without a word of complaint, as the Den was their home and its upkeep was performed diligently.

Young women brushed Franco aside as he surveyed the intrusion, their rearranging, replacing, tidying, a breeze of movement. He had already checked his private car, which was left in a shambles, though not much different than the condition he had left it in. Thankfully the trunk that Wyld had used to store more evidence than Juniper could imagine was untouched, still tucked into a dusty recess behind the tables. With no sign of tampering Franco could finally rest easy.

‘The bar is done, though I’m not convinced some sticky-fingered Bluecoat didn’t lift a couple of bottles of Honey Fae.’ Katerina pouted and slanted her hips. A flare of flame-red hair, still in perfect curled ringlets, draped around her shoulders, framed features that usually gave warm smiles. Now, however, all she could do was scowl as she went about her business. Dainty freckles that decorated her cheeks scrunched closer to one another in disapproval. ‘It’s bad enough that they can do this, but helping themselves to liquor? That’s unacceptable. Can’t you do something?’