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

‘It’s not mine in any sense of the word, Mister Monaire.’ He lingered on an exhalation. ‘I speak on behalf of a benefactor who is impressed by the work you do. I appreciate that you would be unable to discuss figures – but to him, that is not of concern. What he has taken to, is your freedom. You take your business from town to village and you put on a show. People forget their cares. For a handful of hours, everybody’s life is made better.’

‘That we do.’

‘You do indeed!’ Donovan cheered, clapping his hands together. ‘What you achieve cannot be bought. Or at least that’s the impression folks have.’

‘Maybe.’

‘But we know business, do we not? Everything, everything in this world has a price. Tell me, Franco, are you familiar with the term franchise?’

‘I’ve a notion.’

‘And an interest in being one?’

‘No.’ Franco leant back. ‘Just one Den is enough. Having any more running about would bring me to an early grave. It’s a hardship to manage just the one.’

‘Quite the pity, but understandable. Still, this does not detract from my benefactor’s proposal. The reputation you have with this train of yours is invaluable. It is this that he wishes to obtain.’

‘I’m sorry, obtain?’

‘He would like to make an offer to purchase the Gambler’s Den from you.’ Donovan’s face fell into seriousness. ‘Please state your price.’

‘Excuse me, I think there’s been a mistake,’ Franco said, rejecting the new offer to smoke from the pipe between then. ‘You think that I’m willing to sell?’

Donovan emptied his tumbler of alcohol and sat it on the table’s veneer. ‘If it is concern for your staff that worries you, there is no need. Current employees’ contracts would be honoured of course, with no change in salary or conditions. Security is so hard to find these days, would you not agree? It is such a charity to be provided. There would be very little in the way of changes to your operation if that is of a concern. I assure you, the man who I represent – his reserves are inexhaustible.’

‘I imagine they are.’ Franco mulled over this for a moment. ‘May I know the name of this generous individual?’

‘It was decided that he should remain anonymous.’ A waiter strolled alongside them, taking the glass away without a word. ‘In case an agreement was not made.’

Clearly, Franco assessed, this man was not getting the point. It wasn’t a case of money. ‘Let me put this another way. I have no intention to sell my train. I believe there has been some sort of mistake and I’m afraid you are wasting your time.’

Donovan leant forward, hunching himself on approach. His thin mouth slipped out every world like a viper’s hiss, direct and in warning. ‘I disagree. Like I said, everything and more importantly everybody has a price, especially with the life we are accustomed to. Freedom and security are traits that are never given, only bought, and if you have nothing to pay with, then they cannot be assured. We know all about the Gambler’s Den, Franco. Trouble follows you wherever you go, and we assume this not to be, shall we say, coincidental. No, coincidental it is not, but unfortunate, most definitely. I believe you have difficulties these days with scores of outlaws. These bandits as they are called – thugs no less – they are innumerable, no? Relentless.’

Franco gave a cold reply. ‘We’re a good score for them.’

‘Again, most unfortunate. And it is with this that we come back to the concept of security. Maybe not so much for your train there, but for your employees. It would be terrible if they were accidentally harmed by these brutish individuals.’ Donovan licked his lips before sitting back again. ‘Weighty for the conscience.’

Franco was unable to ascertain if this was a suggestion or a threat. Certainly there was a sinister nature about Donovan Kane, which had been seemingly dressed up, hidden behind a good suit and clean shave, but to what extent Franco had difficulty discerning.

‘The people, the business …’ Franco drummed his fingers on the wood before scooting his chair back and standing up. ‘It’s one and the same to me. Thank you for your time, Mister Kane, but I assure you that the Gambler’s Den will always remain my property, though I am flattered by your interest. It has been a pleasure.’

‘Franco!’ Donovan called out. His doing so coaxed a pause in Franco’s movements who was well aware of the sentry, who now looked for any sign of required interference. ‘These are harsh times, Franco, where a fortune is won and lost in the smallest of moments. Please do consider this proposal. It’s an opportunity to alleviate any future hardships and a wise choice to make.’

* * *

‘I don’t understand why you’re angry.’

Misu watched Franco peel the shirt from his skin, push it into a linen basket, and remove a fresh one from his wardrobe. It never occurred to him that Misu might watch him, a little too intently whilst changing, but he had seen her in a worse state of undress and never thought twice about it. The private car was decidedly off limits to anyone without his permission to enter, though Misu had earned the exception by acting as a confidante.

She sat with legs dangling from his bed, which was a large affair with bright red satin sheets and matching décor. The pillows were always plump, the mattress perfectly between soft and firm, a place to truly enjoy one’s sleep. It was unlike Misu’s single bed, which lacked such comforts and privacy.

‘Buy, Misu.’ Franco scowled, brushing his hair in a full-length mirror with hard, violent swipes of the brush. ‘He wanted to buy me. I cannot imagine a notion more annoying.’ He placed the brush down, with no small measure of noise, and walked to her, pushing every golden button through its accompanying hole.

‘Not so much you, but the Den itself,’ Misu corrected him, patting his hands away. Franco had missed a button in his frustration and seemed not to have noticed. Delicate fingers casually corrected this. ‘There is a stark difference.’

‘Not to me there’s not.’

‘Not to you, of course.’

‘I am the Gambler’s Den,’ he replied. ‘It is me.’

‘You are many things, dear,’ Misu rebutted. ‘But a train you are not. Don’t take it personally. Money is money and an offer is an offer. Nobody has wronged you.’

When done, Misu rose and playfully slapped his cheek to knock away this mode of thought.

‘I’ll go find Jacques for you. He’s been ready for the last hour. Look, I understand your ego and all but selling the Den – would it really be the worst thing in the world? Think about it.’

* * *

Franco puffed his cheeks out but before he could begin complaining Misu had already sauntered off. He didn’t want to think about it, it wasn’t thought-worthy. Selling the Den? Preposterous notion.

Franco pulled on his vest and coat, taking a look at himself in the mirror. Something looked back at him, something quite foreign. Dulled eyes. A permanent frown. No matter, there was no time for any of this. He was already late for his next appointment.

Preposterous, he agreed with himself.

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

The Vault

Wyld was still reeling from Franco’s scolding. She may have been just a youngster in his eyes, perhaps with no business to be tagging along with them, but whatever his dismissals, she knew this trip was not for naught. It was a grand score. All it required was a little muscle to pull it off. Why could Franco not see that? All the while their relationship – one fraught with stealing and the need to pay for her share of travel, food, and protection – remained strained. Franco never said, nor hinted that he trusted Wyld – something that puzzled her.

Wyld was no bank robber, no part-time crook or whatever accusation anyone might insult her with. She was, in her own words, just trying to make her way and doing what was required to ensure that. She had never mugged a person, never taken a life from greed, anger, or spite. Compared to the majority of folks she had encountered, Wyld’s conscience was relatively clean.

Sure she carried a gun, a pair of snub-nosed revolvers that held sentimentality and offered protection in equal parts – but out this way, most had to. Whenever aimed, they were always just a threat, never seen through as the girl lacked the stomach for such a grisly affair. Bloodshed was for other folks for other reasons.

No, where Wyld excelled was in stealth. There was no place she could not slip into. Day or night, no matter the location, she could sneak inside and retrieve what she deemed fit. It was a skill tempered by the life of a vagrant. She, like many children out in the outpost towns, had been abandoned and forced to scratch through the dirt for survival. Just beyond the Sand Sea, in a town named Esquelle, and with a younger brother in tow, her criminality began with stealing bread from markets to keep away the threat of starvation. Before long, she was stealing to order, living with a ramshackle community of other youngsters, all sharing their merchandise.

That was, until she met her saviour.

Wyld never deemed herself religious. Tales of the Holy Sorceress were for other ears, for people who could afford the luxury of bedtime stories. Redemption never walked through the drift-soiled alleyways with the pimps and beggars. Clemency never sat itself at a back-end tavern and ignored the drinking and whoring. She had learnt long ago that prayers were hollow words.

The day she met him was the day everything changed. Strong in presence, kind in action, he protected Wyld from a host of undesirables, endangering himself in an act of compassion, a lesson devoid from her upbringing. It was the day her life found reason, and when he left her, a void grew, needing to be filled.

Squatting upon corrugated iron sheeting, Wyld scanned the small compound opposite with a retractable telescope, mentally mapping the layout and guard placement. She was perfectly safe. The nearby shanty structures created a structural puzzle to navigate. Schizophrenic passages gave way to ramshackle homes, or to dead ends in some cases, a maze of poverty that would be perfect to aid retreat should things go wrong.

The compound itself was lightly protected. Three men on the outside in uniform took turns to walk the circumference every hour, paying attention to the surrounding chain-link fence, patchily laced with barbed wire. In the middle, some hundred yards from the fence, a two-storey brick building, of unremarkable design, was housing at least another six men, plain-clothed, some passing windows, the others congregating in some sort of room upstairs.

The alarm was rudimentary, a bell connected to the outside, with some cabling passing through the outer wall to somewhere unseen. There were no dogs, thankfully, as dogs were a staple danger of this work and unlike people they could not be reasoned with.