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

‘What’s the real story here? You never carried a blade; you never got involved in dirty-handed work,’ Franco said. It was true, for a time. Ketan used to avoid conflict as best he could, normally being the getaway man or shifting goods around when needed. Truth be told he was very apt at such things, but he never had a taste for the violence, at least he hadn’t some seven years back.

Yet to them both, this was a lifetime away, and time much like the desert sands, covered and uncovered much.

‘Been speaking to the old man, right? Never could keep his mouth shut.’

‘Maybe so, but he’s worried. You’re running in black-market gangs now?’

‘What of it?’

‘That was never our style!’ Franco protested.

‘Our style? Our style?!’ Ketan repeated in an outburst, causing everyone in the bar to turn in unison. ‘Coming in here, speaking about ours. Just look at you.’ This time Franco was surveyed with something he hadn’t been subjected to for some time, and could have lived a good life never seeing again. ‘You don’t know my style and you don’t know who I am. You think you can just talk to me like the years mean nothing? You think that you have some kind of right because we got bloodied noses together for a time? You’re not family, Franco. We ain’t that blood.’

‘I went to find a calling. Do something proper of sorts,’ Franco objected, quite amazed at this reaction.

‘You left!’ Ketan shouted. ‘You locked yourself in that crappy yard with your pappy, shunning the lot of us, working on some scrappy little ride. The next I hear you was already making your way to pastures new without even the notion of a goodbye. You left us; you left me. Dress it up however you want but leaving is what you did. Nothing more.’

Jacques slowly reached across to his holster on his hip, though Franco’s small, otherwise unnoticed gesture, told him otherwise. The fingers retreated.

‘And then you wander on in here,’ Ketan said, ‘talking to my father, talking to me like you’re so above it all, above everyone else. Talking about ours. Damn you. Money doesn’t give you the right, Franc.’ The shortening of Franco’s name caused memories to surface. ‘You need that rolling palace taken away from you, bring you down to the rest of us. Find your roots.’

Franco’s demeanour changed. He was wrong to come here, wrong to see someone he used to call a friend, and exceptionally wrong to expect welcoming arms.

But for what reason was he rejected?

Just because he was discontented with scratching the ground like a chicken, to take the harsh days and call them the norm, should he be scorned? Franco had built a life for himself, maybe not the most ordinary but it was a life, a good life and one he learned to relish every day.

In the time he had spent in this life, he had realized that Ketan was not some grand figure from his youth. True, he was a friend, once, but the longer this tirade went on for, the closer Franco came to the conclusion that Ketan wasn’t the person he once was.

He was less than that.

Ketan was just another crook.

A small-time bandit, and a poor one at that, seeing that he’d taken a slug to the leg. Franco had dealt with enough crooks in his life to know where they all ended up: in unmarked graves that the desert claimed. This would be Ketan’s fate, undoubtedly, and he had no time for such persons, old friend or not.

‘You best be careful. That sounds like jealousy,’ Franco said.

‘Sounds like actuality to me. I got a good thing here. I don’t need the likes of you lousing it up.’

‘I can see.’ Franco dragged his stool back, loudly. The bartender retreated. He had seen this kind of exchange before and it normally ended up with sweeping splintered wood and broken glass. ‘And I can see that talking will get me nowhere so this is all time wasted. One last thing, though, what do you suggest I tell your father about this little chat?’

Ketan sank the last of his drink and swallowed it away. ‘Tell him to mind his damn business – the same thing you should do.’ With a flick of the wrist he skated the empty glass between them. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

Franco took these words with their leave and ventured out into the early afternoon sun. A blaze of light forced him to shade his eyes, standing aside from the workers who busied themselves back and forth in plumes of golden dust.

‘Well that could have gone better,’ Jacques muttered.

‘You’re not wrong there.’

‘Despite you being friends and all, we may do well not going back. The place is a nest of villainy and your pal is agitated. We’ve got enough heat on us as it is. I think this best be left as is.’

* * *

Unbeknown to the pair, they were being observed from across the street, through the dust by a lone constable. He manoeuvred naturally and gave no cause to hide his presence, clad in a royal blue duster with badge pinned to his breast, he had been ordered to survey The Water Hole on patrol for anything of interest, and interest he had discovered.

The constable had witnessed the whole thing: the delivery of the goods, the thieves responsible and more importantly, he had seen Franco – owner of the prestigious Gambler’s Den – at the scene, making a quick leave upon the goods’ arrival. The only conclusion he could make was that those on the Gambler’s Den were somehow in league with those running the whole affair.

And when he reported back to Alex Juniper, it was exactly the information the sheriff had wished for.

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

The Gambit

Revelry was for other people. Not for Wyld.

Despite being an unregistered passenger she was not restricted in her movements aboard the Gambler’s Den. Franco’s trust in her was uncommonly generous, so when meals were served, an invitation for her to join the others was always extended. This was mostly declined.

Rarely did she make an appearance elsewhere, for venturing to the other carriages encouraged sly glances and speculative whispers about her person. It was not out of malice, for the most part at least. Wyld was simply an aspect separate to what the showgirls were used to and she became the subject of gossip. There was no use in fuelling idle rumour, so should Wyld take up the offer of a meal, she collected it when the others had finished theirs and the dining cart was empty.

In contradiction to her own feelings on the matter, Kitty kept the ovens warm on the off chance of this happening, as per Franco’s demands. She served the food with much less care, never making small talk and certainly not wishing to engage in substantial conversation. Kitty trusted Wyld even less than the others did. Maybe it was the boisterousness of her youth, but she was outspoken in regards to their resident tagalong. Mercifully, this time Kitty simply did her job. She shoved a plate of pungent curry in Wyld’s hands and kept any comments to herself.

Silence accompanied Wyld’s meal from the first bite to the last. She pushed the bloated red larrson beans into a heap, finding their bitterness unpalatable. She had taken to her hammock, positioned in one of the storage cars, hidden among tables and amusements, nestled in a little space she had called home for the last few weeks. It was cramped for sure, dusty, and compared to the residence carriage the showgirls resided in, almost insulting, but Wyld didn’t need luxury. Never had. A poky spot, a place to lay her head was all the comfort she needed, or had ever been used to.

Wyld had been caught as a stowaway by Jacques when she was train hopping. She had mistaken the Gambler’s Den for a simple passenger hauler. Confronted by Jacques, her quick thinking and impressive negotiation resulted in passage in exchange for payment and regional information. She would have her independence, space for her belongings, but she was to remain hidden and, as Franco very strongly stated, any trouble would result in her expulsion.

Just recalling that conversation resulted in her teeth grating back and forth in frustration. How insulting, she grumbled, to infer such a thing. How long did he think she had been doing this? A week? Two? Try a lifetime, she could have retorted with, right into his patronizing face. That would shut him up.

She rocked her hammock side to side, swigging from a bulbous brown bottle in light, careful gulps, smacking her lips each time. Assorted memories rocked with her, a series of nagging visions that Wyld had earlier spent time staring at.

Trouble didn’t usually follow her. Like everything else she encountered – opportunities, men, and wealth – trouble usually neglected to show its face in her presence and for that she had been thankful.

But the incidents in the Vault greatly disturbed her.

Wyld had been caught up in the break-in, a messy, amateur affair with the theft of contraband under the noses of the law and deaths on both sides. Things had never gone so wrong before. Sure, there had been a handful of tight spots she could recall but not like this. Nothing had been like this. It was a harsh lesson to be taught and definitely one that wouldn’t be easily forgotten.

Trembling fingers gripped the bottle neck as, once more, the sullen look of the policeman she had shot lingered, bearing down on her with all his weight. Damn those eyes of his. Drink, she told herself, and chase the spectre away. It didn’t work. Instead she tried to be rational. One of them was to meet their end and it was only due to the good graces of the Holy Sorceress that it wasn’t her.

Grace. A faster finger. An instinct to stay alive. Wyld couldn’t tell which specifically to attribute her survival to.

Another mouthful was taken. A silent curse was made.

She was living as a vagabond, previously just ruining lives but now she had stepped into the world of taking them. She confessed in her thoughts to being a murderer. No matter how justified her act may have been, it was a line she once promised herself she wouldn’t cross. In her youth she had witnessed folks killed for scraps of food, for unpaid debts and, shockingly, simply for the fun of it. This all predictably made an impression and whilst it was sensible to carry iron for self-defence, it had been to threaten only.

Wyld had never been prepared to pull a trigger, let alone do so with lethal intent. One life, twenty, did the actual body count make any difference? She would be branded a killer either way. It was painfully difficult to justify, forcing her to question whether this journey was even worth it.

On her stomach sat the statue, staring back at her with a frozen expression of judgement. The effigy claimed, or more accurately, stolen, sat proud upon its rounded base.

The poky, squatting gold form of an Angel, with brilliant wings outstretched, was embedded into the face, surrounded with symbols from a language best forgotten and a time now ignored. Years had deposited scratches on the once brilliant metal, no doubt helped by the conflicts it had seen and the hands it had passed through. The finely crafted golden features made her curiously anxious the longer she observed them. The ill-gotten items had been treated as stock and their reverence ignored, though this one was the exception. Unlike many of her acquisitions, it was curiously respected.