Den of Smoke: Absolutely gripping fantasy page turner filled with magic and betrayal. Christopher Byford

tool away, the Marquis abandoned his stall, as did others who had hoped for a quiet meal.

      As the Sanders Boys advanced, Cole struggled to see any way out. He had already had one beating this week and was keen to ensure that it wouldn’t be repeated. His fists were raised in defence, trying to recall some of the boxing tips that his father had imparted.

      ‘Isn’t it a good time to show some iron to these folks?’

      ‘You don’t pull a gun out in a bar fight. It’s just not how an altercation is done,’ Alvina explained, waiting for the first unlucky fool to take their chance. One did so and was hip-tossed into a barstool, shattering it into pieces. She followed it up with a kick across the jaw, rendering him motionless.

      A glint of steel flashed between them. The knife flashed, light sinking down the blade to its hilt. Its owner advanced aggressively and waved it back and forth.

      ‘And that?’ Cole asked, trying not to panic.

      ‘Well, that’s just unsporting.’

      He watched Alvina flow through the air like liquid, darting and dodging every thrust, moves practised so much that they were committed to muscle memory. The knife pierced nothing but air and when a sufficient opening appeared, Alvina punished the thrust and ensured that the culprit would be unable to hold anything for a few weeks.

      The cracking of bone caused the men to surge onward in a wave of malice. All Cole saw was Alvina landing punches into the cluster of bodies, scattering them this way and that.

      That and the fist that knocked him out, sending the world to black.

       Chapter Seven

      Protecting interests

      Two days later, the Jackrabbits took to the merchants’ quarter, navigating the streets with purpose. Cole was more sheepish than the others, nursing an almighty black eye that sullied his eye socket. It had swollen too, an uncomfortable reminder of his lack experience in a brawl. Not that he needed a reminder of course. Between then and now, the entire gang had ribbed him about his shiner. That didn’t look to be easing up any time soon.

      ‘If recent events have shown us anything,’ Jack declared, ‘it’s that you need to defend yourself a little better than you already have. I can’t have people under my employ walking around with faces like a butcher’s scrap bucket.’

      ‘He’s referring to the eye,’ Alvina leant in and whispered.

      ‘Thank you, I got that,’ Cole groaned back under his breath.

      ‘In this line of work, I expect plenty,’ Jack continued. ‘Loyalty is a given. But what I need to know when you’re out of my sight, and the sight of others, is that you can see potential dangers.’

      ‘That’s difficult for you on account of being punched.’ Alvina edged closer once more, the end of her revelation trailing to a hiss. ‘Punched in the eye.’

      Cole slapped his palm to his face in disbelief.

      Blake had remained curiously silent, occasionally flicking his good eye in Cole’s direction. It was clear that this entire affair didn’t sit right with him and he voiced as much.

      ‘What are we doing about retaliation? We’re not letting the Sanders Boys get away with this are we? Even as a sham, they’ll be under the false impression that they can get one over on us without repercussions.’ He loudly spat into the gutter. ‘The last thing we need is more pressure from chancers.’

      ‘They are plenty in number and we are a handful. The odds dictate we play things smart and safe.’

      ‘Is that a no? We’re going to let this go unpunished?’

      ‘When the time comes, but today is not that day.’ Jackdaw fiddled with his shirt cuffs in irritation.

      ‘Just give me a couple of weeks. I’ll jump each and every one from whatever pit they crawl out of, do the lot in turn and we’ll have one less concern on the daily.’

      ‘You –’ Jackdaw spun in his place, bringing Blake to an abrupt stop, his hand extended ‘– will do what I say. I’ve told you my stance on the matter and no action needs to be taken. Not by me, not by the others and especially not by you when in one of your hot-headed moods. Just having to explain this simple concept irritates me, so, from this moment forth, there will be none of this nonsense. Do you understand me?’

      Jack may have missed it but Cole witnessed Blake’s fists clench to the point that his knuckles turned white. He held his breath, expecting a punch to be thrown that never came. Instead, the Jackrabbit relented and fell into line.

      After a brief couple of stops to check with shop owners as to the state of goods they were harbouring, or whether long-standing trouble had returned, Jack and the others stopped at their destination.

      Cole had never been inside a store like this before. He had always kept clear of them because, previously, he hadn’t wanted to tarnish his reputation – and the kind of individuals they attracted were of the rougher sort. Of course, that was before the pursuit of reclaiming his lost money. Now, Cole realized he was one of those whom he used to cross the street to avoid.

      He raised his eyes to the overhanging sign on the wall. On it, painted in a port red, were two crossed revolvers with the name of the premises:

      THE DEADBOLT GUNWORKS

      The door swung inward, the tinkle of a bell rattling above to indicate their arrival. The shop was deceptively small, with four large glass cases and plenty of stock hidden in the basement. Windows were reinforced with iron lattices to deter potential thieves. The lowering sun flooded the interior with orange, though not enough to light a lamp. Glass display cases bared their wares: a range of firearms, rifles, knives and other such instruments of injury. All had been keenly buffed, with price cards set alongside them.

      Past these were various workbenches, along with racks of well-sorted tools. Among them, the owner pressed down on a lever intermittently. Beside her, skeletons of metal were processed, filled with black powder and bullets. At her side a burly man organized piles of materials, his face thick with a pitch bush of an untamed beard. His eyes were blank, only seemingly springing to life at the sound of the bell, which coaxed the pair to turn their attention to the patrons.

      * * *

      Wyld pulled the protective goggles from her eyes and wiped her hands upon a thick leather apron. She strode over and welcomed Jack with a charming smile. Her work gloves were removed and tossed onto a worktop so as not to tarnish the main cabinets’ impeccable polish. Umbra remained at his station, busying himself.

      ‘This is nice to see.’ She beamed. ‘Good afternoon, folks. You have impeccable timing. I was just about to close doors.’

      ‘Is that an indication that you don’t want our business? I’m hurt.’ Jack scanned over the stock to see if there was anything of interest. There usually was. Her connections to individuals like him ensured that there was a flow of good quality imperial weaponry. Quality, however, came at considerable expense and sometimes that bill wasn’t monetary.

      ‘Perish the thought, Jack. Honest crooks like yourself are keeping the lights on and the pair of us fed. I’m happy to see you still breathing.’

      ‘Not for the want of others trying, I assure you.’

      Wyld turned her head to the tallest one among them.

      ‘Mister Blakestone, it’s nice to see you once more. You’re keeping those good looks in check I’m hoping.’ She grinned.

      Blake tipped the lip of his hat, showing the slightest sign of a blush, but luckily his beard hid most of it. ‘Ma’am.’

      Wyld turned to the next in line. ‘Alvina, always a pleasure, dear.’

      The