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

and exhaling its burn.

      Again the door was struck.

      ‘We’re closed I said! Don’t you know the meaning of the word? Come back tomorrow if you so wish.’

      From behind the wood came a thick, muffled slur from the culprit. ‘Aw c’mon … you’re leaving me out here in the cold? That’s harsh.’

      ‘Harsh ain’t nothing to do with it,’ Cutter shared with those around him. ‘I just lack the courtesy to serve someone who isn’t willing to part with their money. Well, eventually, when I stop getting crap cards.’

      Finally the owner took to his feet in an effort to confront this commotion.

      He heaved the door bolt back and peered through the slit to the outside. Before him, swaying in a drunken stupor, was the figure of a man clearly too intoxicated to know what was best for his wellbeing. If he had, he would have known that banging on the door to Cutter’s, especially after being turned away, could have consequences.

      Cutter summed the man up, clad in a pitted hacking jacket and mismatched trousers. Another hopeful dandy on his nightly crawls around bars, Cutter assumed, drunk as the rest and just as foolhardy. He stared into the lolling white pits of the eyes before him, the young man of colour unable to concentrate on a single point before chasing liquor mirages.

      ‘Go home. You’re getting nothing, especially in your state,’ Cutter advised.

      ‘Hey, mishter.’ Cutter saw the figure sway through the eye slot, rocking back and forth. ‘C’mere …’

      Cutter leant forward, as if expecting to be entrusted with some fabulous secret.

      Without warning, all trace of drunkenness was scrubbed from the man’s gaze. His eyes narrowed, cruel and hard, and with thick-formed words simply said: ‘I disagree.’

      The door exploded open and immediately Blakestone was on his feet. The intruder had barged the owner aside, launching him into a wall before reaching for the weapon at his hip. Already Blakestone was upon him to prevent this and the pair traded blows, Blakestone reaching for his own secured iron. The man blocked what punches he could, though spurned with such vigour that this advantage was overpowering. A sudden blow across Blakestone’s temple was enough to send him to his knees.

      The intruder’s hand freely whipped to his holster, yanked the revolver free and snapped it to the level of his eyes. His advantage wasn’t as conclusive as he hoped. In return for this interruption, his focus was caught by the gaping gun barrel before him, its dark abyss harbouring the futility of his folly.

      He breathed sharply, steady, waiting for a flinch of movement from Jackdaw, who himself waited for the gusto of action.

      ‘I’ve waited far too long for this,’ the intruder wheezed, spitting the blood from his mouth but never breaking his gaze. ‘Jackdaw. As I live and breathe. I’ve spent a while tracking you down and you’re sure as hell are going to give me my money.’

      Jackdaw, his thumb still lingering on his revolver hammer, grinned in amusement. ‘Oh I am, am I?’

      ‘You have my very word.’

      ‘That sounds like a demand.’

      ‘It is.’

      ‘Look, I’ll be honest with you.’ Jackdaw watched the shadows move from behind the intruder, where the light was broken by a figure moving up behind. Never did his gaze shift. Never did he give the game away. ‘I’ve taken a lot of people’s money. Big, small, I don’t even count it. I suppose yours just went into the pile with everyone else’s. It would take a good while to find.’

      There was a sudden, blunt click that sprang into the air.

      Alvina pressed her weapon into the base of the intruder’s skull, firmly enough to ensure he got the point. ‘You’ve been all sorts of silly here, sugar,’ she purred. ‘Do the sensible thing and let it go.’

      Jackdaw paid a wink to the woman behind who returned it in kind.

      ‘Best do as she says, son. She’s not the most patient sort.’

      He cursed and thumbed the hammer back into place, slowly, the iron soon relieved from his possession.

      ‘Oooh,’ Jackdaw hissed in amusement, ‘so close.’

      He sauntered around the room, helping Blakestone to his feet, patting down his clothes and straightening his collar. All the while Alvina kept her aim upon the man, ensuring any flinch was met with a deadly response. Blakestone shook the stars from his head and attempted to recompose himself.

      ‘Really? And you do my muscle? What did he do, get you from your blind side as he walked through the door?’

      Next, Cutter was pulled onto a stool and his face was patted to consciousness. He slumped over the bar, hacking in pain, but was otherwise all right. His immediate outrage was silenced with the raising of Jackdaw’s hand. This would be handled. There was no use getting so upset over something so trivial as a damaged door and a broken nose. Instead he cracked the wax on the bottle that had been brought up from the cellar, taking a swill with a scowl of disdain.

      ‘To give you your dues, kid, you’ve got further than most. That deserves something at least in my book.’

      Jackdaw strolled back around the table’s circumference, placing the spilled glasses back onto their bases. He filled one halfway and handed it over. As he made the gesture, he nodded once more to Alvina who withdrew her threat and stepped back.

      The drink was taken, drained, and the glass firmly placed back onto the table.

      ‘Sit,’ Jackdaw offered. The intruder scowled in scepticism, so this was repeated. ‘I insist.’

      He did so, begrudgingly. If he was to take a bullet through the skull, he may as well be comfortable in doing so.

      ‘Now we can talk. What’s your name?’

      Nothing.

      ‘I’m not going to ask twice,’ he insisted.

      ‘Cole,’ came the response, blunt.

      ‘Cole. Just Cole?’

      ‘Cole Roaner.’ He emphasized the surname.

      ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’

      ‘It wouldn’t,’ Cole retorted, still quite stern.

      ‘You mentioned something of me stealing monies. Yours I’m assuming?’

      * * *

      Adrenaline still burning through him, Cole supressed the tremor that attempted to splinter his words. He had obsessed about this moment for the best part of a month, though imagined slightly different circumstances – mostly them being in his favour.

      ‘You did a job on the Eastern Point Bank a couple of weeks back. Cleaned it out from top to bottom. By the time Bluecoats showed up, they were greeted with the sight of a piss-empty vault and six individuals all hog-tied and buck-naked.’

      ‘Six was it?’ Jackdaw tested. ‘Well I recalls it being a different number.’

      ‘The papers inflated it but I assure you: four tellers and two guardsmen. Naked as the day they entered the world.’

      ‘Quite the sight. A lot of people lost their money that day. I’m struggling to see why I should hand over yours. You’ve not given me any suitable reason so far.’

      ‘I just want what’s mine.’

      ‘Now, now, I stole it fair and square. I don’t have it any more of course. That’s not how the game is played, not around here. Don’t let the sand fool you. This here is a lake we each can drown in and everyone answers to a bigger fish. You, on that day, answered to a bigger fish. So sorry, you’re fresh out of luck. Besides, have you never heard that saying never take the shiny from a jackdaw?’

      Cole’s