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

ever since I take it, Little Fish?’

      ‘I have. You crooks don’t exactly keep a low profile.’

      ‘Crooks? Ouch.’ Jackdaw feigned hurt. ‘But colour me impressed nonetheless. Not many would do that. I suppose you know my reputation?’

      ‘I do.’

      ‘And you could have gone to the law. Got a nice, fat reward for the information I bet.’

      ‘But I wouldn’t have got my money back, now would I? Besides, the law has no business in my affairs. I don’t need Bluecoats sniffing around.’

      ‘You and me both.’

      Cole rubbed his jaw, thoroughly, probing at the flesh with testing fingers.

      ‘Your man there has a mean swing.’

      * * *

      Jackdaw observed Blakestone prop himself on the bar and swill from Cutter’s open bottle. He needed to drown the embarrassment and not quickly enough. Alvina took a mouthful of her own before sliding it back along the countertop. With her uncle making the sorry trio, they each watched the conversation for any change in tone or threat.

      ‘That he does,’ Jackdaw said, ‘though I think we need to talk about little upstarts like yourself getting the jump on us. I’m as surprised as you are. Maybe I need to be paying him more.’

      Blakestone grumbled under his breath, which his employer noticed.

      ‘Or less,’ Jackdaw added, taking a measure from his own filled glass, ‘but you have done something few others have. You’ve impressed me, kid. It’s the sole reason why you and I are talking, instead of your body waiting to be found by rats while vagabonds fleece you of your clothes.’

      There was a pregnant pause. Cole downed the last of his whisky and placed the vacant glass between them. ‘So where do we go from here?’

      ‘Isn’t that just the question. What do you do for a living, Cole?’

      ‘A job? Don’t have one. Not no more. I sold the ore from a strip-mining firm out west. Since they found me to be good with numbers, I worked the books as well. Being that you knocked over the local bank, they closed doors on account of everyone losing their money. It put me out of a job. It put plenty out of a job.’

      ‘I see.’ Jackdaw smiled to his colleagues.

      Already Blakestone knew where this was heading. He hid his pout, glad that his other eye was hidden behind its patch. It was painfully obvious.

      ‘Want one?’ Jackdaw asked.

      ‘With you?’ Cole scoffed.

      ‘What, you have a better offer on the table?’

      It was a fair point.

      ‘What would I be doing?’

      ‘It depends. What are you good at?’

      ‘Numbers. Bookkeeping.’

      ‘Creative bookkeeping?’ It was now Jack’s turn to probe.

      ‘Like I said, I’m good with numbers. Very good.’

      ‘There’s a skill. You as handy with that gun of yours as you are with a pen?’

      ‘You would have been unfortunate to find out.’

      Jack clapped loudly in delight, tossing his head back with laughter. ‘Lucky I wasn’t out in the open now, wasn’t I?’

      Cole’s eyes narrowed. Unperturbed by the fact that he could be a corpse a long time ago. This clearly wasn’t how he’d envisioned tonight going down, not by a long shot.

      Jack may have been jovial but he was as sober to the situation as could be.

      ‘What about my money?’ he spat.

      ‘I’ll give you the chance to earn it back tenfold. Take it or leave it.’

      The thoughtful pause gave Jackdaw cause to push for a response.

      ‘Well …?’

      There was no possible alternative but to accept of course.

      ‘All right. I agree.’

      ‘Fantastic. Welcome to the Jackrabbits. One wrong move and I’ll put a hole through your skull so big you could fit your fist through it.’ Jackdaw aimed down the sight to the dead centre of Cole’s forehead. It was quick, too quick for him to retaliate, and done so for a time before finally being lowered. ‘Don’t be giving me a reason to and you’ll be just fine.’

      Blakestone narrowed his good eye. Disgusted at the outcome of this, he nudged Cole by the shoulder upon passing and muttered in his ear. ‘He might need a reason to make that head of yours a good deal lighter,’ he venomously hissed, ‘but you’ve given me mine already.’

       Chapter Two

      Shoot the runner

      The first thing that Cole woke to was an acrid blast of smoke over his face. Or more specifically, it was the smoke that drove him to wake up. Immediately he lurched up in the simple bed he had been allocated and hacked the air from his lungs. When untainted air found its way to his throat, Cole cracked his eyes open and sneered at the culprit.

      ‘Good morning, sleepyhead. We were wondering if you were ever going to wake up,’ Blakestone taunted. He drew his thick cigar back to his leathery lips, punctuated with a toothy smile. Cole wafted away the haze between them.

      ‘Like anybody could sleep with that crap in their face. Do you have to do that?’

      ‘Yep.’

      ‘Could you do it elsewhere?’

      Blakestone took another slow draw and exhausted it above him with the cockiest of smiles. The ash fluttered onto Cole’s cheek.

      ‘Nope.’

      ‘That figures. What time is it at least?’

      ‘Dawn. Or thereabouts.’

      ‘Civilized people sleep during this time,’ Cole protested, wiping the accumulated debris from his eyes. His ears adjusted to the vigorous chatter that was loud enough to be picked up, but dull enough to be a droll.

      ‘What is that racket?’ he called in borderline frustration.

      ‘Downstairs is a machine shop. There’s some thirty who work there, putting together clothes, that sort of thing. It makes the place look legitimate, so our coming and going isn’t suspicious.’

      ‘They’re too loud and it’s too early for my liking.’

      ‘Not for what we have planned. Come on, up.’ Blakestone hoisted himself to his feet, forcing the releasing springs to jolt back to their normal position. ‘You’re a Jackrabbit now. We don’t do lie-ins. Complaining, neither.’

      Cole begrudgingly took leave of his bed and wiped his face with a hand. He staggered to a dirtied window and wiped the dust, peering out into the streets. It was relatively deserted with the exception of the convoy of stallholders, each transporting their goods by cart and horse to the marketplace and bazaar. Birds had only just started to rise with their songs greeting the rusty hues of the flaring sky.

      The safe house was an inconspicuous affair, a two-tiered building nestled in an equally inconspicuous street in an established factory district. The downstairs was a factory floor, with workstations all adorned with large rolls of prepared cloths, the accompanying employees working sewing machines since the beginning of their shifts. Upstairs was off limits to the staff and the keys were held by Jackdaw and his cronies alone. It was spacious and open with functional room divides, though lacked comfort. Most of the floors were bare apart from patches