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

Chapter Three

Knives in meat

A typically uncomfortable train ride did nothing to brighten Jack’s mood. Having to visit Donovan in any capacity was never something to be pleased with. You were never in Donovan’s company unless you needed to beg for something, or he had demanded your presence. Rarely did either of these situations play out as expected. Bargains would always be one-sided and most of the time, an individual would leave empty-handed.

So when Jackdaw received a letter requesting his attendance, very politely of course, it did nothing but coax ire. He had enough to concern himself with and didn’t need to burden his mind with the what-ifs the note conjured up. None of them were good of course. Nothing about being summoned by Donovan ever concluded pleasantly.

Semmerton was a small village with a shady past, a single stop westwards by train. Every brothel Jackdaw passed hid criminals by the score. Each storefront was a façade for bootleggers, betting dens and underground boxing rings. All the sordid things that respectable towns swept out to keep themselves decent wound up here. It was an open secret of course and under Donovan’s control, this lawless hole had begun attracting every sort of scumbag from the Badlands to the borders of Eifera. It was a haven for their sort.

Not for Jackdaw though. He had a code he worked to, a professionalism that refused to be tarnished by vermin who pulled the trigger at a simple disagreement, or saw fit to cut a woman’s face just for looking at them wrong. Yes, these were the crimes the worst were guilty of and if the land were scrubbed clean in a flood, not a one would be missed by anyone with scruples.

Jackdaw sidestepped a fight that had broken out between two small gangs, passing by before knives could be introduced or the inevitable shots fired. He had walked the approach to Donovan’s compound a good number of times before but that didn’t alleviate scrutiny from passing sharpshooters. They sat on overhangs, rooftops and watchtowers looking for the first signs of trouble. Bluecoat trouble, not the regular disgusting masses that brawled in the open.

Each one waved him past, recognizing him as a regular. He was welcomed at the gates, patted down and his weapon was removed, as was procedure. He passed the main house, large and obtained via ill-gotten money, and then he followed the white gravel paths that funnelled people through the property. Past the stables he went, catching sight of the newest collection of mares being trained for racing. Only at a rundown-looking barn on the outskirts did Jackdaw find who had called for him.

A heavyset pale man guarded the door, his rifle propped up against the barn itself, stock first. A block of ginger hair protruded from a brown derby bowler that had seen better days. His freckled features moved to delight upon seeing Jackdaw approach. Immediately he whipped his hand out and shook the visitor’s warmly.

‘Morning, Jack. It’s been a while since you’ve given us a visit. I was beginning to think you had been replaced. Wouldn’t want that now.’

‘Me neither.’ Jack smiled. ‘I like working. I like breathing a whole lot more if you catch my meaning.’

The sentry spat into the ground, surveying the harsh sun.

‘Things have changed since Wilheim was buried … Not for the better. Too many youngsters these days are trying to make their name – with no experience. Figure they can get it by taking out big ’uns like you and I. Brats the lot of them. I always said you were one of the good ones.’

It would have been a nice sentiment if Jackdaw could remember this fellow’s damn name. Instead he tipped his head in thanks and stated his intentions. From the open doorway, a curious and irregular thumping sound made itself known. The daylight was so harsh that the interior was swamped with shadow.

‘I’ll always accept a compliment, warranted or no. I’m here to see the big man. Got a summons the other day; fellow at the gate pointed me in this direction. He inside?’

‘He’s inside all right. Best not say anything out of turn today. He seems to be in quite the mood,’ the sentry proclaimed, turning his head to the side and calling into the darkness, ‘Hey, boss! Jackdaw is out here saying you sent for him!’

The thumping abruptly stopped.

‘Send him in,’ was the gravelled reply.

The sentry held his arm out to offer Jackdaw passage inside. ‘Best of luck to you, Jack.’

The blows started up once more, louder this time. The deeper Jack ventured inside, navigating a small grimy corridor filled with barrels and gurneys, his eyes readjusting to the gloom, the better he could see and, unfortunately, smell. The air was nauseatingly thick with a pungent metallic waft. Jack didn’t need to guess the cause. There had been times when the stench had clung to him after a day’s labour, poisoned his clothes and became one with his skin.

Nobody had to remind Jackdaw what death smelt like.

He looked back the way he had come, eyes now turning to the floor to follow a strip of red that ran from the open door to another that had been propped open. Spitting the warm miasma from his mouth to the floor, Jackdaw followed the trail.

He had known Donovan Kane for as long as he’d been in the game. A small-time thug had risen to become Wilheim Fort’s most trusted adviser and, as an extension, a grabber and torturer. A grabber was an individual who was skilled in the art of retrieval. Rubbed the boss up the wrong way? A grabber would get you and force you to explain yourself in person. Went on the run after owing money? A grabber would drag you back to ensure you paid in full. Naturally grabbing and torture went hand in hand, as tongues needed to be loosened by any means necessary.

Donovan was especially talented at this.

His father had taught him butchery in his youth, which became useful when putting the hurt on the uncooperative. How bones broke. Which part of the insides to hurt and how. When Wilheim’s empire began to crumble, it was Donovan who claimed it and this patented hurt of his had to be applied on a good number of fellow challengers before they submitted to reason. By the time he was victorious, Donovan’s dominance was unquestioned.

It would be easy to become sluggish upon his new throne, to let his gifts become rusty and obsolete.

But Donovan had found a routine to ensure this would not be the case.

Donovan continued to cut through a sow with quick slips of a knife. Segments of chops were removed and placed beside one another. Despite having the animal bled out beforehand, dashes of blood accompanied that spread out on the chopping block. That which the block failed to contain dripped down onto the tiled floor that gently sloped to a drain. Judging by the amount of blood that adorned the floor, he had gone through a few animals already today.

Long black hair was oiled back and pulled into a topknot, the well-groomed facial hair forming a husky beard on his thin face. Steely eyes were laser-focused on the task in hand, as if it had become an outlet for something deep within his being. In the last few months since Wilheim’s death, Donovan had changed significantly. This was not the man Jackdaw recalled, not in any sense. Reforming the criminal enterprise was elevating Donovan into something more than he once was, something much crueller. Something worse. Reds of various contrasts tarnished his leather work apron.

‘Jackdaw. What an honour to see you,’ he exclaimed, though his words were insincere.

‘An honour is it now? I remember when it was an inconvenience.’

‘It’s a turn of phrase, Jack – don’t get too big-headed. You don’t bring in enough to get away with sarcasm. In fact, looking at the books, you’re fortunate I don’t toss you out right now.’

‘Come now, Donovan, this isn’t the way to do business, is it? Wilheim never rocked the boat.’

‘No.’ Donovan assessed the carcass before him, sizing up what cut to take next. ‘He was foolish enough to sink with his ship whilst I have every intention of staying afloat.’

After reaching for his cleaver that had been embedded into the chopping block, Donovan twisted it free and continued on with strong whacks. Jack watched as each strike gouged through the meat, the brutal sound echoing, seemingly reverberating in the room around them.

‘Are things bad these days?’

‘My concerns are not your concerns. All I need from you – if need is the correct term as it implies an urgency, or importance upon your person – is to keep Esquelle in check. The reason why you’re here is because I’m troubled, Jack. Word comes to me that this may not exactly be the case.’

The pig’s ribs were separated away with a much more frenzied strike. Jackdaw kept his nerve. Showing any sort of trepidation would very much go against him. Something within the mess cracked with a tug.

‘You shouldn’t listen to rumour, Donovan. People talk all sorts of rubbish for attention.’

The cleaver slammed deep into the blood-stained wood, secured by the force of the blow. Donovan drew his hands down his well-soiled leather apron, removing a great deal of blood but nowhere near all.

‘And plenty speak truth. I would say I’m troubled by what I hear but you know me all too well: I don’t get troubled. Trouble does not consume me. I am trouble. Tell me, why do I hear that your grip on things has slipped of late? Previously the other gangs would fall into line. Now I hear they openly compete with you for territory. Ridiculous.’

Jack stepped forward, cautious not slip on the wet floor. The blood, he had little care for.

‘I can’t buy off the Bluecoats any more than I have already. If I could, I would march into each of their hovels in turn. I operate on restraint. Since Wilheim’s death, the law seems galvanized to be doing the right thing. Foolish notion for sure, but one they adhere to. Now some of these gangs you talk about have been taken off the board. The head of the Highwaymen had a tragic accident when shaving. His neck was opened up, ear to ear. Blakestone jumped all of the Travellers Three when they were preoccupied with working girls. Why only last week did Chester’s goons suffer the unspeakable tragedy of dying in their sleep via natural causes.’

‘Natural causes you say?’

‘Fire is a natural thing. Dynamite not so much, but the two go hand in hand. The bottom line is …’ Jack stabbed at the table repeatedly, turning the tip of a finger crimson ‘…I’m keeping my part of the bargain. Sure there are some out there who want to take risks and test my temper but I assure you, I’m holding the line over there.’

A knife taken from the rack. Donovan knelt slightly to perfect his angle, before slipping it inside and cutting into the shoulder. Strings of fat clung to the flesh, encouraged to separate with strokes of the blade.

‘Your agreement was with Wilheim Fort,’ Donovan stated.

‘You’ve taken over his operation.’

‘That I have. Yet I am not him. For all his terrors it may surprise to hear that he was unduly lenient with you in the past. I recall the day you walked on in to his place, a spit of a lad, demanding an audience. You cut down the legs of one of his men to get his attention. You gave your demands. Do you remember what you wanted?’ He pulled a mass of pink and white from the carcass, the skin immediately sagging. The shoulder was placed beside the other cuts of meat in sequence with a thump.

‘Revenge.’ Jack’s face fell, cold and hard.

‘Of course you did. It’s a fine purpose. And you were given that town –’ Donovan wagged the tip of the knife between them, a streak of blood dashing its way to the handle thanks to gravity.

‘I earned that town,’ Jack challenged, his expression as resolute as his words to ensure there was no misunderstanding. ‘I took it. Spit of a lad, like you said. Yet I took it. Don’t forget that little detail.’

‘Doesn’t change the fact you’ve done nothing with it. No enterprise. No venture. Just money in, money out, living the same way you’ve always done. I don’t know how many years it’s been. What I do know is that it’s been too many.’

The knife was swept back and forth upon his apron to wipe away the blood and then dropped into a rack.

‘Some of us pave the roads. Others simply travel upon them. Years down the line, the horse and cart will fade to bones and dust. Yet the road will always remain.’ Donovan chuckled to himself, amused at something so surprisingly poetic. He rested his elbow on a sad, protruding bubble of pink at the height of the strewn-out animal carcass. The pig’s head sank somewhat under the weight of the man, its lolling tongue slipping further out.

‘Make progress,’ Donovan ordered, ‘for your own sake. Or I’ll get someone who can. Do we understand one another?’

Jack scowled over his glasses, not enough to show outright defiance but enough to convey his dissatisfaction. The stench of blood had never sickened him before but here, in these confines, he felt it contributing to his feeling of undue queasiness.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Good.’ Donovan patted the pig’s face with a pair of slaps, then scooped up the cleaver, tuning the head to line up his blow. ‘Tribute will be going up an extra fifteen per cent going forward. I trust that won’t be a problem for the famed Jackrabbits?’

‘Without a doubt,’ Jack cockily responded. He lied of course. That increase would sting anybody and already decent jobs seemed to be tougher to come by. Yet atop the previous increments, Jack knew full well that this demand would be one ask too much.

‘Good! Then we’re done here. You can go.’

Jackdaw shuddered before he made his way out the door and back into the daylight. A flurry of cries was coupled with dramatic, mighty strikes. Bone cracked violently before the tool struck the wood beneath. Then there was nothing but arduous breathing.

As he passed, the sentry outside spied the slight decoration of red that dotted over Jackdaw’s shirt, unbeknown to its owner.

‘You got some blood on you, pal,’ he called.

But Jackdaw just walked on. Blood upon his person was nothing new.

Chapter Four

Roses in the sand

Returning to Esquelle with additional woes, Jackdaw hungered to blow off steam. Dusk-soaked tawny streets seemed maze-like to the visitor but Jack’s feet knew full well where they travelled. He crossed the district, weaving past warehouses and small factories before emerging out on the cusp of the tailors’ square. A water fountain, once built by the founders as a symbol of self-congratulation, was being slowly eroded by both time and the elements. Its depiction of the Holy Sorceress, gown in frozen motion and sword raised high, was tarnished with gentle pitting.

He wandered over and cupped the tepid water in his hands, freshening his face and wrangling his beard back into design. When content at the reflection staring back, Jack paced between buildings until the space extended out into a loading yard.

Except it was anything but.

The yard was free of crates, free from anything of substance apart from the fire escape that spidered up the red-brick building side. Women hung over the railings, beautiful women in fact, wrapped up in fashions both bright and fair. Those who lived at the Ten of Hearts were sirens to the dockhands who passed, working girls but selective ones, for their tastes were far too exotic for just anyone to accommodate.

As Jackdaw strolled into the yard, the figures clad in satin and silk eased their conversations. The ones entangled with men broke from their embraces, looking down the line to one of their own in particular.

She draped herself over the fire escape, letting her cyan satin hang quite elegantly. Raised to her cherry red lips, pinched between fingers, was a cigarette, the smoke initially restrained and then eased away gently. Her voice was rich and sweet, confectionery for any red-blooded man.

‘Well looky here. Howdy, trouble. Are you causing mischief again?’

‘Perish the thought, Bounty,’ Jack answered.

Already he had begun to ascend the green fire escape that clenched onto the red-brick premises like a hungry lover. Each woman he passed received a nod of respect. As he moved past silk and skin and satin the women batted hypnotizing eyes and pursed inviting lips. They each cooed and offered saccharine smiles. They knew Jack by reputation, though only the good parts and even most of them were embellished.

‘And I suppose you’re just sniffing around this here premises on the way to church, right?’ Bounty called, dangling her hair over the railing as he approached. He paid the same courtesy as they came toe to toe. Hazel-brown eyes flicked to Jack, who met them with his own blues.

‘I prefer to talk to those who are willing to answer me,’ he quipped, ‘but between the pair of us, and correct this if it’s a falsehood of mine, I believe you’re the one who prays on her knees now.’

Bounty curled her mouth, teething the cigarette. The gaggle of accompanying women chuckled at the banter. It was a show they had witnessed many times previously, though it never got old.

‘Ever the clever bastard. I’ve not seen you around for some time, Jacky boy. I was afraid you was getting bored of me.’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Too much or too little trouble?’

A smirk erupted. ‘That’d be telling. Ruins the surprise of finding out somewhat, don’t it?’

* * *

Bounty paused, finding delight in this little run-around between them. Times had been boring and in truth she missed his company more than his patronage.

‘So what brings you around talking to us working girls?’

‘Is it a crime talking to a working girl?’

‘Crime? No. Suspicious? Most certainly. It’ll make folks think that you want something.’

Jack withheld his tongue this time, baiting her to encourage the conversation. Lazily she gestured in a circle to the space around him. ‘I remember when you used to bring me flowers.’

‘It wouldn’t be a treat if I brought them every time now, would it?’

‘No entourage in tow this time?’

‘I told them to take the long way home. It was with the best of intentions considering we have some mighty catching up to do.’

Bounty tapped the ash from her cigarette with a charmed grin, letting him wait for her attention. And wait he did.

‘That we do,’ she finally agreed.

Bounty was known, in the common tongue, as a Rose, reflecting her profession. Now this would be easy to mistake as a glamorous venture, but the truth of the matter was that she was no different from any other whore who made their trade in the various cathouses and brothels across the Sand Sea. What made a woman who had adopted the Rose namesake unique was that she was able to choose her clientele. As such, a Rose, and those who surrounded her, didn’t have to deal with violent, uncouth brutes who sought a five-minute rough and tumble.

Bounty Rose had regulars, a rather short list of wealthy, though respectable folks that she entertained at this establishment. Each Rose would rent a room for a week at a time, though it was here, at the Ten of Hearts, where Bounty preferred to stay. She was unlike some of the more nomadic girls, who found excitement moving from place to place. Bounty preferred routine and regularity and, as such, Room 13 was practically her home. For the time being at least.

Room 13 was adorned with hanging red silks, vases of fresh flowers and gifts from many satisfied suitors. Bounty was used to luxuries, many and unique; though favoured the unexpected more than anything else. It’s for this reason that she had a certain affection for Jackdaw. Whilst her regular clientele were a mix of officials and well-off folk, Jackdaw provided a roguish distraction. A danger.

And nothing fluttered the senses quite like danger.

* * *

Bounty lay drawing her fingers over Jackdaw’s head. Their post-coitus routine normally wound up with one being attentive to the other. Wisps of smoke haunted the ceiling from the cigarette stuck to his bottom lip.

‘You’re not relaxed in the slightest are you?’

Jack nodded slowly.

‘You always were a tough one to keep settled, I’ll tell you that.’ She sighed. ‘A restless sleeper is a sign of a restless mind.’

He puffed smoke between them, declining to confirm or deny this accusation.

‘So what is it? Woman troubles?’

‘Nah. I don’t have any of them. Haven’t had them in a long time. Wouldn’t be here if I did, right?’

‘Scoundrel.’ Bounty plucked the cigarette from his lips and took her turn, painting the paper with her lipstick.

He wheezed a dishevelled reply. ‘Ain’t that the truth.’

‘So it’s over business?’

‘Somewhat. We’ve got a new recruit now by the name of Cole.’

‘And how is he turning out?’

‘The kid’s interesting. Knowledgeable, very smart like. Comes from money. Worked for a mining company from what he says, if he’s speaking true.’ Jack knew that Cole’s potential would be revealed with time yet felt the pangs of impatience. ‘Following orders like he’s supposed to. Hasn’t swung at me yet so that’s a plus. Figure it’s early days to assume anything else. To say any more would be a folly. A boredom too.’

‘Quite.’

‘I’m just protecting your interests. I wouldn’t want my favourite girl to mistake me for a bore.’

‘Perish the thought. When are you going to do good on your word and take me away from all this?’ She slipped the cigarette back between Jackdaw’s teeth. ‘You used to woo me with tales of grand scores and a never-ending horizon to race to. Never a Bluecoat could catch me, you’d boast. You would make a decent woman out of me, you promised. Fancy that. Me. Decent.’

Bounty’s voice trailed off in thought, dwelling on such a thing. It would have been indulged in further if he didn’t playfully strike her backside. Claiming a thin red robe that clung to her sweat-covered skin, she sat at her dresser, watching the man observe her in a hilariously opulent mirror. She took a hairbrush from within reach and began to ease her hair back into some sort of presentable shape.

‘The minute I have an equally decent amount to my name, good lady. I need to keep you in the lifestyle that you’re accustomed to. Fine foods, hot water, satin sheets, soft beds. Those things don’t come cheap. Money woes seem to be arising of late. Not my choice, mind.’

‘I am an expense to maintain for sure,’ she purred, brushing her hair that shimmered in the lamp’s luminescence. ‘Wouldn’t you agree I was worth it?’

‘Not a doubt in my being.’

Chapter Five

Deals going wrong, deals going right

It took a couple of weeks until Cole was trusted with errands and errands were all they were. Fetch groceries, order supplies and very occasionally deliver letters. The letters themselves were well-sealed affairs to expose any attempts at tampering and, sure, Cole did, on occasion, feel the pangs of curiosity as to their contents. He thought better of it and delivered them to bar owners and shopkeepers, who each thanked him with a great deal of gusto.

For a while, Cole believed that he would be stuck as a second-rate deliveryman. There was certainly no stated intention of handing him more serious work, though his frustration over this was never vocalized. He saw how Jack treated others who attempted to outgrow their position – Blakestone most regularly, for he seemed to constantly push the boundaries of what was acceptable. Not wanting to endure any verbal lashings, nor threats of the physical sort, Cole wisely kept his grievances contained.