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

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.