Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy. Christopher Byford
under his absolute control, a worthwhile goal indeed, given time. Dominating the routes over the Sand Sea would ensure a capital profit.
* * *
The woman at Wilheim’s side stood rigidly, as if she was expecting to defend herself at any given time. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, though her clothing, a pinstripe grey blouse and walking skirt had not one crease out of place. Gold hung from her, decorated bands that her suitor had insisted she wear. Wilheim had decorated the woman with whatever he saw fit. Though despite this expense, Misu would always remain perpetually afraid in his company.
‘You needn’t look so concerned, dear. You’re among friends here.’
Friends. The word was hollow.
‘Please don’t be so condescending to me. These are your kind of people, Wilheim, not mine. I know what they are capable of.’
She ran her fingers over her throat – still tender from Flenn’s grip – and the additional swelling beneath her left eye. It was still bruised from last night, a violent, open-handed reminder of her treachery.
‘Condescending nothing. Relax and have a drink. I would say you’ve even earned it.’
‘I’ve earned nothing.’
‘On the contrary, my dear! Think of all that you’ve given me. Your fine self at my arm, and soon, the Gambler’s Den itself. The value of one of those is splendid. The other, not so much.’
Misu’s fingers dug into her palms in frustration. ‘You said you would leave them alone.’
‘No, you assumed as much; I just didn’t say any different. There were no terms made. With its owner imprisoned for misdeeds, I assume the train will be put to public auction to aid the skyrocketing budget that restricts the sheriff’s actions. Then, finally, it will be mine.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Care to think of anyone who would bid against me?’
He had a point. Misu’s sacrifice was for nothing.
‘Under new ownership, I’ll load up the Gambler’s Den with my men and we’ll go from town to town selling black-market goods under the veil of legitimacy. All the while fleecing the locals with rigged games. It’s the perfect venture. People will come from all around, toss us their money, and scuttle away. If you’re lucky enough I may even let you come along for the ride. I am, after all, the pinnacle of generosity.’
His jeers were cutting, every sentence a race of razor blades across skin.
‘You’re a villain,’ Misu stated in despair, a display of candid bravery that Wilheim quintessentially adored.
‘No, my dear, I’m not,’ he dismissed, reaching for his glass filled with a measure of dry red wine. ‘I just give those who are a place to work.’
* * *
The two acting as security outside of The Lavender Club, who passed conversation back and forth without care, stood at the front doors, well dressed with weaponry quite brazenly displayed at their hips. Anywhere else, they would have scrutinized those who passed by, staring the inquisitive down to convince their footsteps to quicken. Curiosity was a dangerous thing as far as Wilheim’s assets were concerned.
Here, in this city, there was no need to be attentive as trouble was rare. So when approached by a man, clad heavily in a duster with his head bowed, and a slip of a girl wearing a tan poncho, they suspected nothing, though a lack of familiarity in their faces prompted one to question their motives.
‘Morning.’ One nodded, narrowing his eyes between them.
‘G’morning to you,’ the man gruffly replied.
‘Intentions?’ the sentry asked, peering into the face of the young woman, who quickly glanced away, then back to reveal a crooked sneer as the tobacco-coated wafts of breath that were exhaled her way filled her nostrils.
‘See the boss.’ She scowled, emitting sass far beyond her years.
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘Very much so I reckon. Got a bounty to collect.’
‘I’m sure you do, but nobody gets on by just to say hello. I’ll check for you. Wait here a spell; won’t be long.’
The associate, now interested in this exchange, allowed his hand to drift to his hip in concern. Before he presented his revolver, drawn only as a precaution, it was knocked away. The girl launched into a flurry of strikes, sending her assailant to his knees. The other was knocked unconscious from a tremendous sucker punch from her cohort.
Wyld shook the sting from her knuckles.
‘We really don’t have time for this,’ she commented, taking the weapons and tossing one to Jacques who checked the chamber and snapped it back into place. The iron was slipped between slacks and skin, covered with the duster’s weight.
‘Couldn’t agree more. You ready?’
Wyld nodded, passing without hesitation into the shadow beyond the doorway.
Nobody inside heard the commotion. After all, who would? Their revelry was loud, so when the pair slipped between the tables of the packs of hooting thugs, they made it to Wilheim’s personal booth and the entourage of trusted individuals completely unnoticed.
Wilheim noticed. It was his nature to observe everything around him. Security could not be taken for granted despite his numerous assets. An observant man lives longer, he would preach to anyone who listened, citing his grand ventures to be the result of such discipline, though blackmail and thuggery were conveniently left out of course. Among a smattering of bobbing heads, the two that tried, so resolutely, to advance on him were met with a question that neither expected.
‘How can I help you both?’
Within seconds the clattering of unclipped holsters and drawn-back hammers erupted all around as both sides drew weaponry, though Wilheim sat, quite undisturbed in his seat. Both Wyld and Jacques brandished weaponry in each hand, back to back and focusing on anyone foolish enough to look like they might fire. Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes a lifetime. Misu covered her mouth, terrified that her own breathing would start a massacre.
‘Now now, let’s not get all rambunctious,’ Jacques insisted, talking to the only one of interest to him. ‘This is a fine little drinking hole and nobody wants to be cleaning blood off the walls.’
A foolish youngster took a step forward in protest. ‘Your blood, you stupid –’
The boy had a barrel spun to him, its dangerous sting still cocked and loaded.
‘Not a drop of ours, no. I don’t think that will be the case, plus I’m not in for any sort of cleaning. If you’re finding this situation all too edgy, let me ask my friend here. What do you think, Wyld? Fancy putting those guns down for a moment to ensure this standoff is more one-sided?’
Wyld’s eyes passed over the sea of features before her, watching for any small flicker of bravery to emerge. ‘Not on your life,’ she growled.
‘Smart girl, and I have to say I follow her lead.’ Jacques slowly pressed the gun barrel against the boy’s temple, his other firearm never leaving the sight of Wilheim’s bulbous head. ‘Now get the hell out of our way.’
The boy retreated, pulled aside by others more senior and less outspoken.
‘Clearly these people have come here to converse.’ Wilheim adjusted himself on his seat, eyeing up the pair. ‘Such an entrance deserves them a little consideration, don’t you all think?’
The mass complied, and waited.
‘Wilheim, finally. Pleasure to be making your acquaintance. Nice place you got here. Shame for a few holes in the wall to ruin the décor, would you not agree?’
Wyld interjected. ‘What my associate Jacques