Den of Shadows: The gripping new fantasy novel for fans of Caraval. Christopher Byford
Bookcases and shelving were already cladded with lattices to prevent anything moving in transit. The billiard table had been secured in its place by fastening bolts and the accompanying stock of balls had been put away. Everything looked in good order, checked with the occasional test of strength or run of a fingertip.
They moved through to the boxcar, which shunned decadence for practicality, strictly off limits to all but staff. Provisions, packed into shabby crates, were stacked high to its roof. The tables and chairs had been disassembled and wall-mounted, secured with ties.
The other cars, lounge ones mostly, which accommodated plenty of attendees yet showed no sign of tarnish. Seats ran in formation at a slight angle, facing wide windows that swallowed views whole. Even so, surfaces were polished, carpets swept, and windows cleaned. As Misu and Franco advanced, any of the showgirls in attendance wished their good mornings and waited for any critique as to their handiwork. It wasn’t forthcoming. It never was. Misu was right to boast.
The bar had been restocked, a wall of bottles in dizzying scope and complexity that ensured patrons were well inebriated no matter their tastes. The bar area itself, disjointed from an outer wall, was joined by reams of seating. The bar doubled as a makeshift kitchen, though it was too small to feed attendees so instead remained for staff use only.
Everything was predictably spotless and with this predictability came boredom. Franco’s mind wandered.
‘You didn’t tell me the girls had new outfits.’
‘Cheaper than you think, I assure you, so please do not fret. Besides, it came as a nice surprise, did it not? I can still pull one over you, manager.’ Misu nodded her acceptance to another showgirl they passed, who curtseyed back in relief.
‘It’s a shame that we don’t have a show on tonight. I rather like that little red and black lace number of yours,’ he said.
‘You like anything that shows my cleavage, like any man, and whilst that is flattering in a funny sort of way, it’s not exactly what a girl looks for. Aim a little higher if you’re attempting to be charming.’
As they moved out of the car and stepped out onto the connecting platform that straddled the coupling, they turned to face one another. This game was growing tiresome for them both. Playful jibes were no longer getting the desired effects. Stakes had to be raised as much as the blood if there was any chance for a payoff.
‘You’re not performing at this moment, so you can rest spitting fire. Answer me honestly: what exactly does a woman desire, huh? Security? Authority?’ Franco asked with hint of heat before standing toe to toe, having the advantage of a good foot of height. ‘Maybe it’s money. Maybe it’s the prestige. Maybe it’s this charm that you spoke of. Maybe, just maybe …’
Misu bit her bottom lip gently, feigning lust.
‘Maybe a woman should tell me what she desires so a man doesn’t need to resort to guesswork.’
His lips, mere millimetres away, puckered gently as he pressed against her to reach for the connecting door handle to the final car. She watched him with a flick of the eyes as he did her in return, waiting to see who would be the first one to succumb to their baser instincts. Despite this display being nothing but teasing, of which she was equally as guilty, there was always the taint of frustration when one of the pair brought the game to a premature end.
Their bodies slipped against one another as he passed and this time it was him who finished things.
‘You have soot on your lips,’ he lied. ‘Stop dawdling, my dear, we have work to do.’
With a coquettish grin, Misu complied.
There was hardly any send-off for the Gambler’s Den’s departure. They left before the majority of locals managed to recover from their heady experiences, which only added to the venture’s mystique. Tales had to spread to be of value, and that couldn’t be done if the train dawdled in one location for too long. The locomotive hauled itself out of the station, its heavy wheels spinning and steam plume from the chimney venting into the clear sky.
Children running along the platforms did their best to wish it well on its travels. The sentiment was reciprocated with a sharp toot from the train’s whistle that whipped the youngsters into a frenzy. Tales of what they witnessed would carry well into adulthood.
The train began to pull out from Rustec, but as it followed the track past the flat-roofed houses, a lone figure gave chase, vaulting over gaps between the residences, ducking beneath cluttered washing lines and over timber decking. The figure was dressed all in beige, and adorned in a heavy poncho. A mask covered the lower part of her face, while her hazel eyes calculated distances with precision. Over her shoulder was a weighty knapsack, its burden not visually apparent as she darted from rooftop to rooftop.
The Gambler’s Den leant in to a bend, running it parallel to the buildings, providing a straight line for the approaching individual. As she sprinted her last, a hefty leap sent her skyward, crashing down onto the boxcar gable.
Hugging the car roof, she crawled her way to a trapdoor, flicked the latch, and slunk inside, her motions smooth and catlike. The beige-clad figure pulled down her facemask and shook out dirt that had collected in the poncho folds. She was young, too young to be up to such nonsense, but necessity had forced many a person to make rash choices. This happened to be one of Wyld’s less regrettable ones.
Franco was waiting patiently, arms defensively crossed, and sitting among the clutter.
‘Were you seen?’ he enquired.
Finally when the woman managed to take enough air to speak, she shook her head.
‘Never am. Wasn’t this time. Won’t be next. You needn’t fret.’
‘Did you get what you were after?’ Franco pressed the next question with equal urgency.
Wyld smiled, gently opened the knapsack and revealed a small gem-encrusted object that was tucked safely in the bag’s leather folds. ‘You would have figured that they would have locked this thing up better. Honestly, security is so lax nowadays it’s hardly a challenge. I somewhat wonder why I even bother sneaking in.’
‘If you’re going to steal whilst you tag along with us, I think I should charge you a higher rate for passage. You understand my concern that you could become a liability?’
Franco placed his hand out, fingers beckoning in gesture for his cut.
Wyld reached into a pocket, producing a small leather pouch that jangled with coin. There was no need to examine the contents when passed over; the weight and size matched her overdue payment.
‘I keep my part of the bargain – no need to remind me. I stay invisible and do nothing that would bring attention to your precious train.’
‘Just as long as our resident thief isn’t caught. Remember, if you’re not with us when we leave, then you’ve lost your ride. No need for the hostility; it’s all business.’ Franco pocketed the payment. ‘Thank you for your contribution. Breakfast will be in an hour. You are more than welcome to join us in the dining car.’
For the next five days, the Gambler’s Den weaved through the arid, rocky landscape. Franco spent most of his time dissecting various maps and charts. The region, whilst sparse, was not devoid of deep canyons, jutting mountains, and other such geographic features. Routes required revising, especially with the current dangers.
He made numerous pencilled scribbles. Most were symbols drawn while attempting to calculate arrival times: something at the forefront of his mind. This thought process was broken as Misu knocked on his carriage door and entered, looking fresh-faced as usual despite the stifling heat. She placed a glass of cold water on the table next to the maps, sipping a drink of her own. Her eyes wandered, then returned to Franco as he heavily picked up the glass, twirling it so the ice cubes struck the sides of the glass.
‘Thank you,’ he exclaimed. Misu took a seat on the leather sofa, patting her flamboyant red lace dress down over her