Page 60 of Demon
Around us, people had stopped, watching us cautiously. I glanced sideways, quick sweeps of what surrounded us, never taking my attention away from the man in front of me for too long. The man who by size alone should be able to take me out with one swipe of his big fist. But that man knew I was relentless, and knew that I had a temper, and once that was unleashed, no amount of broken bones or blood could distract me.
It was the soft touch to the back of my left hand that did, though. Gentle and tentative, stroking softly. The rage filled my head, expanding into my ears, clouding my eyes. That tiny touch should have done nothing. I shouldn’t have felt it. But I did.
“Demon,” her voice was gentle, calming, pulling me from the anger that consumed me. I followed the arm in front of me. The one that held the Vandal’s president right at the very end. The one that grabbed the collar of his bike jacket, to hold him still while I rearranged his face.
Relaxing my fingers, I let my hand slip from the leather, dropping away from him and stepping back beside Ciara. She pushed her fingers through mine, squeezing them against me like some sort of reward for letting go of the man in front of me. Everyone beside us breathed, bodies relaxing but passing looks between themselves. And for a moment, it was quiet. No one said a thing. Not a word. Not a whisper.
Then Tomahawk spoke to Ciara again.
“I’m sorry, Demon’s lass. I didn’t mean to offend.”
The apology wasn’t for me. He wasn’t sorry for offending me. For speaking about Ciara like that. And I wasn’t sorry for considering pummelling his face in.
“We’ve got your product ready. I’m minded to knock half your cut off for that little show,” Tomahawk continued, glancing at me and I scowled back, trying not to ball my fist and slam it into his face.
“Great. Knew you’d come through. We have product of our own to move too. Looks like we’ll have a hell of a party.”
But the Vandal’s president didn’t seem to share the same enthusiasm.
“What?” Indie asked.
“The Bloody Hand. We’ve got word they’re back in the area.”
“You’ve seen them?”
He shook his head. “Not personally. Reports of riders with a back patch of a bloody hand, though. That’s enough proof for me that they’re back here, snooping around.”
“And the bands of unidentifiable riders,” Flat-Pack added from Tomahawk’s right.
“What riders?” I asked, glancing at Indie and Fury who were already passing a look between themselves.
The old Swede stared at me, his face full of contempt, and for a few seconds I thought he’d completely ignore me. But he didn’t.
“There’s been groups of riders. Threes and fours. All on Harleys. No club markings of any kind.”
“Sure they’re not just joy riders?”
The Swede shook his head.
“They’ve been following us. Sitting on our tails for a few miles and then peeling off again. If it had been once or twice, we would have shrugged it off. But this has happened half a dozen times.”
“Sounds like what we saw on the way up here,” I added, watching the president and vice president look at each other and nod in agreement.
“Demon clocked three riders following us from the rally site. They stayed with us a good six miles and only fucked off when we cut off from the ride and went to take a look at them. Did a u-turn and hoofed it in the opposite direction when they saw us coming, so we never got a good look. But I couldn’t see any patches or MCC badges.”
Flat-pack nodded. “Sounds like the same ones following us around.”
Indie rubbed a hand through his greying hair.
“Thanks, mate. Appreciate the heads-up.” Flat-pack said nothing, just nodded again and stepped away from us, sinking back into the small crowd of Vandals.
We spent another hour sitting in the market square, the sun moving west, the walls of the old eighteenth century building casting cool shadows down upon us. The sky was growing a burnt orange above us when we remounted the bikes, picking up the same formation as before.
*****
There was an extra bike in the car park of the Dog on the Tyne when we returned. One that all of us recognised. Most of the ride had peeled away at various points, heading home to pack for a long weekend of drink, drugs and partying. Only a few of us remained, parking our bikes in the pitted and weed littered car park at the side of Indie’s pub. Fury and Reap, Magnet and Suzy, Indie and the Twins. And we all turned to look at Ste as he stood in the doorway.
His face was still pale, his cheekbones more prominent, his face looking leaner even in the last week. Somewhere behind me Fury and Reap snickered about how much Tori was putting him through his paces now he was supposed to be on bedrest for a couple of weeks. But I could see a different story. Something that let dread seep through my skin and glide its way through my bloodstream.