This was bad.
Steph pressed herself against the cold steel of the carriage wall, her left shoulder digging painfully against the doorframe. She didn’t move, didn’t dare breathe almost, afraid that the slightest action might attract the attention of her captors.
The cold was cutting through her, freezing her fingers and hugging around her body. The men who had taken her had mentioned nothing of the cold, there had been no talk of a hat or gloves when they’d bundled her onto a plane. Now here she was with a job to do and she felt even more woefully unprepared than she ever had done before.
She was trying her hardest not to cry and knew it was a fight she was going to lose.
Amanda (and she shuddered at the thought that she was stuck on a train with an infamous Abra killer) had forgotten her the moment she’d locked the door and started arguing with Skeebs.
The argument took up the whole carriage, which was small enough as it was.
From the supplies stacked at one end to the… she swallowed… thing chained up at the other, their whole living space was barely longer than two cars parked nose to tail. As for the width, she could make a standing jump from the wall and already be halfway to the opposite side.
Not that she’d dare.
Sometimes the arguing criminals passed so close she had to flatten herself against the wall. They even brushed against her, a sleeve or a back scraping across the bag clutched in front of her. Her nose filled with the smell of cigarette smoke.
Even up close, she couldn’t hear what they were saying. Neither dared raise their voice, one eye always on the unconscious figure in chains, afraid to rouse him. Their words were lost beneath the throb of the engine and clatter of wheels on tracks. They were arguing about her, she knew it. Her and the man in chains.
Oh God, please don’t let them fight.
The more she fought her tears the more she could feel them rising inside her in a flood.
The big one was no help. Unlike the other two, he was making final checks, rattling boxes, twisting padlocks in their brackets with his big paws. He glowered at everything, growled constantly. There was a stain on the cuff of his coat she didn’t want to know about.
He eclipsed the lamps overhead, whenever he lumbered past. The sheer size of him made her shrink back, like he exerted a wake she had to fight against or risk being pulled down and trampled under his scuffed, old boots.
Amanda snapped. She and Skeebs were nose to nose, now, eyes bugging, spitting and hissing, fists clenched.
Steph flinched and curled away at every sharp sound. She felt her bladder loosen when Skeebs kicked the wall a few feet away from her.
She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut but didn’t dare. These people were killers.
Legs like water under her, she began to inch away from them toward the rear of the carriage.
Again, she eyed the supplies, hoping to find a nook had opened up that she could crawl inside.
The boxes were plastic, transparent, the kind you used when you moved house, stacked up against the wall opposite, near the back. She counted five, stacked one atop the other, uneasy in their mounts. Through their sides, she could see dreary rows of canned food, bottled water, a travel stove. One was sleeping bags and blankets.
There was a small wooden table like you’d find in a classroom, and some chairs stacked in a neat column.
At the back, a large metal trailer with thick rubber tyres was balanced on its end, almost touching the ceiling, tethered in place. At its toes, there was a quad bike, its red chassis gleaming. That’s what would be taking them the final leg of the journey.
What there wasn’t was a coffin. She thought there’d be one, or at least her mother’s body under a blanket. She’d been dreading seeing it for the whole flight. Now that it wasn’t there it left only a hollow feeling of anti-climax.
It had been less than twenty-four hours since she’d heard that her mother had died. The tears had gone as quickly as they’d come. Like the feeling was just too big for them. How did you cry out something that was as big as your whole body?
Perhaps it had been the company. That man, AK, who had taken her as ‘collateral’ while her mother worked to recapture her mistake. Crying in front of him had made her feel small and self-conscious. Not that these people were any better.
Perhaps it was that her feelings about her mother’s death were more complicated than she dared admit.
The last few feet of space at the rear of the container had been fitted with a curtain on a rail. She guessed this had to do with the toilet rolls and buckets of bleach in the far corner.
She was just filing away the humiliating idea of going to the toilet in front of these people for later when she saw the bag.
It was brown, large and leather, thrown beside the toiletries and as welcome as a familiar face. Her mother’s bag.
And in an instant she was back to the moment when she’d held it last.
Steph sat by the door and tried not to die of shame.
The small community room was packed, every chair filled, the back wall a row of crossed arms and frowning faces. Abras (that’s what they called magic users here in London, she’d learned) from every walk of life had come to put their heads together to solve their most pressing concern: how to get magic legalised and use it to better mankind.
Now the whole room was arguing with her mother.
As instructed and on best behaviour, Steph sat beneath a noticeboard that groaned beneath the weight of flyers for the anti-capitalist, pro-equality, care in the community and pro-polygamy groups that used the space. She held her mother’s bag in her lap, under strict instructions to never open it or let it out of her sight. She imagined it filled with possibilities, knowledge that seeped out into her fingers like some kind of benign radiation. She longed to peek inside, to go through her mum’s notes, explore the tools and inks and powders. She wanted, just for a moment, to close her eyes and pretend the bag was hers and that she was a proper magician. To have just a few minutes alone with it would be the best thing that had ever happened to her.
Mum had just finished her presentation – ‘Bridget Fergusson: Re-inventing Magic for the Needs of the 21st Century’. Steph knew the speech by heart, every pause, every emphasis, she’d heard it in three cities already. As well as the resulting arguments.
But this was London, Mum had said, voicing her pre-speech jitters. They did things differently here. This was the capital of the pro-magic movement. They were forward-looking here. They’d understand what she was trying to do. Why they hadn’t moved here earlier, she didn’t know. Steph had nodded along, knowing her input wasn’t required or even desired.
Now her mum was red in the face. ‘If people can see what we can do,’ Mum was shouting over her lead opponent, ‘the benefits we can give to the economy, to their daily lives, far beyond what science alone can give them, then the vote would swing in our favour overnight. We need to provide them with magic as simple and consequence-free as the flicking of a light switch.’
It was like this every time. Mum had come to lead not listen. It looked like they would be moving again soon enough, Steph thought with an inward sigh. She asked herself why she kept asking to come to these things – bearing her mother’s sufferance and her ‘well, I can’t be expected to watch you’s.
But she knew the answer. It thrilled her to be in the same room as these people worked to make the world a better place even if she was just sitting in the corner, her mum’s bag and an agenda clutched in her lap.
She always hoped there’d be someone her age present, friends were hard to come by when she moved so often. But there never was and so she sat, overlooked, aching to contribute or even be noticed.
‘There are inherent risks,’ said Mum, replying to some argument. ‘But with all of us working together, the power we can—’
‘Risks?’ the man cut her off. ‘The fallout from even a small error from any of your proposals could set us back decades.’
In a bid to distract herself, Steph decided to use the time for something else. Filtering out the argument around her, she placed her hands together and concentrated. There was a little kitchen nook across the way from her, wallpaper peeling, limescaled taps, lit by a bare bulb. No one was using it.
She could feel the light of the bare kitchen bulb under her eyelids, feel it touching her face.
‘But think of the benefits,’ said Mum. ‘The power it could give to even the most powerless. It would be the greatest change to everyday lives since the advent of electricity. No more headaches, cancers, muscle spasms, no more tattoos…’
Steph performed the hand signs, shifts of the fingers, first here, then here, then, this was the tricky bit, there. She tapped her power, it took a bit of effort, her brow furrowing. It could be easier to channel but Mum wouldn’t let her get the tattoo. Never mind, she could feel the light, feel its energy. She began to suck it from the air and concentrate it.
Pulling her hands apart, she goggled at the raw little spark between her hands, like someone had concentrated the bulb’s light with a magnifying glass onto the empty space. The light from the kitchen dimmed to a sunset pink.
It worked. She’d done it.
‘Why do I get the feeling that this is less about the good of humanity and more about your own self-aggrandisement?’ said the man. ‘It is arguments like these that have led to magic’s shunning in the first place. These proposals hark back to some of the darkest uses of Black since the Second World War.’
She tried to hold it as long as she could, no brighter, no dimmer, stable. Control was important, her mother had taught her. Power was for brutes, anyone could wield a sword, but the educated wielded scalpels.
She looked around to see if anyone was watching. But everyone was too intent on her mother, who was shouting like she was on the pulpit, besieged by sinners.
Steph felt her spirits drop at not being able to share her triumph. It was the smallest spark she’d ever produced, the most concentrated, the most perfect.
‘Because it was used by tyrants fixed on genocide and dominance,’ Mum argued. ‘The problem was not the theory itself, magic cares not a jot for the ideologies of those who wield it, in the right hands, under the right minds—’
‘You are right,’ the man interrupted. ‘Magic does not give a jot for ideology just as it ignores well-practiced rhetoric, crossed fingers and hoping for the bloody best.’
Steph gave a start as two more sparks appeared above hers, forming a triangle. Before she could even blink, a line of light scored itself in a curve beneath, making her spark the nose in a smiling face.
The kitchenette bulb dimmed further, dusk falling in the tiny room. Her spark flared, searing the air and giving the sharp stink of burned ozone as she lost control. It snapped out of existence, making her jump. The other lights winked out immediately after.
Her mother fired her a warning look.
There was a breathy snort from Steph’s right.
The woman was petite, her hair up in a loose bun and more dark lush pepper than rich, white salt. She wore a blazer over a T-shirt, jeans over boots and looked so relaxed she could have been in her own living room.
Her hands were in her pockets but from her sloped smile and glint of mischief in her eye, Steph knew that she’d been the one to distract her with her own embers.
Steph tried not to blush and failed miserably. She turned her attention back to her mother, suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands, how to sit or even to breathe normally. She opted for clutching at the bag, the leather slippery under her sweating palms.
‘These magics have been shunned for decades for a reason,’ the man continued. ‘Their consequences are simply too dire to be worth the risk.’
‘But my findings. I’ve just shown you the leaps I’ve made—’
‘But they are not enough. There are gaps in your knowledge. Everyone can see it. These are not matters that we can simply try, there will be no trial and error because the errors lead to disasters that live long in the memories of those lucky enough to survive them. Your summoning of demons for one—’
‘These new bindings I have developed will suppress—’
The room erupted again in derision, the entire discussion dissolving until Mum was trying to fight a dozen arguments at once.
Steph fought the urge to pull her top up around her ears.
‘Stuffy, isn’t it?’
Steph looked up, surprised that the woman had addressed her.
Her accent spoke of afternoon tea and digging up ancient tombs. ‘Come and take a breath of fresh air with me. This doesn’t look like it will wind down anytime soon. Activists love two things, the sound of their own opinions and the echoes. It’s why after decades of meeting they still gather in pokey little rooms and nothing ever gets done.’
Mum was too intent on arguing to see her daughter leave, taking her bag with her.
The woman was right, the stairwell felt a good ten degrees cooler. Steph couldn’t shake the feeling that she was stepping into another world as she followed the woman down the narrow staircase, the woman’s boots clomping as she rummaged through her purse.
The bag was heavy and she had to rest it on her hip, the contents shifting and rattling, enticing.
Outside was warm and cloudy but a breeze helped dilute the humidity. The street was quiet, old factories and sewing shops that had long gone out of business, their signs in 1970s fonts.
The road not two minutes’ walk, was thick with traffic, mopeds whining, buses roaring, the pavement churning with people.
‘Much better,’ the woman sighed. ‘God, sometimes the ego in that room is far too much to bear, don’t you think?’
‘They didn’t even listen to her,’ said Steph.
‘Oh, they listened, but they don’t like to hear anything but the words “I agree”. If her ideas weren’t so radical, she’d fit right in. If that’s what she wanted.’
‘Probably.’
‘“Probably” I’m right? Or “probably” she wants to fit in?’
Steph shrugged. ‘I think she’d rather just be in charge of everything, surrounded by people who make her feel great.’
‘Yes. That’s the thing with Abras. So many of them do. Too many chiefs not enough Indians my mother used to say. Though she was prone to being wildly inappropriate. But in this case the phrase does apply. I admired your little charm.’
‘I didn’t mean to distract you. I just wanted to see if I could do it.’
‘Ah,’ she nudged Steph’s shoulder, ‘the Abra’s epitaph. Darling, a gunshot wouldn’t have interrupted them once they had got going. Have you long been able to concentrate light into so small a locus?’
‘I’ve never had it get so small. I’ve been working on it the last few weeks.’
‘It was very impressive. A third of those people up there couldn’t do it. Seeing it was hugely encouraging. Did your mum teach you?’
For a moment, the old lies lined up on Steph’s tongue. Yes, her mother did spend a lot of time training her. She was dedicated to Steph’s education. But this time Steph found herself telling this woman the truth.
‘Not really. She’s so busy with her experiments she doesn’t have much time. But she lets me go through some of her books sometimes so I’ve, sort of, taught myself.’
‘And you managed that spark? Fucking impressive. Are you inked for it? Well, you’ve got quite the headache coming your way.’
Steph tried not to look pleased with herself but nothing could stop the blush creeping across her cheeks.
‘You’re a rare one,’ the woman continued. ‘Power, control, you’ve clearly got the brains. Right teacher, you could go far.’
Steph had to swallow her excitement. Was this woman offering to teach her?
‘We’ll probably be leaving soon,’ she said with a sinking feeling. ‘We move around a lot. Mum’s ideas get her kicked out of a lot of places like these.’
‘I imagine they do. That’s a real shame. What’s your name?’
‘Steph. Stephanie Fergusson.’
‘Stephanie, Karina Khurana.’
Steph froze, her hand half-raised to shake the woman’s proffered one.
‘Yes, it does tend to derail a conversation somewhat,’ she waved a hand dismissively, like being the most powerful Abra in the country since Lord Camberley was murdered last year was more an annoyance than anything else. Steph had read articles this woman had written, heard her on the radio. ‘Please, you must shake my hand otherwise people will think I’m trying to lure you away.’
‘Aren’t you?’ asked Steph, finally taking the hand and shaking it.
‘Oh, absolutely. Now, tell me about your bag there.’
Remembering it, Steph pulled the strap deeper across her shoulder. ‘It’s my mother’s.’
‘Every Abra needs her bag of tricks,’ the woman smiled. ‘Have you ever looked inside?’
Was the woman reading her thoughts? Steph began to blush. ‘No.’
‘Don’t you want to? If I were you I’d be dying to find out what’s inside.’
‘She said I shouldn’t.’
‘Oh, what’s one little look going to hurt?’
She was right. It wouldn’t hurt. Steph took the zip and began to pull.
There was a thunder of footsteps coming down the stairs.
‘That’s my mum,’ said Steph, taking a step away, zipping the bag closed again.
‘OK. Listen,’ said Karina, talking fast now. ‘Your mum’s theories are flawed but they are brilliant. If she tries them now they will fail. But she’s very talented and I’m sure the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You must give me a ring so we can talk again. Here.’
Steph felt her forearm grow hot and when she looked down it was to see a phone number appearing in a blemish from her wrist to the crook of her elbow.
‘Copy it onto your phone. It will fade in a couple of hours.’
Steph nodded that she would, folding her arm across her body just in time as her mother came crashing out into the open air, her face flushed with fury.
‘There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere. Where’s my bag?’
She spotted Karina. Saw Steph’s folded arms and misinterpreted them. ‘Come on. We’re leaving. Absolute philistines here. Just like everywhere else.’ She was already striding away down the street, her laptop bag swinging under her arm.
‘Call me’ Karina mouthed before heading back inside.
Steph hurried after her mum, trying not to burst with excitement at making a friend. ‘Are we moving again?’
‘No,’ said Mum. ‘No more moving. We have other options, this time. I know people who are more than willing to let me test my theories. I started working with them a couple of months ago. They’re a bit…’ Mum cleared her throat. ‘It’s not exactly legal but… my bag?’
She took it from Steph’s shoulder and hurried on, saying something about catching a bus.
Trying not to let her disappointment show on her face, Steph followed. The headache from her spellcasting began to grow as she watched the bag swing further and further in front of her.
She wouldn’t see that bag again for another ten months.
Amanda and Skeebs were really going for it now. Veins were throbbing in temples, faces red and spit flying. One of them was going to throw a punch or draw a knife, she could feel it.
The train wobbled beneath her as she crept across the room, one eye on the thugs, one on the bag.
Even through her fear, her heart did a somersault. This was it!
She all but leapt at it, turning her back to the room as the zip slid open. There were books inside, books she’d coveted for years, cheaply printed, poorly bound. She flicked the pages of the largest under her thumb, words and images flickering until she hit the cover which was white but for a pair of hand-written initials. ‘BF’. It soured the excitement with a twist of melancholy. She remembered her mother’s last words to her. ‘Don’t make trouble.’ A moment after, two large men had pulled Steph from her home.
She felt the knife before she saw it, felt the power coming off it like an icy breath. It was a kitchen knife, like you’d find in any home, except for the symbols on the blade, etched by a hand much steadier than hers. Was it as heavy as it looked?
It was.
She frowned as her mind probed up through the tips of her fingers into the blade. It wasn’t as powerful as she’d first thought. Work to be done there. She’d need to find—
There was a clink of chains, so sharp that it could have been right by her ear. It pulled her attention as though she’d just heard her name.
Reeves was calling to her.
The chains twisted like sinew around Reeves’ arms, metal so dark it was almost black. Magic-suppressing runes covered every inch, written in an all too familiar cursive. The thing hung between them under the sterile light, unconscious.
It, or rather the man it inhabited, was younger than she’d have guessed, naked, head bowed. His ribs cast crescents down his sides in the lamplight. His skin was a palimpsest of ink, the one visible aspect of his true nature. Every inch of him crawled with tattoos, strange shapes like those on the manacles, not Chinese, not Cyrillic, but something else, something more… organic.
The text moved and flowed under unseen slow currents, like the body was a pool and the skin just the surface, like you could touch it and your hand would go through into something deeper.
The effect was made all the more terrible by the evidence of violence. Bruises covered his body, new over old, in yellows, purples, reds and blacks clouding the runes that slid beneath like blood in water.
Though his head was down, his face in shadow, she could see a stringy thread of blood drooling from his lips.
She’d never seen violence outside of television. The reality was so far from an actor’s make-up it speared her.
Her eyes were drawn inexorably to the dark thatch of the prisoner’s pubic hair, the penis shrivelled and ridiculous looking, bobbing a counterpoint with the motion of the train. It was the first time she’d ever seen one beyond the internet.
The smell from him was sharp and base, sweat, piss and off meat. It lodged in the back of her throat.
He was unconscious but she could still feel his eyes on her – inside that battered cage of flesh and bone he was aware, watching. Those fettered arms stretched out, inviting her into an embrace.
She took a step forward.
There was something captivating about him. It was the feeling of power, exuding from his every pore. It pulled, as tender and undeniable as the tide.
He’d killed so many people. Used powers unlike any Abra, making their abilities look like mere children’s games. If he escaped again, there was no telling the amount of damage he would do. It would go beyond revenge at those who had dared summon him. It would become indiscriminate slaughter that would leave thousands dead before he was finished.
She looked down at the knife again. It was like the tip was magnetised, its opposite pole deep in Reeves’ chest. Maybe if she just—
‘What the fuck is she doing?’
Amanda’s expression was murderous. In an instant, Steph was a scared little girl again. She took a step back. Her tears, forgotten for a moment, coming back in a wave. ‘I—’
‘You don’t touch that.’ Amanda snatched the blade from her.
Mouth trembling and filled with excuses, she watched as Amanda slammed the bag on the table, shoving the knife back in, rooting through the contents to make sure she hadn’t taken anything else.
‘Why wasn’t anyone watching her?’
Her cheeks grew hot under their gazes. She wanted to snatch the bag back. The way Amanda was throwing everything around, she might as well have had her hands in Steph’s innards the way it made her feel.
Satisfied that she didn’t have anything else, Amanda pushed the bag away, wiped her hands on her coat.
The air changed, the sound outside closing in, a tunnel. Steph hadn’t realised she was holding her breath. She watched as Amanda glared down at nothing in front of her, like she was counting to ten and hating each number more than the last.
This woman hated Abras, she’d been told. Hated them so much she’d killed her own father for being one. How she’d done it, no one could agree on. Some said she’d used a powerful curse, others said she’d come at the man in his sleep, slipped past his protective wards and tortured the man to death.
And now she had Reeves, whose power Steph could taste just under her skin, in chains. And that was meant to be impossible. How had she done that? Captured something even the most powerful Abras through history had fallen to?
It took everything Steph had not to flinch when Amanda spoke.
‘You don’t touch that without my permission. Got that?’
She nodded.
Silence stretched. Steph felt like she was under a spotlight, the three killers finally acknowledging there was a schoolgirl among them.
Damn. Steph squirmed as her eyes grew hot. She’d gone so long without breaking and now, as she’d predicted, it was all pouring out when she needed it least.
The tears began to roll down her cheeks. Her choked sobs echoed off the walls.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Skeebs.
‘What did you expect?’ rumbled Caleb. ‘She’s just a kid.’
‘So then why is she here?’ Skeebs was practically jumping with frustration. ‘We got the books, we got the knife. Why aren’t we trying to do this ourselves? Why complicate things?’
Caleb folded his arms. The stain on the cuff of his coat was blood, Steph realised with a jolt. ‘Same reason we bring an expert when we want a security system tapped. No knowing what could go wrong. We fuck up, could be worse than killing him too early.’
‘Fucking bullshit,’ Skeebs mumbled.
It was true though, thought Steph. Do the ritual wrong and there was no telling what could happen, mostly because no one had done it before.
They needed her, she realised. She was here because she could do something they couldn’t.
The idea was terrifying. But with it came a sick little frisson of excitement and power, chasing the tears away.
‘It’s true,’ she croaked. ‘This isn’t a game. You can’t just muddle through it.’
She could see the surprise in Amanda’s eyes. It made her stand taller, gave her a confidence she was desperate to cling to. ‘Without me, you’ll all be fucked.’
But Skeebs wasn’t impressed. ‘If it’s not a game then you don’t send a kid. They even tell you what this guy did? He killed…’ he clenched his fists struggling to find the words. ‘Everyone! You watch the news, right? You saw what he…’ The words got stuck in his throat.
Just like that, the boy was starting to hyperventilate, staggering to a wall for support. Caleb tried to catch him but the boy recoiled. ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t… touch me.’ He collapsed against the wall, curling up on himself, trembling like a frightened animal.
Steph blinked. She’d never seen anything like it.
‘Alright, lad,’ said Caleb gently. ‘Alright.’
Amanda snorted with impatience, biting her tongue as the big man comforted the smaller one.
‘He was there when it broke loose,’ Caleb explained, reading her confusion. ‘That thing on the news? That big attack on that office? Wasn’t a bomb? He was the only one who survived.’
‘And one day he’s going to tell us how he did it,’ Amanda growled.
Caleb shot her a look. ‘Killed Amanda’s family. A lot of our friends. Made them do things they didn’t want to do. Killed our last Abra. Skeebs here wants it done early so he can go home. But we got to do it right. Proper ceremony, proper place, proper blade. Ain’t that right?’
Amanda and Caleb looked at her, expectant. So she nodded and when Amanda’s grimace told her that wasn’t enough she gave a hurried ‘Yes. Done properly.’
The prisoner swung in his chains. The feeling of being watched had receded, like a light dimming back into his flesh.
‘Good,’ grunted Amanda, the matter closed. She turned to the boxes. Steph had to step out the way or be knocked to the floor.
‘So I should get to work then,’ she said. ‘If I could have the bag?’
Amanda glared. The girl’s mouth dried out. All at once she wondered where she’d got the nerve to talk to these people as she had. She wished she could take it back.
‘Later,’ said Amanda, turning away again. ‘When we know you can be trusted.’
Steph nodded, pathetically grateful to be let off the hook.
Skeebs’ lips twisted in disgust. Amanda went back to whatever she was doing.
Just like that, Steph was back to being ignored. She pressed her lips tight and felt the first surge of anger.
‘Where’s the body?’ she asked.
‘What body?’ asked Amanda, not bothering to turn around.
‘My mother’s body. The men who sent me, they said it would be here.’
The spotlight dragged back onto Steph again.
‘Bridget had a daughter?’ Skeebs said it with such incredulity that Steph couldn’t help but feel insulted.
‘Why do you think they sent me?’ she replied with a touch of venom.
It felt like Amanda was seeing her for the first time.
‘They didn’t even tell me how she died,’ she said.
Amanda frowned, processing this new information.
‘She died with a job left to do,’ she said, finally, turning her back on her once more. ‘That’s all you need to know.’
Steph wiped at her tears, dragging her sleeve across her cheeks so hard they hurt. What now? Was she supposed to just sit in a corner until they told her otherwise? Because she’d been doing that for months now, since the day the demon broke loose and she’d been taken to ensure mum didn’t flee for the Bahamas.
‘Here, love.’ The large man was still crouched by Skeebs’ side. He was reaching out a hand to catch her attention. ‘Fetch us that water there.’
On the table by Amanda’s arm there was a half-drunk bottle of water. She brought it over.
The big man took it and handed it to Skeebs who was still tucked in on himself, glaring at nothing in particular.
‘She’s a fucking bitch, man,’ he mumbled.
‘That ain’t true,’ replied Caleb, his voice low and conciliatory.
‘Going to get us all killed. This ain’t going to work. You’ll see. Danny was in charge, he—’
‘But he ain’t. She is. Family’s dead, AK’s got her daughter and she got us this far all the same. And anything you tell us about how you got away—’
‘Ain’t nothing to say.’
Steph was rubbing at her hands to keep the circulation going. It had been fine in the car but the cold had sunk its teeth in her so hard when she’d stepped out it had taken her breath away. It was better here, away from the open air but still it made its way between her ribs.
‘You cold?’ It took Steph a moment to realise that Caleb was addressing her.
‘No,’ she said, her hands dropping to her sides. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Here.’ Caleb was already pulling off his gloves. ‘Just like AK. Send a girl out unprepared. Need your hands if you want to get this done.’
They were far too big, but the idea of warmth and the gentle look on the huge man’s face was a surprising comfort. She grabbed for them with both hands.
The material swallowed her hands, went halfway to her elbow, but they were warm already from his body heat and her fingers immediately started to feel better.
‘Thank you.’
The man just shrugged.
Steph looked the gloves over, so oversized it reminded her of being a toddler trying on mummy’s shoes. She pushed the thought away before she could sink too far into it and felt a nauseous pinch in her gut when she saw a blood stain on the right glove’s cuff.
She looked up to see if Caleb had noticed her noticing but the man was too busy comforting his team mate. ‘Trust me. You want someone in your corner when it gets tough. It’s that woman there. None better for a scrape.’
But Skeebs didn’t want to be comforted. ‘Tell that to Danny.’