Demon (The Northern Kings MC #1)

Chapter Twenty One

Ciara

Blue light was everywhere. Bouncing off the walls of the other houses, lighting up the faces of the people that gathered in the street. I counted the vehicles as we got closer. Five. Two police cars and three ambulances. All with their lights flashing furiously. Deep down my stomach tightened, a sickly dread creeping over my skin.

A hand caught me. Tentative. Careful.

“It’s Trevor,” old Jimmy said, his voice catching in his throat. He didn’t need to say anymore. I knew what had happened the minute I counted the combination of police and ambulances. I just didn’t know who. And now I knew.

“He’s dead.”

I heard the words, like a whisper caught on the drift of air. I knew what Jimmy was saying. Yet, for a moment, all I could do was stare into the hypnotic pulsing blue, the colour smudging to a blur in front of my eyes. A tear rolled down my cheek. Slow and warm. The only one.

Fingers entwined against mine, looping between each one tentatively. I squeezed my hand round his, grateful for that little action, for the feeling of someone there for me, for the first time in my life.

“How? What happened?” I croaked.

“Topped himself.”

“Suicide?”

Jimmy nodded; his face strained. Pain and loss. It was in his eyes. I didn’t have to look far to see it.

“Why?”

“He couldn’t take anymore. The electricity being off again was the last straw. You know we’ve lived here for ten years,” Jimmy said sadly. “Ten years. My family didn’t want to know me anymore. Trev was all I had left. But each time this happens, it takes Stu longer to pay the bill. And each time it gets harder and harder to get through the day without the distraction of a TV or even light to read by. The blackness got Trevor eventually. It’s hard keeping depression at bay when you can’t even turn a fucking light on.”

Those words. They hit me like a punch in the solar plexus and took away any response I could think of. And the sadness was like a virus. I felt it too, radiating from Jimmy, enveloping every inch of me. Demon squeezed my hand, but I didn’t look up at him. I couldn’t look anywhere, except stare straight ahead at the activity of bodies up and down the front steps.

“Come on, darlin’,” Demon said eventually, his voice a soft rumble in the low thrum of hushed voices around us. “There’s nowt we can do here tonight.”

I nodded, helplessly, letting him lead me from the crowd and back to where we’d dumped my car and his bike.

“Follow me, Ciara. Let’s get out of here.”

I didn’t fight. I had no energy to put up a fuss or make a scene. With sadness and despair came tiredness, hitting me like a sledgehammer.

*****

The ride to Demon’s place was little more than ten minutes. Making our way through the one-way streets leading down to the Ouseburn Valley and taking us out of the city centre. Demon led the way, his noisy bike sounding even louder as it roared through sleepy streets, until they gave way to industrial units and takeaway shops. And then at the last street of workshops and commercial buildings, he stopped.

The signage at the front was a twist of barbed wire painted on a red background. Poison. Even with the black roller shutter pulled down over the window, the tattoo shop we’d stopped at was obvious. There were two doors in the red brick. One covered in the same black roller shutter, the other with 13B nailed into the middle of the black painted wood. But Demon didn’t approach the door, instead going to the next set of shutters and throwing the rattling metal up above his head. The clatter from the shutter echoed around us, the noise rebounding four times before fading away into the night.

There were no neighbours in this cluster of commercial shops and industrial units. No houses or apartments. Only Demon. He pushed the bike forwards, wheeling it into the garage beyond the shutter.

“You can pull your car in too,” he said, waving his hand over the space next to him and then waiting for me to do as I was told.

I wanted to say no. Just to re-establish this relationship of me antagonising him. But I didn’t have the energy, mental or otherwise. Once the car was tucked inside the garage, Demon slammed the metal shutter down, locking us away from the street outside.

“You live above a tattoo shop?”

“Yeah. Makes it really easy to get to work in the morning.”

“You work there?”

“Yeah. It’s mine, Ciara. My shop.”

“You’re a tattooist?”

He nodded, studying me under the bright lights of the garage.

“But you’ve no tattoos.” I mentally scanned his body, trying to remember. I hadn’t seen one on him, not one.

“I know. I don’t like tattoos. Or other tattoo artists, at least.”

Now I really was confused.

“I don’t get it? A biker who doesn’t like tattoos but is a tattooist?”

“It’s a good job. Pays really well. I like doing it. But tattoos are not for me. I’m the best in the north east. People pay me a fortune and my diary is booked out months in advance. But I don’t trust anyone to tattoo me the same way as I can do it.”

“Can you not tattoo yourself?”

Demon shook his head. “Not in a way that I’d be happy with.”

A noise in the garage made me jump, the sudden loud scratching coming from behind me. I looked around wildly at the sound of giant rats. Then, as my eyes caught his, Demon smiled.

“I have a dog,” he blurted, his hand poised on the door handle.

“I don’t like dogs.”

“She’s friendly. You’ll love her,” he answered, as if trying to convince me that my hatred for the smelly beasts was going to go away the moment I set eyes on her.

On the gigantic, black and tan, angry as fuck Doberman that launched itself through the door at the back of the garage, the moment Demon cracked it open. Shit!

I jumped backwards, the dark shape launching towards us, thick, long legs covering the ground. Its ears flopped around its head as it moved and it held its tail high over its body, curling at the very end like it had been folded for too long. The dog ignored me, bounding up to Demon, rearing up on its hind legs and wrapping its paws round his neck. And now they looked like they were dance partners, rather than dog and master.

Demon scratched the dog under its ears, whispering something to it in a low voice, so quiet that I couldn’t make out the words. The dog thrashed its tail, beating it against a metal cabinet just off to its left. And then it stopped, looking around Demon and straight at me. The dog’s tail stilled, the rhythmical thumping slowing until eventually it just held it there, and two dark eyes stared at me. I stepped back half a step, uncertain what its intentions were next and then it pushed away from Demon, dropping to the floor and standing watching me.

For a minute, we stood there staring at each other. Although it probably wasn’t that long at all, it just seemed a fucking long time when I was trying to decide whether the big black and tan beast was going to eat me or not. It could probably smell the fear radiating from me, hear the pumping of my heart. But eventually it tipped its head the other way, looking back up at Demon, before turning round and wandering back through the door it came from.

“She says you can come in,” Demon said, turning his head to grin at me.

“Who the fuck are you, like? Dr Dolittle? Looked like it said step inside, and I’ll eat you for a midnight snack.”

“It’s a she. She’s called Kinobie.”

“Kinobie, huh? Why the name?”

“Dobi One Kinobie.”

I giggled. The sound slipping from my mouth and making me jump. But then it came again, another outburst.

“What?” Demon asked, watching me giggle hysterically to myself.

“I never had you down as a Star Trek fan.”

“Star Wars .”

“Whatever. It’s all the fucking same.”

“It’s fucking not. You’re off ya rocker you if you think that.”

And there it was again, that giggle that didn’t even sound like mine, echoing in the stark garage under Demon’s tattoo shop, whilst his blood thirsty hound waited to savage me when we got up through that door.

“Come on,” Demon beckoned, moving towards the door the dog had come from. And probably to certain death. I’d seen those dogs in films. They bit first, asked questions later.

Standing for a second, I hesitated.

“What’s wrong Ciara?”

“Your dog. It wants me dead.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Demon rolled his eyes. “She’s fine. She doesn’t know you, but she’s not going to eat you. I might. She won’t.”

My jaw dropped, no words coming out, and across Demon’s face the muscles flinched, the tiniest of smirks pulling at his lips. Demon stepped back, his hand running down the underside of my arm. I could feel the smouldering heat of his touch even through the denim jacket I wore. Or maybe it was just the promise of something else warming me up from the inside out. His hand dropped lower, fingers moving between mine, intertwining and pulling me gently with him.

Inside the door was nothing but stairs, lit by a pale gold light and the shadow of the beast standing at the top of them. The dog watched me closely as I climbed every stair holding Demon’s hand; the steps creaking under our combined weight. As we reached the top, the dog darted backwards, giving us space to pass, but still, I could feel its eyes on me, and the intention of those big teeth in its mouth. I clutched Demon’s hand tighter, and he snorted a little in amusement.

The apartment above the shop unit was much bigger than I’d expected. The door from the stairs opened out into a huge open plan space. In the far corner, marked with brushed stainless steel kitchen units and a line of black cast iron stools lined up along the front of the counter, was the kitchen. Neat and tidy and organised. On the other side of the room was a big leather corner sofa and a few modest scatter cushions literally scattered across the furniture. The dog curled up at the foot of the sofa, into a huge fleecy bed, it’s eyes still watching every move I made.

Demon gestured towards the settee. “Do you want a drink, food, anything?” he asked as I perched on the end furthest from the dog as possible.

“No thanks. I’m pretty tired.”

“Bed,” he said, not turning round as he pulled a thick half-pint glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. “Come on. I’ll show you where that is.”

Demon chugged back the water, the glass clunking down on the metal countertop, before he stepped away, tipping his head in a quiet command to follow him. Then, with a last glance over my shoulder, to see if his dog was coming too, I trotted after him. And maybe, just maybe, I heard a low whine from the living room. My lips pulled, but I stopped the smile before it became any bigger. Or I was going to praise myself for winning against the dog. And that was pathetic.

Demon pushed the door open to a bedroom. To a huge, low bed and a sparsely decorated, non-descript space.

“Your room?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where are you sleeping?”

“In here. With you.”

I swallowed, surveying the bed. It was big enough. Big enough for us to stay on one side each. His hand caught mine, pulling me to face him, his other hand reaching carefully towards me, his forefinger and thumb tipping my head up. Just a little. Just enough so that I couldn’t look away from him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low and gentle.

“I… er…”

“You worried about sharing a bed with me? We slept together in the clubhouse.”

“I know. It’s becoming a habit.”

“Yeah. So, what if it is?”

“I just don’t want to get used to it.”

“Why, Ciara?”

“Because I may not stay here.”

“Yeah. I know. You want to go back to your room? Your home,” he added quickly, as if he might have offended me.

“No. I mean here. In Newcastle. The North East.”

“Why Ciara? Why would you move?”

There was a strain in his voice. A slight waver. A vulnerable uncertainty. I sighed.

“Tell me, Ciara. What would make you leave?”

“They would.”

“Who?”

I felt my own teeth biting my lip. Hard. The hint of something metallic dripping into my mouth. For a moment, I decided not to say anything. But then I felt fingers on my face, on the lumpy skin on my right cheekbone.

“You mean the people who gave you that scar, don’t you Ciara?” Demon pushed. “Tell me who they were. Tell me how you got it.”

The back of my throat swelled, the threat of tears, the threat of breaking down, the threat of telling someone what had happened. I hadn’t told the police. And I didn’t tell the doctor stitching my face back together.

“Please,” Demon whispered, his voice heavy and vulnerable now. “Please tell me.”

“I…I pissed off the wrong people.” I stopped, gathering my thoughts, deciding if I would go on. But Demon pushed no harder. He just waited, his eyes on mine, his fingers still on my chin. “At the time, I worked in a strip joint. In Kilkenny. The O’Malley’s, a notorious Irish family, had just sold it to the Polish. The O’Malleys were rumoured to be gangsters, mafia. There’s been families all over Ireland for years. Always fighting. The O’Malleys paid well and when they sold the club to the Polish, they paid even better. But it was a shithole.

“One night, this group of men walk in. They looked normal, like regular punters, but one asks questions. He offered me money. A lot of money.”

Demon’s jaw tensed and I recognised the look in his eyes. Disappointment.

“Not for that,” I added. “He just wanted me to lure this guy into the back of the club. That was all I had to do. Two years of my salary just to get the man alone. I should have known better. Shit, I did know better. But with nearly thirty grand in my pocket, I figured I could start again. Finally, make a life for myself. So, I told this guy, O’Sullivan I think he was called…”

Something changed on Demon’s face suddenly, his expression darkening.

“Cian O’Sullivan?”

“Yes. How did you…”

“We did him a favour a year or so ago.”

My stomach dropped. Fuck.