Demon (The Northern Kings MC #1)

Chapter Twenty Six

Demon

I watched the club officers, Indie, Baz, Fury and Big Red, take up their positions at the front of the ride, the rest of the club waiting patiently as they drove past, before joining two abreast. The collective of engines roared, throaty grumbles merging to become almost one enormous beast of metal, leather, and power. I loitered at the back, joining the group almost at the end of the procession, just before the two prospects with the plain leather cuts and a bunch of hangarounds that lurked with us in the hope they might take the next prospect vacancy.

I couldn’t see that happening soon. Sicknote was as fucking useless as a chocolate teapot. I’d taken more useful shits. And Tony Cannelloni wasn’t much better. He loved to chat shit about his Italian roots, spurning stories of his family’s Mafia involvement, and trying to make my father believe that his Italian connections would be useful to us.

Sometimes my father would listen, his ears pricking with tiny promises of more power and much more influence over the North East, but somehow Indie would convince him otherwise. Probably because we had more connections with the Irish Mafia than my father knew about. And we liked to keep it that way. We’d betrayed orders a couple of summers ago, and if he ever found out, I was likely headed for exile myself. Although I was sure he’d exonerate Indie. The first born. The favourite.

We were over the other side of the Tyne Bridge before I’d even managed to pull my head out of my arse. The bikes in front ploughed on, filtering through traffic, losing formation when a car driver took offence at the group of growling motorbikes flying up behind him, and then moving back together with the grace of a display team. Passengers stared, children in cars waved and the front riders obliged, waving back, continuing to spin the illusion that MCs were no longer the rowdy criminals of the past.

I kept my hands firmly on the bars, not contributing to the spirit of charity or supporting the ruse of the Northern Kings. Refusing to drive the narrative that we were a law abiding and inclusive club. Because anyone with an inch of bike sense knew that was a fat lie. Another bundle of traffic up ahead slowed us down, the bikes braking to not much over walking pace as each of us dropped to single file and squeezed through the gap in between two queues of cars backed up from the lights in front. And then we were off again, the amplified roar of impatient engines leaving behind the cagers stuck in their cars as we cut through the gaps.

Glancing in my wing mirrors, I caught the glimpse of the tiny dark shapes moving behind us. I’d seen them a few miles back, my brain not taking them in. But this was a busy main road, a motorway taking the traffic north out of Newcastle. I pulled my eyes away, my focus back to the front, to the tyres of the people riding before me and the man on my left who’d crept in a little too close, his knee barely ten inches from mine.

I shot him a glance as he wobbled in closer, Ciara’s arms tightening around me, the weight of her head moving across my back. A tiny movement in balance, but enough to move the bike a fraction. Glaring to my left, I shook my head at the rider beside me, but the fucker wasn’t paying attention, his face glued on the group at the forefront of the procession. I squeezed the throttle, letting the Harley surge forward, just to pull it away from him until I caught his eye. Flapping my hand at him, I beckoned for him to move over, to give us more space, before he clipped us and sent us down.

He nodded, acknowledging me, leaning the bike to the left and letting it drift away from us, giving us that space back. Ciara had noticed too, her arms relaxing slightly. Trust me to choose the club numpty to ride with. I should have taken up position next to Reap. He might shoot me a homicidal glance or three, but he was loyal to the club, so I had no fear he would try anything.

In my wing mirrors, the dark shapes of the bikes behind us remained, following us out of the City and to the north of Newcastle. It was difficult to tell who they were from this far away, but there was no mistaking the make of the bikes with the upright handlebars and the big headlight right at the very front. They were most likely casual riders, the lack of formation making them much less likely to be an MC.

Whilst the MC wars of the eighties and nineties had mostly died a death, there was still the odd skirmish, and a peace among the MCs was as changeable as the Doomsday Clock, so nothing was ever guaranteed. My father and the club officers spent far too much time each year appeasing the other MCs. If it was up to me, I’d have told them all to fuck themselves long ago. Which was why it would never be up to me.

Eventually, the road quieted, growing narrower and windier until we were just about to emerge from the city boundaries into the countryside. Then, on the righthand side, just passed Newcastle Racecourse, was a field. A sprawling field of lush green grass and marquees. The bikes pulled in, slowing as they took the ground slowly, a mix of wet, slippy grass from the previous days of rain and an uneven surface making every rider take care not to drop their bikes.

We stopped in the middle, next to the enormous tents and outside stages taking shape and the numerous bodies roaming around, plugging in electrical wires to the huge generators that would soon power a multitude of food vans, beer tents and entertainment.

Noise in the North was almost set up. And somehow, with my mind and body distracted by Ciara, I’d pulled off organising the last bits of the event. Much to my relief or I would be the son who’d let everyone down, yet again. The club dismounted, taking in the surroundings of grass and the tarpaulin city, more structures taking shape around us. Tomorrow would soon be chaotic. The field would be lost in a sea of tents and the roars of engines. But not just Harleys this time, but Triumphs, Suzukis, Ducatis; you name it, every conceivable bike brand would be here.

“You got lucky, mate,” Magnet clapped me on the back, smirking. “Maybe a bit of me rubbed off on you, huh?”

“Fuck off, Magnet. This was just called good management, not good luck.”

“Aye, whatever.” He glanced across at Ciara and then back at me, winking.

“You got the last of the entertainment in place?”

“Aye. The product will be discreetly dispersed for those who want it. Even got my hands on some cheap laughing gas. This’ll be the year of record profits.”

And it probably would, because Magnet was behind it. One day, he would fail. And then I’d laugh. Big hearty belly laughs. But that didn’t seem like anytime soon.

A man moved to my left, catching my eye, with his bald head and the heavy snake tattoo that curled around his neck and up onto the back of his head. It was a fucking monstrosity. Fuck knows who he’d gone to for that tattoo after I refused to do it on the grounds of it being a shit idea. Stepping towards him, I grabbed his arm, my fingers tightening around the stiff leather of his jacket and pulling him away from the others. His face paled, a look of fear crossing his eyes.

“Demon. I…I’m sorry.”

“You were riding like a fuckwit. You ever ride next to me again and come anywhere near a foot closer than you should. I’ll break your face.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You will be, mate. Don’t make me help you shit out those gimpy teeth.”

“Demon?” the feminine voice called from beside me and I dropped my hand.

“Hey, darlin.”

I scooped her up, pulling her into my chest and pushing my lips into hers. Beanz slunk off, getting away from me while he still could.

“What was that all about?” she asked when we broke apart.

“The fella just needed some bike sense talked into him.”

“ Talked into him?” Ciara looked at me pointedly.

“Uh huh.” I tugged her closer, pulling her leather clad body against my own. Anger seemed to do a strange thing to me when I was around her, and the only thing I wanted to break right now was her body.

“Stop distracting me, Demon. Why was he so scared? If I believed in the things, I’d say he’d seen a ghost.”

“Nah. He saw a Demon.” The voice came from behind us, the blond head of one of the twins just coming into view.

“Fuck off, Cade.”

“It’s Caleb.”

“Whoever. Piss off.”

But he didn’t, stepping closer.

“Demon likes to scare people,” he said to Ciara. “And people should fear Demon. If you ever need a crazy mother fucker to fight your corner, it’s this guy right here. What did Beanz do anyway?”

“Nearly clipped us back there.”

“Aye, he’s a shit rider, like. The only reason he’s still a Northern King is that his daddy helps us out from time to time. Good to have friends in the know.”

Ciara looked at me. More questions on her face. Probably more than I really cared to answer. And right now, in earshot of the club, no answers would be given.

“Mate, Indie’s ready to ride again. Just came round here to tell ya that. Seems you were too busy scaring the shit out of Beanz and trying to get the Cock of the North away again.”

He grinned, stupidly.

By the time we were all mounted, I’d changed formation. I didn’t have to tell Beanz to ride with someone else; he was more than happy to stay well clear of me, probably because his inability to ride in a straight line would bring him to the end of my temper again. He’d moved up alongside Magnet and Suzy, Reap, dropping back and flanking us.

Tentatively we pulled off the field, careful to edge the bikes over the slippy terrain and ease them onto the road, only opening the throttle when most of the mud had kicked up off the wheels.

We travelled north, out onto the coastal route of wide, accommodating roads and sea views. Behind us, the black specks appeared again. I didn’t doubt it was the same three riders from earlier. And that now meant something.