Demon (The Northern Kings MC #1)

Chapter Twenty Eight

Demon

“Who are these?” Ciara asked, standing beside me as I watched Kings members shaking hands and patting shoulders, careful not to touch the back patches of the other MC.

“Valhalla’s Vandals.”

“Wh…who?”

“It’s their MC name.”

“Really? What are they trying to be?”

“Shhh Ciara. These are a tough crowd. Nearly as bad as The Notorious. But more aligned with us. Think Ste would like to keep it that way.”

“Why do you call him Ste?” she changed the subject.

“Because that’s his name?”

“Why not Dad?”

“I used to. But not now.”

“You fell out, huh?”

Ciara probed, her eyes searching mine, and I knew this conversation would not go away easily.

“Yeah. As I got older, I realised Indie would always be his favourite and so I stopped trying. I still do his bidding. Just don’t do it because I want to please him. I just don’t think I care anymore.”

She cocked her head to the side, analysing me. Some social work bullshit.

“And what was that bidding ?”

Fuck. This girl was relentless. There was no hiding from her. Not even if I wanted to. But I didn’t. Somehow, I wanted her to see all of me. To see if she could accept me for who I really was.

“I was brought up to fight. My dad saw the temper in me from a young age and he cashed in on it. Now, when something, someone, needs sorting, it’s normally me who does it. Suppose I’m the best man for the job. Had to be good at something, I guess.”

Shrugging, pretending that revelation did nothing to me, that it didn’t matter, I turned away, but her palm cupped my face, gently pulling it back to her. Her eyes were darker now, a sadness, an understanding of sorts, although I doubted she really could understand it all.

“What job was that?” she whispered, the hint of uncertainty in her voice, a fear of hearing the answer to that question.

“I dish out the punishments. I beat the people my Da wants me to beat. And I do it well. I can’t help it. It’s like a mist descends after the first punch. A blood lust, almost.”

Ciara nodded, understanding across her face.

“I’ve seen it.” Her voice was a whisper of caution, of fear and acknowledgement. “I’ve seen you lose that control. I’ve seen the blood fever come over you. I get why he would send you. But that’s cruel. Really cruel to do that to your own flesh and blood. I could half see why Andy did that to me. I wasn’t his. So, what did it matter?” She paused when I looked at her, not understanding at first. “Andy. My step-dad?”

Fuck! I should have known who she’d meant. She’d trusted me with that information. Ciara smiled faintly.

From a little way in front, a low rumble of deep chuckles filled the air. The Vandals were at ease again. It had always been a risk coming here without our President, and there was still a risk that it would kick off later, that they’d sense weakness in us without my father here. And, whilst we had the manpower and muscle to deal with any shit that came our way, I wasn’t sure we had his cruel temperament, the one everyone feared. The one that had kept the MCs at peace for these last few years because the consequences otherwise were dire for all of us. While he was temporarily incapacitated, no-one would make a move, but the longer he was out, the more the chancers would get twitchy.

Indie turned then, beckoning for me to join the Kings’ officers, talking to the Vandals officers. It wasn’t to be included in the conversation, but to be placed in it. That dull threat, sitting there on the periphery, waiting to be deployed. Sliding my hand around the small of her back, I guided Ciara towards the group in the middle of Alnwick’s market square, not missing the tension filling her body, her spine straightening under my palm. And she should be tense because all eyes focussed on her, not me. The woman clad in black leather which sculpted around the beautiful bulge of her tits, cinching in at her waist and then hugging her hips. Her hair fell windswept around her shoulders, tousled tresses falling down her back. No one’s focus was on me.

Tomahawk, the Vandal’s president, smiled, his grin lopsided, half smirk, half elation. And his dark eyes never left her, not even for a cursory glance at me, the man that shared her body. The man with no real claim over her because would she fuck let me call her my old lady. He reached a hand towards her, like a gentleman might. Yet Tomahawk was no gentleman. Nor did he look like it. Dressed like a leather warrior, his long dark hair braided down the back of his head, and shaved up the sides. A thick, dark goatee beard surrounding his lips and covering his chin.

His hand loitered for a moment, poised, expecting Ciara to take it. But she stared down at it and the criss-cross of tattoos encircling his wrist and fingers, before lifting her face and fixing him a cold, silent stare. And now it was my turn to smirk.

“Ciara,” Indie’s voice cut the thick atmosphere, “this is Tomahawk, President of Valhalla’s Vandals. Tomahawk, my boy’s lass.”

Ciara nodded, and Tomahawk’s smile straightened. Beside us, Indie shifted uncomfortably.

“Lass?” the Vandal’s president repeated. “Not your old lady, then Demon. Maybe she’s waiting for someone better to come along?”

“I’m no one’s old woman.”

“’Old lady,” Tomahawk corrected.

“Whatever. I’m not one of those.”

“Then you’re free to share around, Princess.”

Indie moved forward towards me, Fury on the other side, closing in but not quick enough. Stepping in front of Ciara, I took the space between us and the Vandal’s president. We were both the same height, but he dwarfed me in muscle, and now, as we stood nose to nose, he smiled.

“Want to call your dog off, Indie? I’m happy to go head-to-head right here, but don’t think you lot would like the consequences.”

“Nah, mate,” my brother’s voice rumbled behind me, “reckon you’d better apologise. Then I’ll bring him to heel. He got that look in his eye. If he latches on, there’s gonna be no getting him off. I’m pretty sure you won’t wanna mess up your reputation with the good townsfolk now.”

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.

“Indie. Demon. I need a word,” he grunted from the doorway, beckoning towards the upstairs.

“Nice one, Demon,” Indie grumbled as he moved past me. “Fucking Tomahawk’s been on the blower to him already. Good fucking job.”