The Fire I Called: A Bond of Blood Read online

  Copyright © 2022 M. Dane

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-6480359-9-2

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 1

  - Chalia -

  It was a perfect day in London, right until I found the pool of blood staining the pavement in front of his house. There were no such things as perfect days after that. There was no such thing as perfect.

  The sun, liberated from the usual blanket of dreary clouds, had a mind to play that day. Its toasty rays decreed it a sin to attend school, and, not one to disappoint, I obeyed.

  That’s how they found me. I was sipping a warm beer as I crossed Queen’s Park on my way to the rendezvous, when an eruption of sirens split the air. I jumped and spun to face the approaching coppers, and bile clawed up the back of my throat. They were about as welcome as an ass hair.

  “Figures,” I muttered, eying the blue and green checkered wagon. The driver’s window wound down, revealing the bloated face of a woman with greased cooking-twine hair. I cursed. Her name was McCullough, and it’d been five glorious months since I last saw her mug. That time she threw me in the cells for looking at her in a suspicious manner. I was just trying to figure out how she breathed through that mess she called a mouth.

  McCullough squeezed her head out of the car like an angry boil. “We know it was you, Chalia!” she shouted. “Come’n have a chat and not nothing else needs be done of it.”

  I scoffed. “You’re about as sharp as a sack full of marbles if you think I’m falling for that,” I fired back. “Go on and waddle back to your village. They must be terribly upset they’ve lost their idiot.”

  McCullough’s face reddened. She pointed a fat finger at me as though she were picking an item from a menu. “I’ll have your neck for that—”

  “Come on then,” I said, stale of the game of pig and mouse. I pelted my beer bottle at her. She ducked and hit her head on the door as the bottle crashed on the hood.

  I laughed.

  Then the sirens screamed.

  Then I ran. Faster than a chav with a sausage hanging out his ass at the dog track.

  I hurdled the park fence, my backpack bouncing on my shoulders, and sprinted across the road to skid around the corner onto Second Street.

  Tires screeched behind me, the bumper groping for my ass. I leaped onto the curb, narrowly avoiding the police car as it fired past.

  “Tramp!” I screamed. She’d never openly tried to kill me in public. I dodged the beggars who choked the footpath, and ran for all I was worth, desperate to reach the Warrens before they netted me.

  Second Street ended in a T-intersection, where heavy traffic cinched a knot. Beyond it stood two red-brick apartment buildings leaning on each other. Underneath their bumping shoulders was an entrance to the Warrens, a maze of alleyways, and a haven for the city’s riffraff.

  The police car, just ahead of me, slammed on their brakes and I drew level with them. The passenger, a walrus of a man named Langley, reached out the window with a taser gun aimed at my noggin.

  I gasped and shielded my face with my arms. “There’re children about, ya dolt!”

  The gun cracked, and I tensed, waiting for the lightning. It didn’t come. The prongs sailed harmlessly behind me and buried into an electronic store. Not waiting for Langley to figure out how to unholster his pistol, I leaped over Mario’s fruit stand and rocketed into the traffic.

  A car flashed before me, its side-view mirror grazing my hand. I skittered across the next three lanes before jumping onto the footpath. I didn’t slow until I reached the shadow of the Warrens.

  McCullough sped into the first lane and quickly became wedged in the press. Cars piled up to the left of her, and the street filled with the fury of honking horns. She slammed her chunky hands onto the dash and shouted something lost to the roar.

  I sucked in a few deep breaths, wiped the sweat from my eyes, then waved to McCullough, hoping to calm the poor scrubber before she had a heart attack.

  McCullough’s face turned beet red. She punched the glass windshield like a kid having a tantrum.

  Maybe my intent got lost in the mail. I waved a two-finger salute at her, certain she would mellow out. Instead, her expression darkened to that of someone who’d just cultivated hemorrhoids.

  Well, I couldn’t win them all. I brushed aside my fringe, tied my boot laces, readjusted my backpack, and then hurried deeper into the Warrens.

  A few turns in, and the world muted. By the time I reached the heart, the only sounds were my own footsteps and the rustle of rats as they scampered over the last century’s garbage.

  Even though I’d lived in Barden my whole life, I still got a twist of lungs when I walked the Warrens. If Barden was the stain on London’s map, the Warrens was the cigarette hole punched through it. It was that sickly kid at school who no one wanted nothing to do with. The one with food smeared around his face and snot on his lip, who made you fear touching him. It was a dangerous place, but in its chaos was a structure I understood. It did not treat me differently because I was only fifteen and a lass, and that made all the difference.

  I zigzagged through the maze at a trot and reached the rendezvous at two forty-nine; nineteen minutes late.

  It was deserted.

  I cursed and kicked the wall. How could Kingsley be later than me? It was a special day, a day for everyone suppressed by the fascist rule of adults, a day for us to show we aren’t afraid to stand up for what is right. I’d hoped Kingsley would make more of an effort. He was my best mate, but he was less reliable than a soup fork.

  I scanned the alley again and sighed, then squeezed myself between two pallet stacks and slid down the wall until I sat on my heels, out of the muck and out of sight.

  Time passed with me glancing at my watch every few seconds. He had five minutes. That’s it, no more. I’d do the mission by myself if I had to—

  “Chalia?” a voice called, echoing off the brick walls.

  I peeked through the pallets and spotted Kingsley striding into the alley. He was a small lad, the top of his head barely reaching my nose, but he had a cocksure swagger. A Chihuahua with a lion’s shadow, I always said. He hated that and would belt on anyone else who said it. Not me, though. We were best mates since birth, and that made us family.

  Deciding to teach the kid a lesson about time management, I remained hidden behind the pallets as he pa
ssed.

  “Chalia?” he called again, this time with uncertainty. “You here?”

  He walked to the trash bins on the opposite side and peered behind the mounds of garbage. He kicked a bag, and its contents spilled out. “Always late, she is.”

  I crept from my hiding spot, doing my best to ignore the indignation of being called late by Kingsley, and pounced. I hooked one arm around his head and hugged it to my chest while I pushed my pocketknife to his throat.

  “Dosh,” I growled in as deep a voice I could muster. “Give it to me or I’ll slice chips from you.”

  Kingsley froze, a split second perhaps, and then his shoulders heaved as he laughed. “You’re dimmer than a drowned fish if you think I’ve quids for you.” His voice didn’t tremble, not a little. His knees didn’t knock, and he didn’t plead for his life. He was the smartest lad I knew, but sometimes it was wasted on him.

  I pressed the knife harder against his throat. “Check yourself, boy. I’ve seen flea crap larger than you.”

  Kingsley stiffened like a long-dead dumpster cat, and my ears tingled a warning. Kingsley’s temper was known throughout Barden, as was his sensitivity about his height.

  I lowered the blade, unhooked my arm, and quick-stepped away.

  Kingsley spun faster than a twice-kicked badger and launched a punch at my head. It might have clipped my cheek if he hadn’t recognized me and pulled the swing.

  “Chalia!” he said. “I almost ended you!” He straightened his jacket with a huff. “Then your mom would never cook me dinner again.”

  I pocketed my knife. “You’d need to have no taste to eat that slop . . .” My voice trailed off as I caught sight of his face. His whole left cheek was blacker than the ace of spades, and his eye looked a burnt Yorkshire pudding.

  I clenched my fists. “I’ll kill him,” I hissed. I snatched Kingsley’s arm and pulled him into a shaft of light so I could see better. The bruise ran down his neck and under his shirt, and I was willing to bet it shaded most of his body. I wanted to scream and run to the bar where I knew he was at. “I’ll finish that bastard to death.”

  “Let off,” Kingsley said, struggling in my grip. “What’re you about?”

  I didn’t let go. I couldn’t. “Thinks he’s a big man, does he? Beating up on someone smaller than him?” My voice trembled. “How many times does this have to happen before we make him stop?”

  Kingsley yanked free and poked a finger in my chest. “First off, I’m not that small! Second, you’re not going to kill nothing. I fight my battles. He will get his own, I promise you that!” He turned and punched the brick wall. “It’s just not worth the hassle right now. You don’t know what it’s like—”

  “To be used as a boxing bag?”

  “To have a dad!”

  I spluttered, and my anger parted just enough to let in a wave of pain.

  Kingsley gasped and spun back around, eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” he gushed. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just . . . it’s too much, sometimes, ya know?”

  I sighed. “No. But I can imagine.” I turned from Kingsley and rested my elbows and forehead on the pallet stack. My dad never mistreated me like Kingsley’s dad. In fact, he was the perfect dad, until he wasn’t. Maybe that’s why I had so much anger boiling through me. Maybe that’s why I latched on to any stability like an oyster to a rock.

  Kingsley squeezed my shoulder. “Who needs them, anyway? Just you and me, Chalia. That’s all what matters. Proper family.”

  I nodded. “It’ll just be me if your dad does you in.”

  Kingsley chuckled. “That old drunk would run outta steam before he even gets close. Don’t worry about me. I’ll not let you rot in this place alone. Promise.” He slid his back down the pallets and looked up. “Anyway, I skipped school to have fun, not chat about bell ends.”

  I joined him on the ground, draped an arm over his shoulder, and pulled him in. “You’re not too sore?”

  Kingsley shrugged. “Life is sore. Hanging with you makes it bearable. Anyway, what’s this plan you’ve got, then?”

  I handed him my bag.

  He unzipped it, and his eyes sparkled. “Lush!” he said as he pulled out a can of black spray paint. “How many?”

  “Enough for many more days like this,” I said, standing. “But we have to be quick.”

  I grabbed his hand and helped him to his feet before leading him to the end of the alley overlooking Barden High School. A shiny Rolls-Royce was parked in front of the turnstiles, looking as out of place as the queen in a coal mine.

  “See the Royce?” I asked.

  “Hard to miss.”

  “That’s the mayor’s. He’s in assembly now, giving his annual ‘stay-out-of-trouble-and-you-might-not-be-a-drop-kick’ speech. The poor fellow must be a right mess, driving that thing.”

  Kingsley raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with a Rolls-Royce?”

  “Don’t you see? The manufacturers forgot to tint the windows! That’s right embarrassing.” I shook my can of paint. “Good thing we’re here to help our beloved mayor.”

  It took a second, but eventually a crooked smile spread across Kingsley’s face, and he shook his can too. “You know, sometimes I mistake you for a bland sort of lass,” he said as he reached into my backpack and pulled out a second can. “Sometimes I’m wrong.”

  “You’re too kind,” I said as I scanned the street. “Listen, we get in and out, no mucking about. Got it?”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

  “I’m serious.” I narrowed my eyes. “If the mayor is here, so is his police escort. If I say run, you run.”

  “Okay! Jeez, relax, you’re taking the fun out of skipping school—”

  “Say it.”

  Kingsley rolled his eyes. “If you say run, I run.”

  I stared at him, and my ears burned. He wasn’t in the right state of mind. He was angry, and that was never a good thing, not with him. “Listen, Kingsley, maybe we should—”

  “Screw the mayor!” Kingsley shouted, then shot out of the alley with both cans raised like pistols.

  A shiver sliced down my spine. A warning. It was not the right day to be babysitting Kingsley.

  Chapter 2

  - Chalia -

  “Damn it!” I hissed, bouncing on the balls of my feet as I glanced up and down the road. It was deserted, but far from safe. “Going to get me killed one day!” I sprinted out of the Warrens and into the untamed wilderness of Barden. It was supposed to be a stealth mission, but Kingsley was about as stealthy as Prince Harry in drag. We might be okay, as long as he drew no more attention to us—

  Kingsley reached the Royce and leaped onto its hood, sliding across it with his arms wide for balance.

  My breath caught in my chest. “Get off there!” I shouted, but the Rolls-Royce’s alarm sang the unmistakable anthem of a carjacking. Everyone in Barden knew that sound, but the pigs, their ears were tuned to it like radar. We had minutes at most.

  Kingsley turned to me with his crooked smile and shrugged. “Whoops,” he mouthed.

  The siren screeched, louder and louder, and lines of warmth flitted through my body, from my stomach to the tips of my fingers and toes, setting every hair on end. My breathing quickened. I should have ordered him to run. I should have run myself. There were many things I should have done, but in that moment, adrenaline and a fierce desire for control killed my sanity. In that moment of madness, I leapt onto the hood too, and my life changed forever.

  Kingsley’s smile touched his ears. “Welcome aboard the Renegade Express. Next stop: retribution!”

  “Not if we’re caught,” I said, pushing past him and crouching over the windshield. “Hurry!” My hand was a blur as I sprayed an impressively large member of the male genitalia. I completed it with two devil horns and the same round glasses the mayor wore. I was about to write some choice words, but something inside the car caught my attention—

  A face, eyes wide and mouth working soundlessly. It stared at me from the driv
er’s seat with a look a stunned mullet couldn’t pull off.

  I froze, and the can fell from my grip to clink on the hood and roll away.

  “You all right?” Kingsley asked, looking up from his own artwork. He followed my gaze to the chauffeur and whooped with surprise.

  “Ho, now!” he said and dropped to his knees. “There’s a chav trapped in the Royce.” He rapped on the glass like it was an aquarium. “An ugly little fellow, isn’t he? They must not be feeding him enough.”

  The chauffeur spluttered, and his face turned tomato. He fumbled with his seatbelt.

  “Ruuuun!” I screamed, vaulting from the hood and hitting the ground in a sprint. Not once had the idea crossed my mind that a person was left in the car!

  I bounded across the street in ten strides and dove into the Warrens. I reached the pallets before chancing a look over my shoulder.

  “Damn it!” I said, digging in my boots and sliding to a stop. Kingsley hadn’t run at all, but was on the Royce’s roof, dancing out of the chauffeur’s grip and spraying the man in the face every time he took a swipe at his feet.

  “Run, Kingsley!” I screamed, hopping from one foot to the other.

  Kingsley ignored me. He laughed and played like a kid with a new toy on Christmas Day.

  I was about to call again but choked on my words. Two figures raced from the school turnstile, dressed in the telltale white shirts and black vests of cops. They had faces as sour as fermented trash juice. Pickering and Newlin, two of the rottenest cops in Barden. Pickering was more beluga than man, and Newlin a cheap toothpick. The mayor’s security.

  “Pigs!” I screamed, running back to the street. Kingsley glanced up and saw the pair. One can fell from his grip.

  The chauffeur took his opportunity and caught Kingsley by the ankle. He tugged, and Kingsley crashed to the roof just as Pickering and Newlin arrived.

  Pickering wrenched Kingsley from the car and slammed him against the door, sending Kingsley’s head lolling about like a tetherball.

  I had to help. I had to do something! But what? I was strong for my size and might have had a chance against one of them. But three?

  I looked behind me into the Warrens. Five steps, that’s all it would take, and I would be safe. Kingsley had brought this on himself; it would serve him right to get a few hours in the cells.