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In the meantime, why not turn the page for a glimpse of where it all began.Savage Kingis Book 1 in The Caraksay Brotherhood series.
SAVAGE KING (BOOK 1 IN THE CARAKSAY BROTHERHOOD SERIES)
Stirling, Scotland.
March 2019
Cristina
I step outside and sniff the air. This is just the sort of morning I like. Cool, but with the promise of warmth later. A light breeze ripples the new leaves on the sycamores lining the street where I rent a ground-floor flat. I close and lock the door behind me then pocket the key.
Today is the start of a fresh, spring day in Stirling, perfect for a quick five miles or so before I make my way into the city centre to set up my stall.
I pull my hood up, stuff my earplugs into my ears, and click on the music app on my phone.Madonna’s Greatest Hits.A bit dated, but still, one of my favourites. I set off at a brisk pace, my feet slapping the pavement in time withLike A Virgin.
Five miles should take me about forty minutes. I’ll be back in time for a quick shower, then I can catch the bus into town and be at the market by nine. I’m looking forward to setting up my display. I have several new pieces that I created over the weekend, titanium pendants set with tiger eye and bloodstone, with matching bracelets. Classy and elegant, but not too pricey. I’m keen to see how they’ll sell, though I’m quietly confident.
My stuff is good, even if I am biased. Unique, even, as far as I can see. I like to blend traditional Celtic designs with the more exotic styles of the Near East to create what I consider to be stunning items of jewellery. The tourists of Stirling seem to agree. My pieces have been well-received among the visitors from abroad who flock to places like Stirling for the romantic and historical connections. I occasionally venture to Edinburgh, usually during the Festival when it’s busy and trade might be better, but generally I prefer my regular site. I’m to be found there three days a week, in the marketplace in the city centre a mile and a half from where I live. My pitch nestles between a stall selling antique clocks and another offering silk scarves in every colour imaginable.
It’s a good living. Quiet. Peaceful. Predictable. And safe.
Exactly as I like it.
I reach the end of my quiet street and jog left into a busier road. A mile further, to the haunting strains ofAmerican PieMadonna-style, I leave the main road, continuing along a cobbled path leading to the riverside. The local council, in their wisdom, has invested in a decent paved waterfront trail to attract more visitors to the city, and it’s one of my preferred routes for a morning run. It’s away from traffic, out of the din, and smells of the busy city streets, with occasional glimpses of an otter or a kingfisher to brighten the day.
I’m panting now, but I have another mile or so in me yet. I’ll run as far as the next bridge, then make my way back up onto the road and head for home.
I round a long, curving stretch of path. The bridge is up ahead, about half a mile away. The river tumbles merrily on my right, the water level slightly raised due to the heavy rain we had a few days ago, but nothing too alarming.
I can just make out a group of people walking over the bridge, four or five of them, perhaps. One separates from the rest and jogs back to the start of the bridge, then down the stone steps onto the waterside path in front of me. He reaches the path, then ducks beneath the bridge, heading away from me.
I’m relieved. Never the most sociable of people, I’ll be leaving the path before I get to him, so I won’t need to conjure up a smile and a ‘hello’.
He pauses in the shadow of the bridge and turns to face the wall.
Bloody hell.
I slow my pace. He’s still a fair way ahead, but I’ll make sure I leave enough time for him to finish taking a leak, put everything away again, and get lost.
He finishes his urgent business and begins to retrace his steps. He doesn’t get more than a couple of paces before more men appear from beyond the bridge. Four. No, five of them. They rush at the lone man, who is clearly not best pleased to see them and not hanging about to pass the time of day. He breaks into a sprint.
They all arrive at the foot of the steps together, and one of the men chasing grabs at the one running away. He whirls and aims a vicious kick at the assailant’s knee. I’m still at least a couple of hundred metres away, but I swear I hear the crunch of bone from here. The man goes down like a felled tree.
It all took just a few moments, but it was long enough for one of the other men to get behind him, blocking the escape route up the steps. Another attacker makes a lunge, but the victim dodges out of the way, landing a swinging punch to another jaw.
Then, it’s all something of blur. There’s a scuffle, the sound of punches landing, grunts and snarls as breath is forced from lungs and male testosterone erupts into violence. Rooted to the spot, I can only stand and stare when the four men still on their feet set about the one on his own.
Suddenly, he breaks free from the skirmish and makes another run for it. He’s heading in my direction. Instinctively, I side step off the path and into the shrubbery lining the route. No way do I want to get involved in whatever this is.
I can see the first man clearly now. He’s covering the ground fast, only about a hundred metres from me. He’s young, about my age, I think. Early to mid-twenties, with dark-brown hair. And well-dressed in a casual sort of a way, expensive designer jeans and a button-down shirt to match, though his clothes are looking the worse for wear right now. No coat or jacket, which seems odd, given that this is March, in Scotland. Hardly a subtropical climate.
The other four are in hot pursuit and gaining. Their quarry is limping and holding his side, and they are almost upon him. He whirls back to face them.
“Fuck off, Olensky. You really don’t want to do this.” He is walking slowly backwards, his gaze swinging left and right, keeping each of them in sight.
‘Oh, I think we do.” The reply comes from the largest of the assailants, a bear of a man aged around forty, I’d say, and whose craggy appearance suggests he’s seen every day of that life, and it is delivered in a heavy Eastern European accent, not unlike my own.
The man has almost drawn level with the spot where I’m hiding when they catch him up and surround him again. He throws a punch that catches the one who spoke right in the middle of his face.
