Excerpt: Soulreaper - Book One of the Fixer Chronicles

“Besides,” Farren’s brother Hallen was saying, “why do we need to go and take back the Glory anyway? I say, let ‘em keep it.”

Chris blood boiled. Let them keep it? Over his dead body. He looked to Oaksgrave for support, but the old man seemed lost in his own thoughts, eyes staring blindly into the fire. Chris had had enough. He knew there was a good chance they might fire him for this, but he realised he didn’t care. He grabbed an empty glass tankard off the table and threw it as hard as he could into the fire.

The glass exploded against the heated stones, the little alcohol left sparking and sputtering in the flames. Everyone jumped out of their seats, eyes wide and mouths open. Chris ignored them, turning to face Hallen.

“What did you say?”

“Now listen here…” Darius Hellabore began.

“What did you say?” Chris repeated. He dropped his voice and narrowed his eyes. Most of them knew a little of what he had been. He knew that they feared him a little. It seemed to work. No one else interrupted anyway.

“I said why don’t we let them keep it,” Hallen said, pushing his chest forward.

“Why? I’ll tell you why. Because that theatre belongs to us.”

He pulled a piece of paper from his longcoat pocket. He waved it at them before slapping it down on the table.

“Remember this? The deed to the Glory? The deed we all signed and paid for in our sweat and blood. When I came on as your ‘fixer’, you made me pay my way. Three silver pieces, price of entry to your little group. Another little stepping stone on the way to your dream. A true group of shareholders, owners of the troupe and owners of the theatre. We leased the land from Harewood, but we built the theatre. We paid for every piece of wood and every nail, we paid for every drop of the labourers’ sweat. Hell, most of us spent hours on the scaffolding. The first time in the history of the playhouses, you said. Never done before, never done again. A true republic of players. Remember that? We were our own men. We were players.”

He let his voice drop again, allowing a hint of the disdain he felt for them all seep into his voice.

“Now look at you. Harewood has evicted you, turned the keys of our theatre over to the blasted hedge-wizard’s group of amateurs. What did you do? You let him do it. You turned over, dropped your drawers and begged him to be gentle. Now you’re cowering here in your comfortable little inn, playing for labourers and carpenters, instead of noblemen and kings. Look at you.”

He slapped the table again.

“If this is what you want to be, I want nothing more to do with you. But I do want that theatre. If I have to, I’ll take the damned thing apart myself, you hear? Those who want to become men again, the Men, Pemberley’s Men, you can meet me outside.”

As he turned to leave, he heard a bellow from behind him. He turned to see Burbanks, red in the face, rush towards him. Chris raised his hands, feeling the fae blood he had tattooed on his palms that morning warm as he prepared to use it. To his surprise, Burbanks reached him and hugged him, slapping him on the back. The big man pushed him away, holding him at arms length, and Chris saw that there were tears in his eyes.

“Glorious!” Burbanks said. “Absolutely glorious.”

Chris looked behind him, saw that the rest of them were applauding him!

“Bravo! A magnificent performance. I didn’t know you had it in you. You were made for the stage, my dear boy!”

They all crowed around now, slapping him on the back. Dora wrapped her arms around him and kissed him soundly, while Darius Hellabore kissed him on both cheeks, tears streaming down his cheeks. They’re insane, Chris thought. Every last one of them.