Bound by Alan Baxter Page B

tell you.’
    Alex turned back to the door, took a deep breath. ‘You coming in?’
    ‘No, I’ll make him suspicious. I’ll be right here. If things turn ugly, I’ll help if I can.’
    Alex nodded and rapped on the door. After a moment he knocked on one glass panel of the window and called out, ‘Peacock, open up. It’s me.’ He felt reluctant to yell out his name. He wondered briefly about cameras but quickly put the thought out of his mind. He hadn’t seen any before in the shop and it seemed unlikely Peacock would have technology along with all the magical countermeasures he had in place. It wouldn’t hurt to check once inside, but the truth was he didn’t care. Something nagged at the back of his mind. Why don’t I care?
    The curtain at the back shifted and Peacock shuffled nervously into the shop. ‘What do you want?’ he called out, voice betraying his fear.
    ‘We need to talk, Peacock.’
    ‘Welby?’
    Alex decided honesty was the best policy. ‘Dead. Thanks to you. Me too, nearly.’
    ‘Nearly? You faced my gargoyles?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘I wondered why they weren’t back yet.’
    Alex laughed without humour. ‘They aren’t coming.’
    Peacock shook his head, eyes downcast. ‘Bloody hell.’ He looked up sharply. ‘You have any idea what it costs to bind gargoyles?’
    Alex was stunned. With everything else happening this old fuck was complaining about cost? ‘You have any idea how little I care about that? Call it a fee for killing Welby.’
    Peacock waved his hands. ‘Stop yelling that stuff in the street, boy! What’s wrong with you?’
    Alex pounded on the window. ‘Open the fucking door then. We need to talk.’
    Peacock retreated, shaking his head. ‘No. Not a chance. You’re not here to talk. You still have my book and I can’t get it back, can I? And you destroyed my gargoyles. I’m calling it quits right here. I fold. Go away.’
    A red rage swelled up in Alex’s chest. The stone and book vibrated in harmony with each other, crying out for Peacock’s death. With a roar of fury Alex lifted his knee and hammered out a kick at the shop door, letting the power of the Darak flow through him. The door exploded in a shower of wood shards and splinters. He heard Silhouette gasp, out of sight somewhere beside him.
    Peacock squealed like a child and hurried towards the curtain. Alex felt the wards popping up as the despicable little man ran, shadowy films of magic swelling into existence. He dropped his own shields completely, let his presence, his own magic, flood out. He opened his vision and saw every ward and drove his ’sign, his very will, into all the gaps between them. As he strode into the shop, Peacock’s shields flexed and burst, colours and shades popping and spinning away. Peacock cried out, diving through the curtain.
    Alex ripped the curtain away in time to see Peacock stand up behind his desk, the malevolent anodised steel of a revolver rising up with him.
    Alex watched the colours, calm, collected. He focused his rage and let it merge with the stone against his chest. He could see everything, every intent. Peacock began pumping the trigger of the pistol, the gunshots deafening in the enclosed space. Alex ducked and turned, moving more quickly than Peacock could adjust his aim. The little man managed to squeeze off four shots as Alex covered the space between the ruined curtain and the desk. He felt the heat of each shot passing, but knew none would touch him.
    He slapped the gun aside. As Peacock whimpered, his mouth flapping almost silently, Alex put one palm behind the old man’s head. He raised his other hand and drove iron-hard fingers through Peacock’s eyes. The hot warmth of grey matter and blood burst over his hand and he stepped aside to avoid the gout of gore as he pulled his fingers free. Peacock slumped, his head bounced once off the corner of his desk with a sick crack, and he rolled to the floor on his back. Dark, thick blood and brains oozed from the