Hope & Fury (Heroes & Demons Book 2)

It was too hot and dry a country for dew but by the time Sandy woke in the morning, she wouldn’t have been surprised to find it clinging to the scrub brushes out of her bedroom window. It was post-dawn, that much was evident from the light filtering in through the shutters. Her mouth felt dry but nothing too unusual or too heavy, certainly not for a seasoned professional drinker (re semi-functional alcoholic) as herself.

She awoke in her bed or at least, the one designated to her via the Ruth AirBnB – and thankfully alone, not a lothario on site. She wouldn’t admit that she was attracted to the man but she would confess to a slight twinge down her left-hand side, enough to spark a landslide had she crossed the unspoken threshold of ‘too drunk’.

She was, however, confused to see that the next of the twin beds in the room was occupied – this time by a snoring doctor who hadn’t bothered to change out of her clothes from the night before. She lay amateurishly snoring into her pillow and would undoubtedly need a heck of a load of headache tablets in the morning.

Sandy was not cruel, and so headed to the small en-suite, poured a glass of water and put it on the side table next to her sleeping friend. Allow her to awake in the morning to something relieving and refreshing – especially as the embarrassing memory of whatever it was that made her storm away and leave Andrew to their own designated bed would flood back. Sandy knew she must have been asleep by that point.

She dressed quickly and quietly, slipping out into the main communal living area and leaving Louise to her sleep. She made herself a cereal breakfast, not even wondering as to how Ruth had managed to get cheerio’s installed into the kitchen at such a remote distance. She wouldn’t be surprised to find out the coffee would be Rick’s brand and the eggs were Free Range Organic as Louise insisted. With Ruth, all things were possible.

She was still tense, even after washing away much of her potential hangover or dehydration. It wound through her shoulders and she knew where it came from – the feeling of waiting never sat well with her. So in response, she did what she always did – moved out. Only for a walk down to the small hamlet again, before the morning sun began to beat down hard and make such a stroll untenable.

Turning left out of the gate she walked promptly down the main path, though it wasn’t particularly far and she was not a particularly sedate walker. After five minutes she’d reached the hamlet which had been strangely transformed from the night before. Where it was before desolate and quiet, now it was bustling with market stalls and people. Noises crashed from all directions, people moved with the directness of drunken bees, sights, sounds and smells were all around.

“They have them once a week,” a voice floated to her from the side of the road. Tomas sitting on the rock wall, eating an apple. “Do you like markets?”

“Do you own anything with sleeves?” she asked him, ignoring his questions with purpose. He grinned and she relented a little. “My dad used to make us go to the farmer’s markets every second Sunday of the month.”

“Then,” he began, stepping down from the wall, “may you allow a guide to show you the wonders of this one? I don’t get to Malta as often as I’d like, but when I do it’s always good to come on market day.”

She agreed and found herself not disliking his company. He guided her through the various stalls, they talked about the different fruits and veg which she’d not seen before and had no basis for. Sometimes they knew him and cries of ‘Tomas!’ were met with wet kisses to both cheeks and a brief accented discussion in English – with the occasional Maltese or Spanish word thrown in for good measure. He seemed at his element.

At first, though it had seemed so enclosed she began to realise when she was actually amongst the throngs of people there was a delicate balance. It was not like the push-and-shove mentality of a British market, in which it was survival of the thrust-iest and coming out alive, let alone with your shopping, was not a guarantee. The movements of people were with thought and purpose, allowing people to pass and move with relative ease.

At the centre was a fish stall which despite the leviathan looking beasts on it seemed to be extremely popular. She was in the middle of asking what a particular weird blob of flat-fish was when she felt it. The hackles on the back of her neck beginning to rise, some instinctual feeling of danger. Nothing could be seen, not in front of her, not around. There were the normal people, the people she’d been walking past the entire time – young, old, some tourists, and most locals.

As the hairs continued to raise goose-bumps across her arms despite the already close heat of the morning and the market she suddenly realised where it came from. The feeling of electricity. She yelled, unsure what she yelled, and pushed Tomas over, leaping back from the spot she was standing in split seconds before the danger materialised.

A stream of lightning, the electrification of the air – a violent snap of electrons – streaked past where she was standing only seconds ago and struck the blob of flatfish directly in its monstrous face. By the time she’d landed hard on her backside, the fish had exploded, along with half of the fish stand – sending streaming bits of rapidly cooked flesh through the air along with bits of polystyrene box. She felt a particularly wet slap against her leg and pulled the bit of what she hoped was squid off her, flinging it to the dusty ground.

The fishmonger had likewise managed to hit the deck and so remained unharmed. He bolted, as did many of the people in the market, as Sandy climbed to her feet and faced her known attacker.

“Why couldn’t they leave you dead?” she asked as the crowds thinned and Stacey became visible. Tomas, still dumbstruck, watched the scene playing out from his spot on the ground, now sat and highly confused.

“Miss me?” she grinned, as though they were old friends. She smoothed the lines of her black BioSuit and waited for her response.

“What do you want Stacey?” Sandy snapped at her, feeling inside herself for the growing burning feeling, “Just to have your arse handed to you again?”

“Oh, this isn’t like last time,” Stacey assured her confidently, “I mean, Janet got the ball rolling but she was just the warm-up act. Vetis, he knows what he’s doing. Soon things will be right back on track.”

“Vetis?”

“Wait, let me stand here and tell you all about our organisation,” Stacey snapped sarcastically, “Or...”

Sandy heard the roar of the engine and without having to look, turned, dragged Tomas to his feet and threw them over the remains of the fish stall. They landed hard on the ground that was simultaneously mushy and sandy – only to the shrieking splintering of the other stalls. The jeep screeched to a stop, Sandy leapt to her feet soon enough to see a cackling Stacey clinging onto the car doorway, relishing her moment before it tore through the remainder of the market and towards the main road.

“Go, tell the others the New Order are here,” she barked the order at Tomas who nodded, still shell shocked. She felt mildly vindicated from her earlier being a dick to him and so added, “Have you got that?”

“New Order, got it,” he agreed. “What are you going to do?”

“Something stupid.”