Shrike (Book 2): Rampant by Emmie Mears Read Free Book Online Page A

passes, and by ten after the hour, I tap my hand on my hip, first slowly and then faster.
    Then I freeze, recognising the gesture. Rosamund Granger's son Andrew, driven to madness by his family's cause, used to flap his hand like that. I scrape my palm down my thigh as if I can erase any vestiges of that memory, of seeing Andrew's brains spread out over green marble.
    "Sorry I'm late, Gwen." David's voice makes me jump, a low rumble that perfectly fits his giant physique. 
    "Och, it's fine." I try to give him a smile, turning to face him.
    "You don't look fine."
    I shrug, shifting my shoulders. "It's been a bit of a long…year." 
    "You're not wrong." He shifts his feet on the pavement. "I have to be honest, Gwen, I almost rang you to cancel."
    I do a double take as he unlocks the gym door. "Do you have somewhere you need to be?"
    "I heard you visited Ross today."
    How he heard, I don't know. I stop just inside the door, leaning my umbrella against the glass window that frames the entry. Water pools underneath it. 
    "I did," I say carefully.
    "I know you're his mate." For a moment, I think David's going to say more, but he stops there.
    I should tell him what Ross said today, but I can't bring myself to mention it. Even if they did go out a few times, I'm not one to make assumptions about their relationship, and Ross's words still hang in my mind. I can't tell David that Ross didn't do it when I'm not even sure myself that he didn't. 
    It makes me feel like a terrible mate, not to believe implicitly in Ross's innocence. 
    David and I both look at our feet for a moment, and I don't confirm or deny his statement. The moment feels heavy and thick like fog in the dead of winter. After a long pause where I suck in all the air my lungs will hold, David claps his hands together.
    "Right, then. Let's get started."
    Punching things ought to help.
    Two hours later, I'm covered in sweat and have just broken my record on the bench press. I'm up to eight hundred pounds now, and even though I know David's been waiting for this, his high five feels a little subdued.
    "We're on for Thursday, aye?" I ask him, towelling the perspiration from my forehead and blinking a drop of sweat from my eye. It stings.
    David nods. "I'll be finishing up with Taog at six-thirty if you want to come a wee bit earlier."
    I drop my towel on the floor. "Taog? He's training with you?"
    David blinks at me as I bend to retrieve the towel. "I thought you knew. He's been coming for a few weeks now."
    No wonder he's looked so exhausted. Still, I wonder why Taog's not said anything about it. I leave David with the assurance that I'll come earlier Thursday and make my way home.
    Halfway there I see another stencilled shrike with a number. Eight this time. I photograph it and add the pin to my map.
    I might have found my bat signal.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    six
     
    The only major downside of my promotion is that I get stuck at business happy hours with people who grossly outclass me. This Wednesday is no different, and I find myself wishing for the veil of cloying cigarette smoke that used to exist in pubs and lounges, if for no other reason than that I fancy the image of me fading silently into the background while they all smoke and talk mergers of billion dollar companies as if they're suggesting they team up with their best mate to have a car boot sale and earn some pocket money.
    Sandwiched between two Eton alumni, I sip at my martini, counting down seconds until I can leave. 
    My boss, Francis Duck, nods at me from across the lounge. He's a lithe man in his late 50s with a full head of steel-coloured hair and a hint of a double chin that contradicts the rest of his physique. After a moment, he turns back to the CEO of a start-up tech company. I pretend I'm listening to the man and woman who flank me, but they're talking about polo, and the closest familiarity I have with the sport is knowing that it spawned a style of shirt.
    I