Bloodrush (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 1) (59 page)

‘You’ve got your gold. We had a deal and it’s done. I need to find Merion,’ Rhin spluttered.

Finrig tutted. Rhin felt the Fingers closing in around him. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Finrig said with a shrug.

Rhin struggled against the strong grip of two black-clad faeries. ‘You swore you’d leave Merion alone!’

‘And I will. It’s you I want. As a prize for Queen Sift.’

‘You backstabbing fuck!’ Rhin yelled, showering spittle on Finrig’s face. The Wit took a moment to grimace and wipe the mess from his face, leaving Rhin to struggle and strain.

‘A hoard like that won’t satisfy our good Queen, but your head might, and that means I get to keep mine where it is.’

Rhin was turning blue. ‘I’ll cut it off myself if you don’t let me go!’

Finrig waved a hand dismissively. ‘You are in no place to be giving orders, Rhin. We leave tonight, once Baelh is finished.’

‘Half-done, Wit!’ came a shout from the door.

‘There, see?’ Finrig patted Rhin on the cheek. ‘We’ll be leaving very soon. Want to get an early start. It’s a long journey back to London.’

Rhin panted like a racehorse. His blood veritably boiled with outrage and panic. He could not leave Merion to those monsters. Not now. Not after all he had done to the boy already. Something inside of him, he did not know what or where, snapped. And it snapped hard. Rhin rammed his forehead into the nose of the nearest faerie, and used his crumpling weight to throw the other over his shoulder. The Wit already had his blade free, but Rhin was closer, and faster. He whipped his sword up so that the flat rested underneath Finrig’s chin.

‘I honour my bargains,’ Rhin spat in his face. ‘You honour yours. You leave alright, but you leave without me. On that condition I spare you.’

The Wit held up his hands and dropped the knife he had been spinning between his fingers. ‘Alright, Rehn’ar,’ he said, ‘you win. See him out, boys.’

The Fingers cleared a path to the door and beyond. Rhin tasted freedom in the hot, muggy breeze. He used his sword to steer Finrig out of the barn, away from its terrible machines and out into the night. Baelh was almost done; the pile of gold was shrinking down, coin by coin.

‘Off you go, Rhin, before it’s too late,’ the Wit spat.

Rhin drew a bloody line under his chin. He didn’t flinch. ‘If I see you again, I’ll kill you,’ he threatened.

The Wit just smiled. ‘We’ll see.’

And then Rhin ran. He ran as if hounds were chasing him. His wings powered his long, loping strides. His sword flashed in the lights of the town as it swung by his side. He had to get back to the house before it was too late, whatever in hell
it
was. Rhin only knew one thing. He had to get to Lilain.

OF CLEVER BEASTS

‘That damn boy, leaving the door unlocked. Maid almost walked in while I was showing him how to use a sword. Damn it if he hasn’t got a tongue though. He convinced the old woman he was practising his waltz. Gods love him. I never thought I would count a human as a close friend. Roots, as my only friend.’

6th June, 1867

B
reathless, the faerie sprinted. He could run for hours. He could run for days. He could probably run for weeks, and yet this handful of miles between the barn and the Runnels dragged and stretched and crawled past no matter how hard his wiry legs pounded the sand, no matter how hard his wings heaved and thrust him forward, no matter how many boulders he bounded or corners he whittled down. He kept his eyes on the house and its cheap yellow lights. Each glowing pinprick wore a sleepy aura in the rising mist. Rhin hung onto their paltry glow as if they were ropes to haul himself forwards on. The back yard was quiet and dark.

Words were nowhere to be found, neither on his tongue nor in his throat. He had hoped a few might have materialised by now, but all he tasted was dust instead, and the constant, cold vanguard of the storm. He could hear its rumbling in the distance, testing its voice for the evening’s performance. Rhin rumbled also, clearing his throat of the sand and dry spit, and tested his own voice on the shadows.

‘Lilain …’ he whispered with a wince. ‘It’s about Merion.’

‘Merion’s in trouble.’

‘I’m a friend of …’ Rhin wondered whether that was too much of a lie.

‘This is going to sound strange, but … shit,’ Rhin wrung his hands. ‘It’s all gone to shit!’

With that cry, a chill of fear and failure swept through him like a winter river bursting its banks. It nearly floored him, driving his hands to his stomach and his chin into his chest. He felt sick, and yet all he had to vomit was a strangled sob. Rhin spat his frustration on the floor and forced himself forwards towards the doorstep. This night was not over yet.

The kitchen was dark at its edges, the candle in the window, old and withered. Battered pans sat like battlements along the countertops, stubborn suds still clinging to their lips. The table was strewn with old paper and cloths. Spotless vials hung upside-down to dry on little spikes. Worried hands always find tasks to busy themselves with. There was no sign of Merion’s aunt at the table, nor in the hallway. Merion’s door was dark and no lantern hung outside in the road. Only a dim sliver of orange light crept out from under the basement door. Rhin took a breath. Why was he so scared? He had just robbed a human locomotive, for Roots’ sake.

‘And look how well that went …’ he muttered to himself.

The door inched open with a loud creak, and Rhin had to fight to hold back his invisibility, second-nature to him as it was. This all felt tospy-turvy, to be prowling in full and open view. Even in the hallways of Harker Sheer, Rhin had always crept unseen. But now here he was, on his way to break another promise, to reveal himself to Lilain, a letter no less, with his blood on her brain. He would have to be quick with his words instead of his magick for once. And still his tongue felt like sandpaper.

Perhaps it was the faerie’s fear that distracted him, or his task, or just the simple fact he was not used to throwing a shadow. Fae magick wrapped light around itself. Shadows become obsolete with practise. As Rhin strode deeper into the room, and past a little candle sitting on the bottom step, his shadow crept with him, splayed on the wall, all haggard and monstrous. Had his eyes not been glued to the empty shadows at the end of the wall, he might have noticed. He also might have noticed the heavy blanket, the sandbags, the ropes, maybe even the huddled figure hiding between two bodies, waiting for just such a shadow to come creeping down her stairs.

*

The first thing Rhin noticed was the pain in his head. If felt as though a swarm of wasps churned between his ears. He could feel their wings and jaws scraping the meat from the inside of his skull. The second thing he noticed was his inability to move. Something cold and tough was wrapped around his wrists and ankles, even his waist. His muscles flared but he could not feel them move. The third thing was the fingers probing his bare stomach and pinching his legs. These were the coldest of all, and with every prod came a little mutter.

‘And to think, you’ve been here all along,’ somebody said.

Was he in Sift’s dungeons? Was he in the corner of a rail car, with the Wit standing over him? Was he still in that rhododendron, half-dead and bleeding, dreaming this whole life up? Something sharp tested the back of his hand, and his eyes snapped open. He saw a wooden roof painted orange by a dozen candles. A shadow that was not his, jagged and bony, danced across it. Somebody was tinkering with something down by his waist. He tried to lift his head but found a strap of wire across his forehead, pressing deep into his skin.

‘Lilain,’ Rhin croaked.

There was a clearing of a clenched and excitable throat, and then:

‘It speaks. Apparently in the common too.’

Rhin heard a scratching of a nib on paper.
She was taking notes!
The scratching was a little more frantic than necessary. Something in her handwriting was excited and nervous.

‘I’m not here so you can bleed me, woman, I’m here about Merion!’

Silence. Rhin felt her fingers upon him again. She had removed his armour; that was clear. He could feel her clammy hands on his legs, his hips. It made him squirm to feel such foreign fingers upon his skin. Faeries do not like to be touched, especially by humans.

Rhin tried again. ‘I know you’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time, Lilain, but it is not the right time! Merion’s in trouble!’

‘Has a deep understanding of the language. Voice, deep. Accent, slight. Unknown origin. Attempting to gain freedom with emotional response. Clever beast.’

‘Woman, listen to me! I went to the Serped barn. They bleed people dry with these machines of theirs! Merion is in danger and you have to help me!’

The probing fingers retreated, shaking a little. A little worry mixed with the excitement.

‘Faeries are well known for their trickery,’ said Lilain. Rhin could see her shadow fall away from the table.
Was she speaking to him, or still stubbornly taking notes?

‘Yes, we are,’ Rhin said. No point lying about it now. ‘And for our lies, and our games, but we are also known for our loyalty.’ That was less true, but at this moment, he would chance anything to save that boy. He sighed. ‘And Tonmerion Hark is the finest friend I’ve ever known. He may not feel the exact same way at the moment, but if he’s in danger, he must be protected. That’s all I have ever tried to do.’

Lilain did not answer for what felt like an age. She just stood there, peering down at her prize and wondering whether it should be picked apart or let loose. The latter would crush her of course, but not as much as the death of her nephew. Lilain sighed, and reached for the ties around his arms, but not his legs. Rhin instantly sat up, but a wave of dizziness knocked him back down again. He rubbed his swimming eyes and contemplated retching.

‘It’s the chloroform. It will wear off soon,’ she said.

That explained the throbbing in his head. A quick glance behind his captor, at the pile of sandbags lying in the dust, explained the rest. ‘A little clichéd, isn’t it?’ he mumbled.

‘Got a sharp tongue, haven’t you?’ asked Lilain, now wielding both a pen and a scalpel. The scalpel ventured closer than the pen.

‘And you’ve got a sharper blade. Care to put that away?’ Rhin pointed at the scalpel. He could already feel the burn from the little wounds on his legs where it had already kissed him. Rhin felt naked without his armour on. In truth, he pretty much was naked. Only a single strip of cloth protected his dignity.

‘Until I know what’s going on here, it’ll stay out,’ Lilain raised her chin. ‘From the top, faerie, before I change my mind and see what colour your blood runs.’

*

The trail was dark and wreathed in curling fingers of rising mist. Merion kicked at every single stone and shrub he came across on the path to the muddled lights of the town. He had left the riverboat alone and on foot, with barely more than a nod to the lordsguards at the dock. Something rumbled in the distance, as if the starless night was hungry. Merion didn’t care for it; he had his own emotions to churn and stew.

Disappointment.

Anger.

Disgust.

Sorrow.

He tasted them all. Each burnt him, in their own strange ways, and yet he relished how they flared and rushed, how they made him sweat and clench, or twitch and ache. He used every scrap of emotion the Serpeds had given him and channelled it. Into what, he did not yet know, but he held a slight suspicion it might salvage his night somewhat. His hopes might have been dashed on rocks, but even rocks are bitten away by time.

The shock got to him more than anything. Shock that Castor would ask such a thing. That he would be so bold as to ask the highest price for a ticket home. That he would play such an intricate game to win his prize. It had been cold business, and that cut him even deeper. Part of him had hoped he would call Castor’s bluff by leaving, if there was any to call. Another part imagined Calidae running after him, begging him to reconsider. With every step he took, those scenarios dwindled away to nothing.