‘Which way?’
Finrig looked around at the blackened walls. ‘To a finer house than this, that’s for sure. Might even get some loot out of it, once we’ve wiped our blades,’ he grunted with a grin.
The murmuring of eager anticipation that followed would have chilled any bone in your body, and sent your soul scarpering, had you been unfortunate enough to witness it. The Wit sheathed his knife and pointed to the door. ‘Let’s get to it,’ he barked, and the Fingers did his bidding with a will.
TRIGGER FINGER
‘The fucking Wit. Of all Fae, Sift sent him, and his Black Fingers, all twelve of them. They stepped right out of the bushes at the foot of the tower, as if they were out for a stroll. It was a miracle they weren’t seen. I thought I would have to fight my way out, but Sift had sent him with an offer—an offer of truce if I handed back the Hoard. I couldn’t tell him I had given it away, especially not to Karrigan. They threatened to cut Merion’s throat if I didn’t. And mine. Roots damn it! After all these years!’
6th June, 1867
H
earts are treacherous things. At times they can beat so proudly it feels as though they will burst from your ribcage at any moment. They can drum a tune to run to, or fight to, or love to. But they are not to be trusted, for every heart will skip or slump, sickeningly so, and always when you need it not to.
Merion cursed his quietly as he stood, dripping, on the rise above the landing. His feet were numb blocks, his hair a matted, swimming mess, his clothes chafing strips of cloth, and his legs dead and buried. But his heart was the true criminal, slinking away, deeper into his chest, purged of all vim and vigour.
The riverboat sparkled through the thick curtains of pouring rain. A hundred lights glittered along its side, yellow, white, some even red. Smoke scattered from a half-dozen chimneys, chased by the storm. She looked altogether too awake for Merion’s liking.
Merion gripped his gun as tightly as his numb fingers would allow, and gritted his teeth. He stirred up every dark thought, every desperate mental cry, every flash of emotion he had borne to that muddy rise, and brought them to the boil again. He felt the heat spread from his face to his chest. Slowly his heart began to lurch and obey. Slowly his blood began to simmer again. Lurker had told him that boiling blood was a fine thing every once in a while, and that time was now. The young Hark bared his teeth and set off down the hill, keeping his gun low and slightly behind him. Two hooded figures stood at the riverboat’s gangplank, guns on their shoulders, and looking entirely too miserable. Merion racked his brains as he marched through the mud, as the lightning flickered around him, bleaching the night into terrible starkness.
They had seen him. He was only a hundred yards away now. Even the rain couldn’t hide him in the orange glow of the riverboat. Merion slipped the vial of ox blood from his pocket and set the glass to his lips. He could smell the copper stinging his nostrils as he flicked his head back and drank it down, putting the red in his belly. The vial was thrown to the mud and crushed underneath his shoes as he marched.
Confidence was his ploy, he had decided somewhere about halfway down the hill. That, and the innocence of youth. Merion pasted a sad and desolate look on his pale, rain-streaked face as he approached the two men. They were already signalling him to halt. One had raised his rifle. Merion kept the Mistress out of sight, carefully turning it around so he could hold her by the barrel.
Twenty yards now, and already he could feel the hot blood coursing through his veins. Now his heart wanted to thunder, that was for sure. He had to strain hard to keep it from bursting into pieces. As the blood entered his skull his vision swam, and for a split second he faltered, almost tumbling into the mud.
‘Stop there, I said!’ shouted one of the lordsguards over the hammering of the rain. He was peering out from under his hood, trying to get a gauge on this bedraggled wastrel.
Was it just a boy, just a young lad?
Merion held himself hard against the magick as it yanked at every fibre in his scrawny body. This shade was strong indeed, but then again, oxen do have a reputation for strength.
The lordsguard was now jogging to meet him, holding his hands up. ‘Just hold it there! Damn it, boy. What are you doing out here in the—Ooof!’
Merion swung that gun as though he were trying to shake off a tiger. The handle caught the man square in the jaw, and Merion winced at the wet, squelching
crack
he heard as most of the guard’s teeth were ripped free of their sockets. The lordsguard flew backwards and collided heavily with his awestruck comrade. There was a shocked cry, then a
bang
, and then an even louder cry as the two men landed in the mud. The second guard had shot himself in the foot, and now half of his boot was missing. Sprinting over to the man, Merion drove a fist to the side of his head, knocking him out cold. Merion grunted as his muscles screamed for more. His legs felt as though they were going to gallop off without him at any moment. He was wise to follow them.
With a grim face, and thoughts of what he had just done ricocheting around his skull, Merion marched for the gangplank. Those men probably had families to feed. Now they had lost their teeth and a foot. Merion had done that to them, and it made his teeth chatter.
‘Whatever it takes,’ he growled at himself, repeating it over and over until each syllable became a stamp of the foot. He was rushing the blood of an animal four times his size. It felt as though there was an ox trying to explode out of his own skeleton. It took everything he had to contain it.
The door shattered in two kicks, and suddenly Merion was standing inside the plush atrium of the riverboat, alone and bewildered, breathing like a locomotive at full speed.
There were no lordsguards in sight. There were no bells, no sirens, or shouts. Just the drumming of the rain on the windows and hull, and the repetitive groaning of thunder. The storm had drowned out his approach. Merion headed right, following his earlier route, though this time he had no servant to guide him.
Up the stairs and right again.
Merion found a guard at the top of the stairs. The man was already unslinging his gun from his shoulder, a curious look on his face at the sight of a bedraggled, mud-splattered boy running at him at full pelt.
‘Halt!’ he cried, just before Merion barged him into the opposite wall, breaking a picture in half and leaving a man-sized dent in the woodwork. The noise was horrendous. Shouts came from down the hall. Merion’s brain was still being overridden by the blood and his anger, but whatever they were doing, he was happy to go along. The boy grabbed the nearest thing he could find: a small table, and lifted it above his head. With a grunt, he threw it just as two guards rounded the corner. The table caught them in the faces, one after the other as it span through the air. There were more cries, and more teeth skittering over the floor. Merion gulped, but somehow he knew he had to fall a little deeper into hell, before he could climb back out.
‘Better press on,’ he growled to himself. His own voice managed to scare him.
Hearing further shouting, Merion decided to dip into the nearest room, to sneak through the inner doors until he founded that blasted, roasting sitting room the Serpeds insisted on frequenting. If they were expecting him, that’s where they would be, sitting smugly in their armchairs while his aunt was tied to hers. He would smack the bloody wine glass right out of Castor’s hand, Almighty help him.
Merion made sure to rush hard before he stepped through the door into the next room. Feet fell outside his door and clattered on, leaving him alone in the dark, ornate study he had found. The room beyond that was a little brighter—a smaller lounge with windows looking out onto the river. Merion scowled at the luxurious chairs and sparkling decanters lining the shelves.
Merion put a hand to the next door and took a breath. If he was right, this was the infernal sitting room. The door handle certainly felt warm enough. Merion put a hand to his chest and tested his magick, letting it dizzy his head. He was about halfway through, he could feel it. He would have to make this quick, whatever the hell
this
was. Raising his gun, he cocked it as quietly as he could manage. The single click of the mechanism sounded like a thunderclap. Merion put his hand on the door handle. His palms were slick with sweat and his fingers shook. A twist and a push, such a simple movement for all the weight and danger it carried.
The light inside the room was hot and blinding. Every candle shone, every lantern blazed, and the fire crackled defiantly in its place. Merion blinked as he strode into the room, waving his gun in wide sweeps until his eyes adjusted.
‘I’m insulted,’ said a voice, rasping like a file. Unmistakeable. Merion rubbed the stars away from his eyes and saw Castor standing near another door, Gile in tow, and grinning gold as always. Castor wore a venomous glare. ‘To bring a gun into my house. How positively common of you. Can we not settle this like gentlemen?’ he asked, raising open hands.
Merion could taste the poison in his tone. He shook his head, disgusted. ‘Gentlemen do not play sadistic little games,’ he growled, waving his gun between the two of them. His finger ran along the trigger, itching and yet cowardly at the same time. The blood raged, urging him on, begging him to rip their arms from their sockets, but something held him back. ‘And lords don’t dirty their hands with kidnapping. It seems you are neither, Serped. You should be ashamed of yourself,’ spat the boy.
Castor was unarmed, as far as Merion could tell. There was no gun at his hip, no dangerous bulge hiding under the folds of his perfectly tailored dinner suit. Gile was half-hidden behind his lord, arms crossed and twiddling his fingers, waiting for something.
Castor looked as though he were eager to get this over with. ‘Have you heard the saying “All’s fair in war and business”?’ he asked.
‘Where is my aunt, Castor?’ Merion cut to the chase.
Lord Serped sneered. ‘Waiting for you to save her, Hark.’
Merion was trying. ‘Then give her to me,’ he said. ‘No more men need to have their faces broken tonight.’
‘Her release is not conditional on how many jaws you break, Hark,’ Castor snapped. He reached inside his pocket and dragged out a tightly rolled scroll of papers. ‘Sign your estate over to me, and she will be yours to take.’
‘And if I don’t?’ Merion had to ask.
Something hungry twinkled in Castor’s eyes. ‘Then Mister Gile here,’ he gestured to his associate, who had the sick audacity to wink, ‘would be happy to help you stuff her broken body into a barrel and shove it overboard. Wouldn’t you, Mister Gile?’
‘More than happy, your lordship,’ Gile breathed.
Merion lurched forwards, spit flying from his bared teeth and his gun pointing straight at Castor’s forehead. ‘I will shoot you, if I have to. Make no mistake about it. Don’t push me …’ Merion threatened, still wondering whether he could or not.
Castor cut him off with an unnerving laugh. And there it was, the difference between man and boy, carved in the air between them. Merion was rash and angry and hot, Serped calm and devious. That laugh rattled the young Hark deeply, blood or no blood. He felt the tremor in his hand, tried to stop it creeping to the muzzle. Castor and Gile were already smirking. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
As Merion tried to rush his blood back into a frenzy, Castor walked around him to erode his authority. Merion tried to keep the gun on him, but Gile was already creeping forwards, fingers delving into his coat, his strange eyes narrowed.
‘What did you think would happen here tonight, Merion? You thought bringing a gun and a handful of vials to my door would break me, did you not? You thought you could save your aunt with force, with intimidation, with a little spark and gunpowder, am I correct? Thought Mister Gile and I would just capitulate, fall to our knees with a few harsh words, is that it? Pah!’ Castor sneered, the very definition of belittlement. ‘You have no idea of the hands working behind the scenes, or the power they wield. This is not about you, or I, but about the Empire. If some must die for the preservation of the many, then so be it. This isn’t one of your fairy tales, boy. There are no happy endings here for y—’
Nobody was more surprised by the gunshot than Merion. He had to look, just to make sure he had fired the bullet. There it was: his own finger was wrapped tightly around the trigger, holding it against the wall of its tiny metal cage. Merion’s mouth hung agape. His traitorous heart slunk away into his chest. His legs began to wobble.
Gile was dumbfounded. All he could do was hold Castor as the lord fell back, a horrible, twisted grimace on his face and a hand clamped tightly to his chest. Blood seeped from between his white fingers.
‘You bastard, Hark!’ Castor cried, between tight lips. ‘You fucking bastard.’
Merion could do nothing but croak and gag at the smell of gunpowder pouring from his gun. He wanted to see it fall to the floor and be done with the horrid, murderous thing. But his finger would not let go. Something inside Merion held on, something ruthless and daring—the very same something that had pulled the trigger just a few short moments ago.
‘Aagh!’ shouted Lord Serped as Gile dragged him to a nearby armchair. Suffrous had turned a bright shade of red, a crimson storm cloud brewing in his cheeks. His hands were shaking too. Castor was already pointing at Merion with a crooked finger. ‘Get that boy! I want him tied up next to his aunt. And I want a bloody doctor too, Gile!’ he screeched.
Merion darted for the door as Gile reached inside his charcoal coat. Though not for blood; that would be too slow, even for a man like him. He reached for a gun instead, a stubby, six-barrelled pistol with hammers that curved like claws. Gile moved like lightning, and as Merion wrenched open the door, the gun began to thunder. Merion dove headlong for the safety of the corridor. Bullets burst through the door, ending in explosions of splinters and varnish. One after the other, they pounded a viciously neat line into the wood. Several zipped through his clothes without a scratch, but the very last clipped his ear, and sent him sprawling on the floor in a shower of blood.