Bloodmoon (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 2) (20 page)

Merion nodded. ‘Rumours are viruses; that’s what my father used to say. And I don’t want to infect his name with them. But anyway, what would they know of politics, or Dizali? Better just to say I’m going home.’

‘Never underestimate anybody, Merion, that’s what I say. But I get you. It’s unlikely to be a problem. So I’ll leave it to you, as this was your idea.’ She was using that voice of hers, when she was trying to be friendly. He knew exactly why. Since Fell Falls, change had pulled at her too. She had kept her word about trying to be calmer, just as he had kept to doing what she asked. Most of all, his aunt now listened to him, even trusted in him. Maybe she too saw his childhood as a burning mess, long past saving, and respected that.

Merion reached out and patted her on the shoulder, an awkward touch, if it had to be said. ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Now, why didn’t you tell me about the Bloodmoon?’

Lilain waved a hand. ‘I know, I know. I’m just worried about you wading too deep into this world. It’s dangerous, and I’ve seen it lead men and women aplenty down dark paths. It can consume you as much as you consume it, Nephew, and I don’t want that for you.’

Merion stuck out his chin. ‘What if I wanted it? Or my father wanted it for me?’

Lilain bit her lip. ‘Then I would let you go your own way,’

‘Correct answer,’ Merion snapped, and then flashed her a grin when she glowered. ‘I’ll be careful, Aunt.’

His aunt rolled her eyes. ‘You’re spendin’ too much time around that darned prospector,’ she muttered.

‘What now?’ Lurker grunted.

Lilain tutted. ‘So what did they tell you about the Bloodmoon?’

‘They told me about how it’s a great party, and how the blood-red moon increases our magick, just for one night,’ Merion reeled off the others’ words.

Lilain shrugged. ‘And did they tell you how it started?’

Merion nodded. ‘As a celebration of the old hunts. Rushers have been doing it for centuries.’

‘True enough,’ she said, ‘but it’s much older than that, my good nephew, much older.’

‘Do tell,’ Merion urged her on.

‘It was originally a lamprey festival of blood-drinking. Entire families would be sacrificed, or a whole household of slaves, just to fill the pitchers at the party. Debauched doesn’t even cover it. It stretches back beyond the First Empire, to the olden days, when drinkin’ the blood of your fellow man was considered high society. They started the festival, and it’s survived ever since. You rushers just made it your own,’ she waxed historical. ‘Used to call it the Night of the Leech, during the Age of Enlightenment.’

Merion looked pleased. ‘Did they now?’

Lilain nodded. ‘Now it’s just the Bloodmoon.’

‘Makes sense, if leeches began to die out,’ Merion mused. He then snapped his fingers. ‘Before I forget, where’s Rhin?’

‘Safe under Lurker’s hat still. Been asleep all day, healing. I think he’ll be as right as rain by tomorrow.’

‘I want to steal a few hours with him if I can.’

‘Better keep him a secret for now, until we know we can trust them. At least until I speak to their letters.’

Merion cleared his throat. ‘Agreed. Ugh. Well that’s another conversation I have to have with Yara.’

Lilain frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Merion counted it off on his fingers. ‘Yara, I didn’t say, but I’m also a leech, and also, I’ve brought a faerie with me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she dumps us by the roadside, if only out of pure shock.’

‘She won’t. They seem pretty keen to have more rushers along, if only for a while.’

‘Maybe I’ll spread it out …’ Merion hummed to himself.

Lilain snorted. ‘I think that would be wise, Merion. I think that would be wise.’

PRIDE

29th June, 1867

T
he day had held nothing but sunshine and sewer-stink. Say one thing for the grandness of London: for all its lofty marble heights and glittering glass, it stank like any other city in the summer. Today however, was worse than usual. A sewer workers’ strike, from what the paperboys were yelling. All the vileness of the population had crept out of the drains and come to visit its makers.

There is something indiscriminate about excrement, something that brings a balance. No matter who you are, prince or pauper, everybody’s cheeks meet the cold porcelain of the chamber pot. The sewage baking in the streets was the evidence of that. Velvet-clad traders, frock-wearing ladies, kingly lords strutting about—they all had shit on their shoes like everybody else.

Gunderton lingered by a stall selling sweetcakes and greasy mutton sandwiches, letting the sweet smells replace the stink in his nose for a moment. The stall owner prattled on about fine ingredients and cheaper prices than “him over there”, but he wasn’t listening. He stood still and stoic, his hood casting a darkness over half his face, and his bushy beard taking care of the rest. It itched something awful in the heat. Part of him longed to rip it out with his calloused fingers, but he held back. Disguises are not things to be dropped, never for a moment. Gunderton was waiting for somebody, and fortunately for him, that somebody was as predictable as the ticking of his old battered watch, which lingered somewhere under his cloak and grubby waistcoat.

Six o’clock, and there he is: Mr Witchazel, bouncing down the steps, his polished shoes slapping the stone. He was headed south, and briskly too.

Leaving the stand-owner to his badmouthing, Gunderton began to shadow the man, slipping along the street behind him and doing his best to avoid the smears and reeking puddles amidst the cobbles. The street cleaners had done what they could, but it never hurt a little to remind the upper classes why they were needed.

Gunderton did not care one bit. A month or two of living in the London docks could soon alter your perception about where shit should and could end up. His sturdy boots clomped across the cobbles, keeping pace.

Where are you going, Witchazel?
Gunderton mused. The lawyer was headed south down the arrow-straight path of the Queensgate, leading away from Jekyll Park. He should have been heading east, to Convent and his townhouse, which was guarded and safe. It would be dark soon, and darkness hides all manner of things.

Gunderton looked back along the street, eyeing the growing sea of people. His gaze hopped about through the crowds, gauging expressions and intentions.
There.
A few men huddled together, walking close, their eyes collectively fixed on something ahead of them. Their hats were tilted low, suits and coats grey and nondescript. Gunderton caught a glimpse of the marks on the hands that swung purposefully by their sides: symbols tattooed in greying ink. Even from across the street, he knew what they meant.

In his pockets, his fingers caressed the fraying leather handle of his favourite knife. His hand felt right at home with the cold steel wrapping around his knuckles.

‘This is why I told you to leave, you silly bastard,’ Gunderton grumbled, stepping off the kerb and waiting for a carriage to rattle by. Some coat of arms or another was painted on its door, but Gunderton paid it no heed. ‘What have you gotten yourself into?’ he whispered to himself between gritted teeth.

He slipped in between the three men and Witchazel. The lawyer was still utterly oblivious to the malice bearing down on him, Gunderton cast a glance over his shoulder. The men walked three abreast, making others step aside instead of folding. Women tutted and gentlemen grumbled, but they marched on without a word. Gunderton stayed a dozen paces ahead, looking for all the world like a vagrant who had stumbled onto the wrong side of the city.

Half an hour passed, filled with nothing but crafty looks and the clomping of boots. Four stalkers, one prey. Witchazel was still adamantly walking south. Wherever he was headed, it seemed important. Gunderton wished he knew. The sun was now hiding behind the mighty buildings, painting them black and the sky a burnt orange. The gaslights were just beginning to burn. It would have been beautiful on any other night. Gunderton slyly slipped the knife from his pocket.

Witchazel took a right down the Kingsroad, into quieter streets. The lawyer was aiming for the river. He took a left, then a right, leading them a merry path through the narrower streets, where the stench was at its foulest. Gunderton took longer strides to imperceptibly close the gap between himself and Witchazel. As the lawyer made yet another turn, Gunderton ducked into the shadows of a doorway on the edge of the corner.

With the blade held flat and behind his fist, he slashed the neck of the nearest man, driving on in the same swing to introduce the steel knuckles of its handle into the second man’s face. The first went down with a gurgling howl. The other fell silently, like a corpse into a grave. The third man put up a fight, furiously windmilling left and right with bloodless fists, driven by surprise and a little pinch of something else.

Gunderton recognised it immediately. He moved quickly while he still had the chance. He ducked another mad swing and sliced the blade along the inside of the man’s arm, enough to slow him. Enough for Gunderton to drive a blow into the man’s ribs with his free hand, and then head-butt him to the ground, where a boot put him out of his whimpering.

With his blade out and bloody, he ran, boots silent on the cobbles. He took a left, then a right, like a ferret through pipework, praying at every turn to catch sight of a coattail or a top hat in the gaslights glow.

He found the lawyer around the next corner, walking briskly away from him, but in plain sight, a good fifty yards away. Before Gunderton could close the distance, a carriage skidded to a whinnying halt between them. There was a shout, a scuffle, and then a slam of a door. With a crack of the whip, the horses burst into life and the carriage hurtled into the night.

No matter how fast Gunderton ran, he could not catch it. No matter how many shortcuts he took, buildings he climbed, roofs he slid down, pipes he shimmied, it always remained a street ahead. It lost him somewhere on the riverbank, in amongst the other carriages and the crowds come to gawp at the Bellspire, glowing like fire with all its lights. Gunderton slipped back into the dark shadows between the pines of the Admiralty grounds, hood up and eyes fierce.

He waited for them to come. For them to come looking for him. To bring the dogs and the lanterns. Bring the guns. For he had seen the coat of arms moulded in gold on the carriage’s backside, undisguised by the black paint that smeared its sides. He knew it well.

Gunderton waited for almost an hour, barely moving, just staring and quietly panicking, like a hooded statue to keep the trees company for a while. When nothing came for him, no dogs, no guns, he sighed, and bowed his head. Only then did he shrug off his paranoia. ‘Damn the blood,’ he cursed at the night, before entwining himself in the crowds once more.

*

‘Take the hood off his head,’ said a voice, making Witchazel flinch. He bared his teeth as they yanked the rough sack off his head and threw it to the ground.

The gaslight stung his eyes something rotten. Then the smell hit him. The same reek he had been snorting all day in the streets. And there was the tang of blood too.
That
, he admitted silently,
he had not smelled in the streets
.

It took a while for his eyes to adjust, to show him the room they had brought him to. After all the stairs and winding corridors, all the elbows and manhandling, he felt he had a right to know.

It was a stone box, nothing more, nothing less; a perfect example of a cell if ever he saw one. Grey granite walls and a few gas-flames behind cages to give them a little light.

Three men shared the room with him, two standing on either side, and one sitting in front of him on a high chair. Perhaps it was the sheer bulging musculature of the two men who stood to either side, or Witchazel’s dizzy eyes, but in any case, he looked like a dwarf. He had the face of a man, the grimace of years, even a little stubble here and there, but he couldn’t have been more than four foot, and skinnier than a rake. He was clearly the runt of whatever litter he came from. If the man’s stature wasn’t proof enough to Witchazel, then his cocky little sneer could have also testified. Runts always seem to have something to prove, and cruelly so. Witchazel’s brother had been exactly the same.

The lawyer glowered. Witchazel did not take kindly to being dragged off the street, tied to chairs, or having a sack thrust over his head, and it had put him in the foulest of moods. A ferocity simmered inside him, and all it needed was a snide little idiot to make it bubble over.

‘Who are you?’ Witchazel demanded, eyes roving over the man, over the formal, ash-grey suit and black bow-tie somebody had dressed him in. With his black gloves and his hair slicked back behind his ears, he looked like a funeral director. The little man leant forward.

‘And here was I thinking I’d be asking the questions,’ he replied, tittering. His voice was clear-cut and polished, almost jovial.
A high-born runt, then
. ‘My name is Fever, Fever Rowanstone. A pleasure.’ Fever extended a hand as if forgetting Witchazel was tied up, and then laughed again.