Bloodmoon (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 2) (47 page)

Merion shook his head.

‘It is a very old story. The oldest, some say. No doubt your aunt has told it to you?’

A sheaf of paper on the desk lifted and fell, as if a breeze had disturbed it. ‘How about you tell it, and I shall interrupt if she already has.’ Merion straining to keep his eyes on the circus master. More paper moved.

Yara leant back in her chair and twirled the feather of the quill around her lips as she spoke. ‘The very first of us called it so, aeons ago, before we built cities or tamed the horse. Before the first of the kings and queens arrived from the ice, before the First Empire, the Greeks, the Nile Kingdoms. When man and woman were young, and the old gods still walked among us.

‘Every year, the blood-red moon would rise, and the people would go out to hunt under its light. They would hunt all through the night until it sank into the dust for another year. They believed it a different moon from our usual, a dark sister. Once a year, it would win the fight over its silver brother and rise, and we would honour it by spilling blood in its name. The old gods had but one rule, to spill the blood of the hunted on the ground, every drop, to let it soak back into the earth, so that the Hunter’s Moon might be drenched with it throughout the year. Otherwise it may not rise, you see.’

‘I see.’ Merion scratched his head and smiled as she paused. The paper had lain still for quite some time now. There were no shimmers on the desk. He quivered behind his polite smile.
What are you doing?
shouted a voice in his head.

‘Two brothers broke the rules, for rules are only made to be broken. You may know their names. The Church teaches of them. The first was Cain, the other Abel.’

Something by the flat bed in the far corner flickered, and Merion almost forgot to answer. He nodded, entwining his fingers so she would not see them itching. ‘They tell a different story, I take it?’

Yara had heard something. She stayed silent, head tilted, eyes glazed as all focus was directed to her ears. Merion coughed for good measure.

‘Hmph,’ she grunted. ‘Rats. This whole town is infested with them, I’m told,’ she said. Her eyes lingered on him, too long for comfort, before she continued. ‘Cain farmed the land while Abel kept sheep. When the Hunter’s Moon rose in their twentieth years, their father took Abel on the hunt, but not Cain. Man was not meant to hunt the grass and the leaves, he said. Cain was angered, consumed by jealousy. That night, before the moon sank and the sun began to rise, they returned with a feast. Father sang the praises of Abel as he walked along the road, leaving Cain by the roadside, spurned. Just as the moon was setting, consumed by anger and jealousy, Cain lured Abel out into his fields under the pretence that one of his sheep had become snared. “Over there,” Cain told his brother Abel, and as Abel turned to look where he had pointed …’

Slap!

Merion nearly jumped out of his seat as Yara clapped her hands, so fast they were a blur. She chuckled. ‘Cain took a rock and broke his brother’s skull with it. Abel fell to the dust, staining it with his own blood. And Cain, seeing the Bloodmoon burning red on the horizon, was driven by an urge he knew not. He bent to touch his brother’s shattered skull and put the blood to his mouth.’ Yara paused to add mime to her yarn, bending down to the bright rug and then raising a finger to her lips. ‘When he tasted Abel’s blood, he felt the power in it, the power the old gods had forbidden them for so long. He knew then what it meant. And so it was the rule was broken, and the Hunter’s Moon became the Bloodmoon.’

Merion nodded. ‘And what happened to Cain?’

Yara shrugged. ‘Chased to the edge of the earth by his vengeful father,’ she replied. ‘Or so the story goes.’

‘So Cain was the first lamprey,’ Merion mused.
No wonder they’re such a murderous lot
, he thought to himself.

‘In a way, yes,’ Yara replied. She got to her feet, and Merion rose with her, eager to keep her eyes on him. ‘The first bloodrusher. The Bloodmoon has held sway over us ever since. Just as her silver sister holds power over the seas and tides, so the red moon holds power over our magick. And that is why, Master Harlequin, you shall be ready. I have utmost faith.’ Yara flashed that trademark smile of hers, and Merion could not help but notice the lie behind it now, like a hyena’s laugh, merry on the outside, but rotten within. She placed a hand on him, where his neck met his shoulder and smiled wider. ‘You will bring the house down,’ she whispered.

They both heard it. It was impossible not to. A scrape of something against wood. Merion felt his face flush as Yara’s smile faded. He prayed she could not feel the thudding of his nervous heart, prayed that if she did, she would take it for excitement and nothing else. Merion tried on a boyish grin and kept his eyes fixed on hers.

She would have made lightning jealous, the speed Yara moved. Without breaking her gaze or taking her hand away, she whirled her body around and whipped a dagger in the direction of the noise. A blade, previous hidden away in her sleeve, spun across the tent and buried itself in the wooden table next to her bed.

Merion’s eyes moved in terrible increments, inching cautiously to where the dagger had struck. He fully expected to see a faerie impaled on it, staring down at its hilt in disbelief and anger, his purple eyes full of blame for the boy. The young Hark felt his teeth chattering and clamped them down, hard, as his gaze found the dagger.

But there was no faerie. Nothing but a skinny brown rat, wriggling in silent death throes, a silver blade thrust through its ribcage.

Merion felt the sigh of relief trying to escape from the back of his throat, but he held it back, and shrugged. ‘Good shot,’ he whispered.

‘Damn rats,’ Yara hissed, breaking away from the boy and moving to stamp on the rodent. There was a crunch and a muffled squeak, and Merion found himself aching to leave. ‘They sneak and they creep, poking their noses into places that do not concern them. I despise them. Do you not, Master Harlequin?’

‘Without a doubt, Ms Mizar,’ Merion swiftly replied, watching Yara pull her dagger free. She flicked the blood from it and slid it back into the sleeve of her shirt.

‘So it is agreed then,’ she announced, extending a hand. ‘You shall be our finale.’

Merion shook it, trying not to wince at her incredibly tight grip. ‘Agreed,’ he replied, and when he was freed from her vice-like fingers, he bowed and made to leave, head spinning. ‘Goodnight, Ms Mizar.’

‘And a good night to you, Merion,’ she replied, moving back to her desk and her powder-blue pages. She smiled again as he hovered by the tent-flap. ‘Sleep well, and mind the rats do not bite. We would not want you to catch anything before your big night, would we?’

Merion shook his head. ‘No, Ms Mizar, we wouldn’t want anything spoiling that,’ he replied, and ducked out into the cold night.

The young Hark walked swiftly and in a straight line, caring not for anything besides putting Yara’s tent far behind him. His mind rambled around the thud of his footsteps. Gradually, his heart found a calmer beat, and Merion allowed himself to slow. He took a moment to lean against the edge of a railroad platform and listen to the scuttling of rats under the decking. How simple life must have been for them, he thought, discounting of course the occasional dagger rudely bursting through your ribcage. Eat, sleep, scuttle, repeat. No plots, no guises, no games to play. Tough and brief, no doubt, but that was the price of many kinds of simple life on this strange earth. Merion sniffed and looked up at the waxing moon.

Was he Cain, holding the rock? Or was he Abel, lured and duped? Merion was not so sure. Yara wanted him on the main stage, and he had not seen that coming. Boyish lust for excitement obscured his suspicions, made him doubt. But doubt has an antidote in truth, and truth, he hoped, was currently loping towards him across the dust.

It took its sweet and merry time in coming, that was for sure. Rhin slid from the shadows of the platform and whistled to the boy as he approached. Merion crouched down, and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘That was too close. I thought she got you.’

‘She may be Yara the Lightning, but I’m still faster,’ Rhin hissed. ‘That rat’ll never trail a faerie again.’

‘I don’t think it’ll be doing much of anything again. But enough about rats. What did you find?’

Rhin ran a hand through his jet-black hair. ‘Does an eagle carrying a tiger into the sun mean anything to you?’

Merion bared his teeth, a grimace drenched in hatred. ‘Dizali.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Rhin sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘You were right.’ And there they were: three simple words, bittersweet to their core. ‘There was a letter on the table. Didn’t see what was inside but I saw the seal.’

Merion took a moment to wander in angry circles, fists clenched, teeth grinding. ‘I had secretly hoped I wasn’t.’

‘Of course you did. We all did. Especially me,’ Rhin replied. There was a screech out in the desert, likely an owl cheated of its supper. The faerie flinched, his hand flying to something tucked into his belt.

‘You’re jumpy.’

‘Can you blame me?’

Merion had to agree. ‘No, I can’t.’

Rhin shifted the subject. ‘What are you going to do?’

The young Hark was already fiddling with the inklings of a plan. Several, to be exact. He said as much. ‘I haven’t decided yet. They’re trying to trap me, that’s for certain.’

‘What would your father have done?’ Rhin ventured.

Merion fixed him with an odd look. Rhin usually stayed far, far away from that subject, all things considered. The boy thought hard. ‘Have his lordsguards rip this place to pieces, put Yara in chains, maybe put her neck in the noose. Other than that …’ he trailed away. ‘I don’t know. We’re very far from home.’

‘There’s an old saying where I grew up. I’ll spare you the dialect, but it goes like this: woe to the soldier who ignores the bed before the battle. Sleep on this, Merion. You’ll get nowhere with a tired mind.’

It is a curious trick of nature that whenever a person mentions sleep to a tired body, it will always yawn. And so it was with Merion. He yawned wide and hard before kicking at the dust with his shoe. ‘Fine. We still have a few days.’

‘Plenty of time for a good plan,’ Rhin replied.

Merion wore a stern face. ‘Then they’ll see what a Hark is made of.’

*

Lurker was drunk. Not the most surprising of situations, but this was a different sort of drunk from his usual. Lurker drank to drown memories, he drank for the taste, and sometimes he even drank to pass the time, but this type of drinking was new to him. Or, to be more exact, so forgotten it felt new.

Lurker was drinking because he was mighty angry.

Anger comes in many forms, but there are none more sour than a jealous anger. It was a trait that Lurker despised, for he had seen it breed thieves and murderers in the war, seen it stoke him to darkness far too many times before, and yet here he was, nurturing it like an artist tends to a masterpiece. He swirled it around his mouth with his moonshine, let it burn alongside the fire that trickled down his throat. And all the while his eyes searched the shadows of the camp outside their tent, looking for something to hurl it against instead of washing it down with drink. Moonshine can only do so much.

Lurker sniffed at the air, sucking in the scents of the night and the railroad station: the ever-present smell of musty canvas; the tang of metal rails and tent-spikes; the resin of sun-baked wood, and rat faeces. Swaying more than he would have liked, he stared up at the fat moon as if challenging it to a duel.

He had brought the Mistress with him. He did not know why, but he had. Perhaps it was the familiar feel of a gun nudging against his gut that he needed, after losing Big Betsy. He shrugged and swigged down another fiery mouthful.

A familiar laugh reached his ears, and footsteps too, getting closer. Lurker froze. He shuffled deeper into the shadows between the tents and listened. He had never been one for eavesdropping, but tonight he treated himself, already feeling the pang of something bitter rising up, separate from the heartburn the moonshine had gifted him.

Footsteps again. Lurker sniffed again and caught the tang of blood on the night breeze. Only a letter smelled like that, and this time he could smell two. Lurker glowered.

‘One day, perhaps,’ said a female voice: Lilain Rennevie, and no mistake about it.

‘One day indeed. But you have to come in the summer. Prussian winters are foul and bitter.’ The second voice was low and deep. Lurker already knew its owner. ‘The wind’ll rob the breath from your lungs it’s so cold. One year, my entire stock was frozen solid. Eighty vials. Took me years to collect that,’ Sheen murmured.

‘Ugh,’ Lil grunted. ‘Chicago was the same. Have you ever been?’

‘Only once.’

‘They call it the City of the Winds. Gales blow in from the north across the lake, bitingly cold.’

‘And what, might I ask, took you to Chicago?’

‘A husband.’

‘Ah.’ A pause. ‘And what happened to him?’

A snort from Lil. Their footsteps were getting closer now. Lurker crept backwards and crouched down.