Bloodmoon (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 2) (59 page)

‘Rhin!’ Neams hissed, when the last of them had filtered away. ‘Rhin, you yella’ bastard, get out here!’

But there came no answer. Just a cackle from a hyena several cages down. Rhin was already long gone, striding across the sun-scorched grass between the wagons and tents, where the shadows were long and the paths quiet. Darkness was descending. The clouds had become bolder, streaking across the bruised sky. It would not be long before the Bloodmoon chose to rise.
Time to get into position
.

His tent was in sight when a frigid wind blew across him, making the skin of his arms pimple, something which faeries are far from accustomed to. It was enough to stop him dead in his tracks, to make him look down in confusion at his arms. A hand strayed to the knife at his belt.

The wind blew again, keener still, and Rhin found himself shivering. Something throbbed in his left hand. Something ominous. His fingers slipped from the steel blade to the pine-knife, thrust through his belt.

‘Not now,’ Rhin breathed, his throat quivering. ‘Please, not now.’ With a
schnick
, he pulled the knife free and held it low, pointing backwards. He forced himself to move. Legs leaden, he had to jolt them into life with a thrust of his wings.
Sword
.
Merion
. The words went round and round his head until he was pushing through the tent-flap and scrabbling under the pillow for his blade.

It was then that he heard it. The wailing of his nightmares, a piercing whine that hunted the very core of his ears. Bone-chilling and hollow it was, like the dying cry of a starving child. It clutched Rhin’s heart and strangled its chambers. The faerie gasped as he fought off the terror, the
bean sidhe
’s poison. ‘Not now!’ he snarled.
Not this night
.

The tent around him began to flutter, its walls rippling like a wind-chased sea. The poles groaned and the pegs creaked. Rhin took a knee, buckling the rat-leather scabbard to his belt. When he was done, he pushed his knuckles to the dirt, and burst into a sprint. His wings thrummed as they propelled him. He would have given a greyhound a run for its coin.

Rhin burst into the night, breath escaping as steam. There was an eerie glow eroding the shadows, death-pale and the green of mould. The faerie winced as his hand spasmed again, the sword nearly flying out of his grasp as he pumped his arms like pistons.

A shape loomed, dripping shadow and mist, its face a skeletal grin. Rhin spun as he ran, raking the pine-knife hard against the apparition’s face. A lost voice within its bones howled and it melted back to the earth, to whatever hell it had crawled from.

Rhin sprinted on, his lungs aflame in the cold air. ‘Not now!’ he yelled, verging on a scream. Not since the tunnels of Carn’Erfjan had he felt such throbbing, twisting fear. He had seen the pink insides of a troll that day, before he’d cut himself free. Now, given the choice, he would have taken that over this. A troll, he could kill.

Another shape loomed, a ghoul etched with green light. No more than a skull with a body of rags and vapour, and yet it was enough to set the faerie’s legs trembling, like a rookie in his first battle. Rhin cursed himself as he dodged its lunging claws, its rags crackling, and its face agape in a piercing wail.

‘By the Roots and all that’s buried!’ he panted to himself as he fled headlong for the bright lights of the circus. The
bean sidhe
did not like bright lights, or so the olden lore proclaimed, but would dare them when given no choice. Rhin desperately hoped they had another choice. He certainly did not.

Yet another banshee arose from the shadows to scream at him, standing between him and his escape: a small hole between the attractions. How the crowds of Cirque Kadabra had not heard this terrifying ruckus, he did not know. Rhin just knew he had to duck, and fast.

The claws stole a single strand of hair from his head as they swiped overhead. Rhin’s face was a tight mask of hope and daring. As he skidded under the swing, dust flying from his heels, his wings barely holding him up, he swung both his blades. Fae steel and pine, cutting through the shadow to where bone could be notched, maybe even broken. Rhin threw his all into those swings, arms outstretched and knuckles whiter than snow.

The sword hit first, the Fae steel cutting through the darkness and rags, and biting into something hard and ancient beneath. Not deep, but enough to elicit a high pitched wail from the terrifying thing as it reared up. It towered over Rhin. But the sword’s wooden brother fared better—much better.

The pine-knife found flesh. How, Rhin did not know, but he knew the feel of flesh under a blade. Knew it far too well. The
bean sidhe
shrank back, screaming like iron dragged over slate. The pine-knife was almost taken with it, but Rhin yanked hard as he scrambled to his feet.

He burst into the blinding light of the circus, instantly tensing himself. He felt the spell wrap him, stealing him from sight. Rhin dove behind a barrel and crouched there, watching the dark gap with saucer-eyes. Mist trailed after him, groping like fingers. Rhin fought to temper the thudding of his heart, his blades atremble and ready. But nothing came. He heard the wailing grow faint, as if cheated. The faerie sagged to the dust and let himself exhale.

Rhin stared at the tip of the pine-knife. It was frozen solid. He touched it gingerly before examining his sword. The blade was notched, ever so slightly. Rhin ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair and let out a strangled cough: Fae steel does not notch.

A BLOODMOON RISES

16th July, 1867

M
erion was beside himself with excitement. He couldn’t help it. It was infectious. The atmosphere was a wriggling, electric eel, swimming between legs and wrapping stomachs up tight, forcing a grin onto faces with its tickling.

It was the applause, more than anything. The rising roar as an act finished. The short, rapturous moments between the amazement and the shock. It stirred his belly into a gurgling mess of nerves and thrill. In equal measures.

The show was barely halfway through, and already Merion was struggling to keep his mind fixed on what he was there to do. He felt washed-away by the excitement, distracted, just a child again, on that first tour of a circus.

Spetzig had juggled practically the entire circus—all its sharp and dangerous bits, at least: a dozen glowing brands, fresh from Hemzi’s forge; a score of knives, spinning in a wheel; axes, spades, even a lit cigar. All whilst capering about the stage to the furious screeching of a violo.

Cabele stunned them breathless as she took to the ropes and hoops. She was forever a hairsbreadth away from plummeting to her death. Cabele did not believe in safety nets. And yet she audaciously flung herself from swinging bars, cart-wheeling through the air at nausea-inducing speeds. There was always that awful pause between sailing through empty space and the
whump!
of chalked hands on something safe.

Devan had spent his half-hour defeating gravity, over and over again. Rushing hard, he lifted a small wagon clean over his head, then a wheelbarrow of rocks. He ripped a shelf of books to shreds, bent an iron bar to spell out his name, and then proceeded to use two of the plumper women from the front row as dumbbells, one in each hand. He flexed and he growled, making more than a few of the ladies blush.

Miss Mien of Cathay soon drove the colour from their cheeks, as she shattered their preconceptions of the flexibility of the human body. Mien rushed octopus, and it turned her bones into rubber. One man actually had to make a swift exit as she wrapped her leg around her neck whilst touching her fingertips to the top of her wrist.

And Itch Magrey, rushing dragon-blood, turned their stomachs a little tighter by holding his limbs in fire, or running some of Yara’s knives along his skin. Not a single blade managed to break the skin, and the fire left nothing but soot. He even let a few of the audience come up and try it, urging them to poke and prod at his warped and scarred skin.

Merion bit the inside of his lip hard and forced himself to concentrate. He stood at the bottom of the stage-steps, stuck halfway between the main tent and the backstage marquee. If he jumped, he could see the top rows of the audience, crammed into their tall benches. If he jumped higher, he could see Lincoln himself, square in the centre of the audience, leaning forward, his fingers tented, enraptured like the rest.

‘You ready?’ coughed a voice behind him. Rahan stood with a leopard at his heel, no leash in sight. Merion would have cowered had he not known the man’s way with felines. Beside them stood his younger assistant, Hashna, who had one milky eye with a dubious scratch across it. A practice mark, so Rahan had told him. The young man wore his usual awkward smile. Common was not a tongue he spoke well. Rahan spoke for the both of them.

Merion shook his head. ‘I’m not on until the finale.’

‘Not for that, Harlequin. The rising.’ Rahan pointed out to the south-east, where the dark sky was taking on a peculiar ruby glow behind the black spines of buildings.

Of course!
Merion recognised the stirring in his stomach for what it really was. ‘I don’t know …’

‘Isn’t nothing to it.’ The man grinned, his teeth telling of a fondness for chewing tobacco. As if to further prove the point, he spat at a nearby jug with a ping. Before Merion could find out more, Rahan whispered to his leopard and they took to the stairs. Hashna bobbed his head and muttered something unintelligible, following at his elder’s heels.

Behind him, Merion felt the air of bustle turn softer, quieter. Eyes and heads flicked up to the city spires. Elbows nudged ribs. The young Hark walked out of the marquee and stood in the night, watching the horizon, where the clouds were singed crimson at their feathered edges. Merion lifted a hand to feel the air, as if he could touch the glow. He wasn’t surprised to find his fingers trembling. One by one, others began to join him, whispering reverently. The roar of the show continued unabated and unaware.

Whether because it was shy or arrogant, Merion could not tell, but the Bloodmoon took its merry time in rising. Ten minutes crept by, and no sliver of moon appeared above the city’s rooftops. Merion even tried jumping again. It was useless.

‘This is unbearable,’ he said aloud, getting resoundingly shushed by Devan, standing behind him with his mighty arms crossed. His eyes were half-closed, as if he were drunk on anticipation.

Yara was soon amongst them, weaving between her rushers, touching shoulders and muttering in ears. She was smiling widely, and more so with every step. She stood at Merion’s side and rested a hand on his shoulder. It was almost enough to sour the whole moment.

‘Are you ready, Master Harlequin?’ she asked, echoing Rahan. ‘Ready to taste the Bloodmoon?’

‘I am,’ Merion replied, meaning it more than she knew.

Yara only nodded, tilting back her head and closing her eyes like the others. It was time, it seemed. The waiting was finally over. Merion kept his eyes fixed on the horizon. If this was heresy, then he chose to be damned. This night was already teetering on the brink of damnation as it was.

And there, a tingle in his temples. Something itching behind his eye. A shiver in his gut. Merion tensed as if he were rushing, excited and perturbed all at once. The crowd became deathly silent.

Merion half-expected them to cheer as a sliver of red poked its head over the rooftops, but silence reigned. In moments it was a shallow dome of the deepest crimson, as if the buildings themselves oozed blood or fire. The Bloodmoon rose, up and up through the strands of cloud, eager to claim its throne of starless black. It was a jagged half-circle now, red as a sunset. Merion felt his mouth drop as his eyes roved over the moon’s puckered face: a colossal ruby battered by the hammers of forgotten gods. He could not tear himself away from it. It was a giant of a moon. Twice the size of any he had ever seen. It felt as though it would tumble out of the sky at any moment and reduce the world to cinders. Its scars glowed with a deep crimson fire, burning the sky around it to a russet brown. The lights of the circus were overpowered. The grass and tent-cloth turned to flame.

With every inch the Bloodmoon climbed, every wave of light it poured on the earth, Merion felt his own body climb with it. His teeth chattered as the pressure built up inside him. It felt as though his stomach wanted to clamber out of his mouth and run to greet it. Merion pushed back hard, wincing.

And then, as the Bloodmoon hauled itself from the horizon and stood alone, unchallenged even by cloud, it felt as though a valve were released. Intoxicated, he crested the wave of shivers and rode it down. The Bloodmoon’s power became a constant trembling of his insides. A fire burnt inside him, as hot as the moon’s pitted surface. He flexed his arms and felt the surge of his own blood. He felt every pulse and twitch of his veins.

With a guilty grin, Merion turned to Yara, who, along with the others, was busy raising her arms to the mighty moon. Merion felt it rude not to do the same. He lifted his arms and felt the blood rush into them, clamouring to be that little bit closer, like a doting subject reaching to grasp the coattails of a king.

The Bloodmoon now held sway over the sky, holding fast in the vastness. Yara clapped her hands, once, twice. Devan added his own thumping to it, and before Merion knew it, the small crowd was gripped in exultant applause. Several of the rushers even bowed. He joined with them, not wanting to be left out.

‘And there it is, Master Harlequin.’ Yara raised her voice. ‘The Bloodmoon in all its glory.’

‘Stunning,’ he mouthed back.

‘Is it not? A year is far too long to wait for such a thing.’

‘What now?’

‘Now, we put the red in our bellies!’ Devan barked, lifting a vial to his lips and throwing his head back. Others followed suit. Wide smiles appeared on their faces, their eyes rolling back. The looks on their faces were halfway between pain and euphoria. Merion patted his pockets for his own vials, doled out by Shan barely an hour ago. He held one with trembling hands, letting the shaking guide it up to his mouth. He could smell every particle of the eel blood: its copper, its salt, its magick. He felt an inescapable thirst driving his chin upwards and his mouth open. Down, the blood went, and Merion felt like a first-time rusher once again.