Bloodrush (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 1) (37 page)

‘Don’t hurt him. I want to do that part myself,’ added Finrig, casually.

‘Stop!’ Rhin shouted, and the Fingers froze. Rhin was going pale. His knuckles were white around the pommel of his sword. Finrig came closer, staring deep into Rhin’s fierce eyes.

‘Got something to say, have we? Rhin Rehn’ar?’ he asked.

‘Harm the boy, and I’ll never help you,’ Rhin snarled.

‘Help us then, and we won’t have to carve our names in his belly. We’ll do it in the old tongue, so it takes longer,’ chuckled Finrig. ‘Where is the Hoard?’

It took a long while for Rhin to spit it out. It was that sour a sentence, that damning a collection of syllables and sounds. The only small mercy was that Merion was not within earshot. The oldest lies are always the sharpest on the tongue. ‘I gave it away.’

Finrig grabbed him by the throat, his arms moving like lighting. ‘You
what
? To which kingdom? Which duke? Who hired you?’

‘I gave it to no Fae,’ Rhin gargled.

As it dawned on Finrig, his grip began to tighten. Rhin struggled and gasped and tugged at his sword, but two Fingers held him tight. His heart felt as though it was about to burst out of his chest and explode. Perhaps he could take Finrig out with him.

‘You gave it to a
human
? You gave it to the fucking boy, didn’t you?’ the Wit hissed.

‘No!’ Rhin managed to croak. His eyes were slowly rolling up into his skull, their glow fading.

‘Don’t you lie to me, Rehn’ar …’

‘I swear! He knows nothing!’

Finrig snorted and pushed the faerie away from him. While he had never been the sort for crown and countrymen, while he may have had dwarf-blood in his veins, he was still a faerie, and all Fae loathe the big people. Giving something so precious as the Hoard to one was unthinkable.

‘I have half a mind to lop off both your legs and make you crawl back to your beloved boy-child so you can tell him what a thief and a traitor you are, you pathetic bastard. What did we ever do to deserve such treachery?’ he said, lip curled repugnantly. Rhin though he would stab him right there and then, on principle alone.

Say what you will of the Wit, the faerie had his rules.

‘It’s “we” now, is it?’ Rhin pushed himself away from the Fingers and brushed himself down. ‘I’m nothing like you. Our ancestors would spit if they saw us now. Undering has become rotten, greedy, and it’s bred faeries like you and yours, queens like Sift. I fought for my kind in the war and was rewarded with dishonour. All I did was return the favour. The Hoard deserved better than the pocket of a sadistic queen.’

Finrig turned and looked him up and down. ‘How many times have you practised that little speech in the flat of your sword-blade?’ he replied. ‘How many times have you sung yourself to sleep with it, cuddled up to that boy like a mewling whelp?’

Rhin hawked and spat, narrowly missing Kawn’s boots. He received a gauntlet to the face in reply.

Finrig was staring up at the cracks in the walls through which the moonlight snuck. ‘You have a week to bring us the Hoard.’

Rhin eyes flashed. ‘I just told you. I don’t have it,’ he growled. Finrig just shrugged.

‘There must be more than one Hoard in the world, surely?’ he said, smirking. ‘Are there no banks in town? And I hear there are lords and ladies about. Empire sort. They may have one of their own hidden up their skirts.’

‘Humans know nothing of such magick.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’ Finrig winked before delivering Rhin’s sentence. ‘You have one week to repay your debt.’

Rhin’s wings buzzed with frustration.
Time. He needed time.
‘Two.’

‘One.’

‘Two. Be reasonable.’

‘Two then, though you don’t deserve it.’

‘Then you’ll leave me be? And the boy too?’

Finrig nodded. ‘Then we’ll leave you be. And the boy too,’ he said, even going as far to spit in his hand and hold it out. After a moment of seething and glowering, Rhin spat in his own hand and clasped Finrig’s tightly. ‘Then it is agreed,’ said the Wit, wearing that cold smile of his once more. ‘Lads, escort this traitor back to town. Don’t cut him. Don’t bruise him. But don’t be too shy.’

As Rhin was dragged from the barn and off into the night, Kawn shuffled closer to the Wit, and muttered in his ear. ‘I thought you said Sift wanted him, dead or alive?’

‘I know,’ grunted Finrig. ‘But I gave him hope, and hope is a poisonous thing.’

“THAT’S HOW BUSINESS WORKS”

‘Karrigan continues to terrorise the boy with tutors and lessons in business. Merion will inherit an immense fortune. And I don’t just mean wealth.

Karrigan’s got something, some skill. I just know it. He is too—I don’t know—impressive to be normal. He is set to take the seat of Prime Lord after next week’s election. He has not been home in some time.’

26th May, 1867

T
hree days went by, and Rhin and Merion spent them in almost exactly the same way: one beneath the bed, face covered, staring at the door, motionless and pensive; the other in bed, still and pale, also staring at the door, each for completely different reasons entirely. Merion just wanted out. He longed to test out his legs and feel the sun on his back, not through glass and curtain. But he had orders. Lilain’s orders.
Stay in bed. Don’t move. Don’t disturb me.
Merion, to his credit, followed them to the letter. Until the morning of the fourth day, that was.

It was early, and being a Sunday, Lilain was treating herself to a few extra hours beneath the sheets for once, eyes screwed shut against the dawn and dreaming of something other than tables and corpses. The dead could wait on the day of the Maker’s rest. Lilain was dog-tired after a week of hard toil. She slept like a stone. Merion, however, was wide awake, and busy standing in Lilain’s doorway, staring at his sleeping aunt. A few more steps across the grey floorboards and he was at her bedside, looking down. She looked peaceful enough, but she was as still as a corpse. Merion sniffed.

‘Aunt Lilain,’ he said quietly. She didn’t move.

‘Aunt Lilain …’ he said again, louder this time. Nothing.

Merion moved things to the next level. He raised a finger and pressed it to her cheek. She was cold to the touch, and for half a second Merion began to wonder if she were actually dead. That was until Lilain’s eyes snapped open and she snorted with surprise.

‘Maker’s balls, Merion!’ she coughed, smacking his finger away. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

Merion smiled. ‘Today you start teaching me how to bloodrush.’

Lilain rubbed her eyes and then pursed her lips. ‘Oh, is it that right?’

Merion’s smile grew. ‘I’ve made breakfast.’

His aunt just groaned. ‘Now this I have to see.’

*

If there is one area of expertise the Harks are not well-versed in, it is cooking. The Harks are a very old bloodline, reaching as far back as the Bastard King and the First Empire. However, being such a strong and ancient bloodline, Harks have always had the luck of very large homes, or in some cases, castles. And what comes with large homes? Servants, slaves even, in the past. Not a single Hark in all the bloodline has ever learnt to cook, save for Lilain. And even then, her skills were questionable.

It was a sorry scene that greeted Lilain, as she paced down the hallway barefoot, already wincing at the smell of smoke and char. There were beans in the sink, egg on the ceiling, and bacon on the floor. In fact, it seemed that breakfast was everywhere but on the plates Merion had set out. Lilain watched in horror as he began to serve up his concoctions. She said a quick prayer to the Maker and sat at the table.

To say the bacon was crispy would have been a lie. It was more like a thin slice of charcoal, resting on a bed of something that vaguely resembled a fried egg, though the grey bits in it were slightly worrying. The beans were nearly black. Lilain’s fork danced about, hovering cautiously over the food. ‘I don’t really have to eat this, do I?’

Merion sagged into the opposite chair. ‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’ he sighed.

Even though her stomach was growling, Lilain gently put the fork to rest on the table and pushed the plate away. ‘Harks can’t cook for shit,’ she smiled. Merion sniggered.

It was now Lilain’s turn to sigh. She tapped her fingers on the table. ‘Can I trust you?’ she asked. The talk between them had been scant in the half-week that had passed. Scant and stiff.

Merion tried not to act taken aback. ‘Of course you can trust me. Once again, I’m sorry for drinking the bat blood. It won’t happen again. I just want to learn is all.’

Lilain took a moment to think, combing her tangled blonde hair with her fingers. ‘If we start today, we start my way. No jumping ahead. We have to be careful. We don’t want another bad rush so soon after your last.’

‘Alright,’ Merion nodded. ‘We do it your way.’

Lilain drummed her fingers some more, letting her eye wander over to the end of the table, where a lonely slice of bacon lingered in brown paper.

‘You know, they say it’s never wise to rush on an empty stomach. Why don’t you eat that bacon there before we begin?’

Merion followed her eyes to the bacon. ‘I don’t think I can be trusted with cooking it.’

‘No,’ Lilain replied, her voice as flat as the tabletop. ‘Eat it raw.’

Merion grimaced. ‘That’s disgusting.’

Lilain raised an eyebrow. ‘You afraid?’

‘No, I’m just not an animal,’ Merion retorted.

Lilain kept on firing questions at him. ‘You’re a bloodrusher, are you not?’

‘Apparently so, but…’

‘So you drink blood raw?’

‘Well, hopefully…’

‘Then you’re an animal in many eyes.’

Merion gave his aunt a haughty look. ‘Well I’m not in mine, and that’s what counts.’

‘Eat the bacon.’

‘I refuse.’

‘It’s the same as blood.’

‘No, it’s slimy and cold, and
meat,
’ whined Merion.

Lilain slapped her palms on the table. ‘I guess we’ll see, won’t we?’ she said, and with that, she went down into her basement, and was gone for a little while.

When she returned, her hands and pockets were full of vials and she clasped a beaker under one arm. Once she’d lain them on the table, she fetched the water bucket and placed it by her feet. She dipped the beaker into it and brought it up dripping to sit between her and Merion. With finger and thumb, she picked up the first vial. This one was bright red, almost orange. It was filled almost to the cork. Merion involuntarily gulped.

‘We’re going to go through the
veins
first. All six, until we know the extent of your rushing ability,’ Lilain told him, as she examined the vial.

‘So do I get to find out if I’m a leech?’ Merion asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied, almost tersely.

Merion rubbed his hands despite himself. He waited patiently as Lilain slid the beaker closer and then uncorked the vial. She tilted it over the brackish water and let a little of the blood spill in. She then swirled the beaker around in one hand, keeping an eye on Merion as she did so, one eye narrow and curious.

She offered him the beaker. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Put the red in your belly.’

Merion took the beaker and looked into the water. It was even browner than before, but at least it didn’t look like blood. This, Merion could do. He put the beaker to his lips and began to gulp the cold water down. If this was bloodrushing, then this was easy. Once the beaker was dry, he set it back down and then spread his fingers across the wood, waiting to feel whatever effects Lilain had chosen for him. His heart thundered away. His stomach began to itch. Gradually, that itch became something fierce. Merion winced, half-expecting pain, but instead he felt something else. Hunger. Ravenous hunger.

Merion’s mouth had become a pool, nay, a fountain of saliva. His nails dragged at the tabletop as he cast around for something to devour.

The bacon.

There it was: glistening on the brown paper, all pink and fresh, ready to be gobbled down. Merion snatched at it, hooking it with a finger. He didn’t spare it another glance before shovelling it into his mouth, raw fat and all. He chewed like he had never chewed before. His teeth felt like razor-blades. His tongue was an overlord, commanding the consumption of the delicious, salty meat. All too soon it was polished off. Fortunately for Merion, the effects of the rushing were beginning to wear off. His mind began to shrug off the lust for meat. He blinked owlishly at his aunt.

‘What happened? Did I do it wrong?’ he asked, a little worried, already feeling a little disgusted with himself.

Lilain shook her head, smirking. ‘Nothing at all, my dear nephew. How was the bacon?’ she asked, while she scribbled a symbol on a scrap of paper.

Merion felt the bile rising. He could imagine the slimy, ragged meat lying in his belly. ‘Almighty,’ he gagged. ‘Did the blood make me do that?’

Lilain lifted up the vial and shook it. ‘Hyena.’

‘Hyena! Where on earth did you find a hyena?’ Merion was stunned.

‘Met a Zulu letter in Mocorrow. Sold me that vial for some owl blood if I recall. That’s a primary shade in the second vein. Mammals. What the water does is dilute its purity, meaning it takes the edge off it and makes it quicker. See, most shades have a positive effect
and
a negative effect. Sometimes the bad comes out slowly, like an addiction. Sometimes it comes instantly. Sometimes it comes charging on in with the good. Impurity can affect it. So can the rusher’s own skills. Some are more susceptible than others, and sometimes you’re just darn unlucky. The blood and water mixture flattens the curve and gives me a clear insight. Simple really.