Bloodrush (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 1) (41 page)

When alcohol loosens both the mind and tongue, the truth, no matter how acerbic it may be, finds it delightfully easy to slip out. It is a wonderful way of finding out what people really think of you. Merion was swiftly learning that. Lurker was a veritable truth-cannon, firing off awkward comment after awkward comment as Merion worked his way through his aunt’s shades.

‘And it ain’t as if I can move on, not with the memories so fresh,’ Lurker was muttering. Merion had never seen him this drunk before. ‘I’m still a wanted man, you know that? In Denn’s Folly.’

‘Mhm,’ Merion hummed, trying to indicate his disinterest for the tenth time already.

‘You slouch too much.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No, stand up straight when you rush. Helps the red settle,’ Lurker waved his hand. He had his flask in the other. ‘It’s not as if I don’t think about other women …’

‘Okay,’ Merion said, uncorking the vial.

‘Squirrel, is it? You look like a squirrel. A blonde squirrel.’

Merion sighed. The vial was hovering near his lips. ‘Again, thank you.’

‘You ain’t going to be a little girl today, are you?’ Lurker coughed.

‘Excuse me?’

‘With the blood. Like a little girl who’s just pissed herself, that’s you. You were afraid to drink it.’

Merion had flushed red. He narrowed his eyes at the belligerent drunkard. ‘It’s blood. It’s not natural to go gulping it down.’

Lurker got to his feet. ‘It’s more natural than you’ll ever know, boy, unless you open your eyes,’ he said, wagging a finger. ‘You’re rushing for the wrong reasons. It ain’t a tool you can bend and break, it’s a partnership. It’s a bond with something older and deeper than you. When we drink it’s with respect for the animal that gave it to us. Every sip is a burial, of sorts. Got to take this serious, Merion.’

Merion had little to say to that. ‘I do,’ he mumbled.

Lurker sat down before he fell down. ‘Now drink up, boy. Shit. It’s getting hotter out here. I’m sweating like a glass-blower’s ass.’

Merion was too busy mulling over the man’s words to take notice of his colourful descriptions.
Every sip is a burial
. What a strange way to put it, he pondered, but it somehow made sense to him.
Drink with respect.
A homage to the dead thing that provided it. Merion held the vial up as if he were making a toast, and then poured it down his throat in one single gulp. He forced himself not to shrink or shiver, instead managing to stand there with just the tiniest hint of a grimace on his face.

‘See? Drink like a man now,’ Lurker said, waving his own flask and taking more than just a sip of whatever liquor kept inside it.

Merion did not feel any fire growing, but he tensed all the same, just in case it was trying to catch him off guard. He felt a little warmth trickling up his spine, but that was all.

‘Now,’ Lurker took a deep breath, ‘this is what Lil likes to call a wash, or a “base coat” of a shade. Stronger rushers can drink one drop in the morning and feel its effects all day, if they’re lucky. Some rushers can develop it over time, becomin’ so used to a shade that it becomes a wash. Like me and my magpie blood.’

‘I don’t feel anything.’

Lurker smirked. ‘Squirrel blood, right?’

Merion held up the vial and checked to make sure. ‘Squirrel. Yes indeed.’

‘Good,’ said the prospector. He slid from his rock like a dead man from a saddle and then began to walk in circles, casting around for something. ‘Ah,’ he announced, snatching a round pebble from the ground, narrowly avoiding pitching heels over nose as he did so.

‘Now the thing about squirrel shade is …’ But the explanation never came, just a madly hurled pebble instead, aiming straight for Merion’s face. Lurker may have been drunker than a skunk, but he was still a crack shot.

Merion already knew it was too late to duck. All he could do was scrunch up his eyes and throw out a hand in a feeble effort to fend off the missile. That was when he felt the stone, hot and heavy, thwack against his palm. He opened his eyes to find his fingers had already curled around it, gripping it tight.

‘It’s a subtle little shade, but it works just fine. Known a few Buckteeth in my time.’

Merion probed his teeth with his tongue, confused. ‘Buck teeth? I’m not buck-toothed,’ he complained.

Lurker shook his head. ‘No, but if’n you kept on drinking shades of squirrel, chipmunk, or mouse, then you’d be in for a surprise. Jus’ be careful now. When it’s a subtle shade like this, you don’t know when it’s run out. Don’t go try catching any bullets later, jus’ in case.’

‘I’m going for dinner with the Serpeds at six o’clock. I can’t imagine any such situation arising.’

‘You sure ‘bout that? Heard Castor shot one of his slaves once, all ’cause the poor bastard spilt hot soup onto her ladyship’s lap.’

‘Calidae?’ Merion asked.

‘No, the mother, Ferida.’

‘But Castor doesn’t have any slaves. Slaving has been banned by Lincoln.’

‘Slavin’ may have been outlawed, boy, but that don’t mean it’s stopped for good. Any servant is a slave, when you look close enough. The chains might be finer, but they’re there alright.’

‘Well,’ Merion began, treading carefully, ‘no offence, Lurker, but I am neither. I don’t think Castor will be shooting me any time soon.

‘Jus’ be careful.’

‘You sound like my aunt.’

Lurker snorted. He caught a scent then, on the breeze, and turned to face the giant crowd of workers that toiled in the desert off to the north and west. They swarmed over the silver rail like huge green ants. Steam and smoke billowed from the dozen little engines that chugged along the fresh tracks, ferrying rail and rubble to the construction front. The faint chiming of hammers hitting iron railspikes lingered on the breeze. They caught the sound of horses whinnying too, and men shouting. It sounded like chaos.

‘What can you smell?’ asked Merion.

‘Nitroglycerin. Devil’s whiskey. Must be blastin’ rock,’ Lurker sniffed. He and Merion shielded their eyes with their hands and stared out at the spear of rail reaching out for several miles into the desert. A small group had splintered off from the crowd and seemed to be planning the future path of the railroad. Merion could imagine them pointing and poking and discussing, bending fingers to their underlings and demanding nitroglycerin as if it were a cool glass of water.

Merion’s curiosity began to unfurl. ‘Can we get closer?’ he enquired, longing for a yes.

Lurker shrugged as he took another sip from his flask. ‘Should be safe, if we stay south of the rail. Wraiths always come from the north, or the west. Keep your wits about you boy,’ he said, in a way that made Merion realise that this was probably not the best idea, and that whatever happened, Lilain could not hear a single whisper of it. That would spell the end of his training.

Lurker had no such reservations. He marched on with the confident swagger of a man with a headful of whiskey. Merion followed like a hound, shaking his head. This was a dark day for the man, he thought to himself. Perhaps a strong coffee and a lie-down would be best, after this little jaunt.

‘How close are we going?’ Merion asked, half-curious, half-concerned.

‘Just a little farther now,’ Lurker belched his reply.

Merion quickly rummaged through his satchel of vials, hoping to see something that might help in a tight spot, something that might save the day, if it came to it. He was a leech, after all, and there was no point fighting like a man when he could fight like a leech.

Salmon.

Squid.

Otter.

Fox.

His aunt had written the name in common underneath their symbols. None of those sounded remotely helpful. Where was the bear, the lion, or the shark?

‘Hey, Lurker. Is there a blood that makes you turn invisible?’

‘Ha,’ Lurker hawked and spat. ‘Better ask that faerie friend of yours.’

Merion hummed thoughtfully. ‘Ah, so that’s why Lilain wants to find a faerie …’ he guessed. ‘Invisibility.’

Where was Rhin when you needed him?
Merion cursed the little bastard.

The roar of work and industry was louder now. They were close enough to see the coats of arms on the men’s green overalls. The Cathayan workers were busy beating the railspikes into the rock with hammers. They worked at a frenetic pace, attacking the spikes with fast and vicious hammer blows. They did not miss a single strike.

More hammering rang out from the end of the line. Holes were being hammered into an inconvenient rock. Holes for nitroglycerin. When the hammering stopped, there was more shouting, and three slim vials were brought forth by young runners, barely older than Merion himself. They ran with their arms straight out in front of them, legs wobbly. Everybody else in the group took a long step back, then another, and another.

Merion almost wanted to do the same, even though they were still quite a distance away, and standing behind some scrub bushes. Lurker was currently relieving himself on a nearby rock, ambivalent to the fact he was splashing his boots.

Merion kept his eyes fixed on the workers. ‘What are they doing?’

Lurker replied in a series of grunts. ‘First you drill a hole into the rock. Then you fill it with nitroglycerin. Then you light the fuse and run away.’

‘Do you ever use it?’

Lurker looked amused at that. ‘Nitroglycerin is for miners who don’t know where to look.’

‘Of course,’ Merion said.

A few more shouts echoed across the scrub as the nitroglycerin was lit. The workers scurried back to crouch behind their barrows or stand solemnly with their grubby fingers in their ears. An itchy moment passed, until stomachs got tired of clenching, and faces began to ache from expectant grimacing. For a moment it seemed that some poor soul would be sent to examine or relight the fuse. A runner was thrust forward, but he had barely taken two steps before the explosion came. A simple, sharp crack that made the ground shiver. Merion wished he had covered his ears. Even from that distance it had still hurt.

When the grey smoke cleared, the patch of rock was nothing but a ruptured hole. For now, the desert was no match for the march of industry. The workers crept forwards again, nodding and congratulating themselves. The work teams moved up then, working in tandem with each other. While one team chipped away at the broken rock, the other paved the way for the rail ties and ballast that would form the spine of the rail. Thick, oily beams were ushered up the lines on the backs of mules and carried into the ground one by one, looking like coffins for snakes. Once the ties were laid, horse-drawn carts dragged up the railspikes and plates, then the rails themselves, and with them the engineers and the Cathayan hammers. They were relentless.

Yard by yard the railroad grew, and quickly too. The sheer weight and force of the workers saw to that. In one hour, they had laid almost a mile of track. Castor Serped seemed to have taken ahold of the desert and wrapped his hand around its neck, thought Merion. Now there was a man who echoed his father, bending the world to his will. That took power.

A flicker of nervousness stole his breath away for a moment. Only a handful of hours separated him from the Serped table. Help was only as far off as a polite conversation with a powerful man. Merion could almost taste the salt of the London docks on his tongue. The little speech he had been practising echoed alongside the sound of seagulls.

My Lord Serped …

An almighty squeal ripped through his daydream. Merion winced and clapped his hands to his ears at a speed that would have made a hummingbird jealous. There was a dreadful pause, just long enough to make Merion wonder if it had just been a locomotive breaking down, or a cart tipping over. There was to be no such luck. That was a rare thing, in this desert.

Merion turned and found Lurker quickly screwing the cap back onto his flask. ‘I think it’s time we left,’ he said firmly, barely slurring at all.

Drunkenness always flees when there is panic in the air. And what panic there was. The well-ordered teams of workers had descended into a herd of spooked buffalo. They yelled and shouted and hollered as they fled back along the line. Carts were tipped and thrown aside. Tools were flung to the ground. Horses galloped and mules brayed with abject fear. Men fell and trampled each other in their mad rush to escape what they knew was coming.

When a wraith begins to bite the rail, it never lets go. The rails squealed again. Merion could see the metal puckering and bending as if claws were grasping at it. Something was pulling it every which way, wresting it from its spikes and bolts. The metal groaned like a tortured banshee. Then it faded. Silence reigned over the dust and the fleeing, frenzied crowds for a cold moment. More than a few workers snuck looks over their shoulders as they ran, to see if they had the guts to stare death in the face. Merion did. He did not dare look away. His eyes were rooted to the rail, glued there by some kind of morbid curiosity.

With an ear-splitting crash, a forty-foot section of rail tore itself from its ties and shattered into ragged pieces. The screech of rent metal was like a knife through the skull. Railspikes and splinters danced and spun across the dust, twirling around the centre of an invisible maelstrom. Piece by ragged piece, bone by iron bone, the wraith built itself a body. It shuddered as its head and broad shoulders rose up out of the clattering metal and swirling dust. It growled as the wooden splinters and railspikes gave it ribs and a throat to rattle. It grinned as its grotesque, hammer-beaten skull was filled with iron shards—makeshift teeth straight from a nightmare. It clamped its claws together as its arms were forged from lengths of twisted rail.

When the railwraith took its first steps, they shook the ground like thunder. Black oil and grease began to drip from its glittering mouth, and when it roared, it sounded as though an entire brass band had been murdered mid-performance.
Monster
. The word almost came close.

‘Don’t move,’ Lurker whispered.

‘I thought you said we needed to leave.’

‘Too late for that now. Hush. He’s more interested in the workers.’