by Ben Galley
‘Lilain,’ Rhin croaked.
There was a clearing of a clenched and excitable throat, and then:
‘It speaks. Apparently in the common too.’
Rhin heard a scratching of a nib on paper. She was taking notes! The scratching was a little more frantic than necessary. Something in her handwriting was excited and nervous.
‘I’m not here so you can bleed me, woman, I’m here about Merion!’
Silence. Rhin felt her fingers upon him again. She had removed his armour; that was clear. He could feel her clammy hands on his legs, his hips. It made him squirm to feel such foreign fingers upon his skin. Faeries do not like to be touched, especially by humans.
Rhin tried again. ‘I know you’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time, Lilain, but it is not the right time! Merion’s in trouble!’
‘Has a deep understanding of the language. Voice, deep. Accent, slight. Unknown origin. Attempting to gain freedom with emotional response. Clever beast.’
‘Woman, listen to me! I went to the Serped barn. They bleed people dry with these machines of theirs! Merion is in danger and you have to help me!’
The probing fingers retreated, shaking a little. A little worry mixed with the excitement.
‘Faeries are well known for their trickery,’ said Lilain. Rhin could see her shadow fall away from the table. Was she speaking to him, or still stubbornly taking notes?
‘Yes, we are,’ Rhin said. No point lying about it now. ‘And for our lies, and our games, but we are also known for our loyalty.’ That was less true, but at this moment, he would chance anything to save that boy. He sighed. ‘And Tonmerion Hark is the finest friend I’ve ever known. He may not feel the exact same way at the moment, but if he’s in danger, he must be protected. That’s all I have ever tried to do.’
Lilain did not answer for what felt like an age. She just stood there, peering down at her prize and wondering whether it should be picked apart or let loose. The latter would crush her of course, but not as much as the death of her nephew. Lilain sighed, and reached for the ties around his arms, but not his legs. Rhin instantly sat up, but a wave of dizziness knocked him back down again. He rubbed his swimming eyes and contemplated retching.
‘It’s the chloroform. It will wear off soon,’ she said.
That explained the throbbing in his head. A quick glance behind his captor, at the pile of sandbags lying in the dust, explained the rest. ‘A little clichéd, isn’t it?’ he mumbled.
‘Got a sharp tongue, haven’t you?’ asked Lilain, now wielding both a pen and a scalpel. The scalpel ventured closer than the pen.
‘And you’ve got a sharper blade. Care to put that away?’ Rhin pointed at the scalpel. He could already feel the burn from the little wounds on his legs where it had already kissed him. Rhin felt naked without his armour on. In truth, he pretty much was naked. Only a single strip of cloth protected his dignity.
‘Until I know what’s going on here, it’ll stay out,’ Lilain raised her chin. ‘From the top, faerie, before I change my mind and see what colour your blood runs.’
*
The trail was dark and wreathed in curling fingers of rising mist. Merion kicked at every single stone and shrub he came across on the path to the muddled lights of the town. He had left the riverboat alone and on foot, with barely more than a nod to the lordsguards at the dock. Something rumbled in the distance, as if the starless night was hungry. Merion didn’t care for it; he had his own emotions to churn and stew.
Disappointment.
Anger.
Disgust.
Sorrow.
He tasted them all. Each burnt him, in their own strange ways, and yet he relished how they flared and rushed, how they made him sweat and clench, or twitch and ache. He used every scrap of emotion the Serpeds had given him and channelled it. Into what, he did not yet know, but he held a slight suspicion it might salvage his night somewhat. His hopes might have been dashed on rocks, but even rocks are bitten away by time.
The shock got to him more than anything. Shock that Castor would ask such a thing. That he would be so bold as to ask the highest price for a ticket home. That he would play such an intricate game to win his prize. It had been cold business, and that cut him even deeper. Part of him had hoped he would call Castor’s bluff by leaving, if there was any to call. Another part imagined Calidae running after him, begging him to reconsider. With every step he took, those scenarios dwindled away to nothing.
The towering horizon rumbled again, and Merion swore he caught a flash of blue light in the upper reaches of the black sky. This storm was getting closer by the minute. He could feel its cold, vanguard breeze on his cheek, and the weight of the air as the storm postured and flexed.
There was more rumbling then, but not from the storm. Merion’s heart leapt a little. A quartet of wheels could be heard crunching over the stony trail behind him, along with the sound of hooves, fast and heavy.
Merion turned with a half-smile, half-expecting to see Calidae leaning out of the coach window, waving her handkerchief to flag him down. No handkerchief. No open window. No Calidae. Just a darkened coach flying down the path, heavy in the axle and groaning loudly. The horses’ mouths ran with frantic spittle. Merion had to step off the road to avoid being struck down. Not a shout from the driver, with his tall hat low and his face covered. Merion stared, open-mouthed, as the coach rattled past. He glimpsed a familiar face at the window, staring out from between the curtains. Gile, with a curious smirk on his face.
Merion did not move, not until the coach had careened around a curve in the road and disappeared from view. They were not headed for town. Not that Merion could tell. It almost looked as though they were headed straight to the Runnels. It was a deep worry that settled like a lump of ice in his heart. Merion began to walk, his strides starting out short and slow, but quickly became quicker and longer, until he was jogging after the coach. Before he knew it, he was sprinting after it, dust spurting from his frantic heels. Somehow he knew it. Somehow he knew he would be too late. He just did not know what he would be too late for.
*
‘So these faeries have come here for what, for you? For Merion?’ Lilain asked, walking in tight circles.
‘For gold. For me,’ replied Rhin, through gritted teeth.
‘What does any of this have to do with the Serpeds, and Merion?’
‘Because the faeries are hiding in the Serped barn, a few miles outside of town. That’s where I saw their machines and the bodies, like I said.’
Lilain looked as though she wanted to wave her fist in the air, but instead she held herself back and crossed her arms. The scalpel was still in her hands. ‘Lampreys.’
‘I don’t really care what you call them. Lamprey or not, they torture people in that barn of theirs. I’ve never seen machines so ugly and evil. And the people they held: young, old, women, children. They were still alive, kept that way so they could get every last drop of blood out of them. I won’t let Merion succumb to that horrid fate.’ Rhin spat what little saliva he had on the tabletop.
His vehemence seemed to satisfy her, for a moment at least. His fingers ached from making fists out of frustration. He did not know what else he could say or do to convince her. But if he failed to, it would be the feel of excitable, clammy hands and the cold steel of a scalpel. Lilain was about to reply when there came a thud that echoed through the floorboards above them.
Her head snapped to the faerie. ‘Your friends?’ She shot him a dark look.
Rhin shook his head, staring up at the ceiling. ‘They aren’t my friends, and no—that was a boot, or the butt of a gun, not a faerie. The Fae do not thud.’
‘Lurker, maybe,’ she suggested. ‘Perhaps they let him out already.’
‘Untie my legs, and I can go look,’ Rhin said.
‘Or run away. Don’t take me for a fool, Fae,’ Lilain hissed.
Rhin stood up as straight as his shackles would allow and stared Lilain right in the eye. ‘T
here’s no more running to be done. I ran to the other side of the world, to the very edge of civilisation, and still they came sniffing, still found me.’ Rhin growled.
Lilain furrowed her brows and clicked her tongue. ‘I know that feeling all too well,’ she said, and then sighed. ‘If you truly are Merion’s friend, then, you’re a friend of mine.’
‘And you aren’t going to bleed me?’
Lilain raised the scalpel above him and narrowed her eyes. ‘Not yet, anyway,’ she muttered, before teasing the shackles free and setting the faerie loose. Rhin slowly got up and stood with his arms crossed, as if to prove he had no intention of running.
‘My armour?’ he asked.
‘The bowl,’ she whispered. More thudding came from above, along with more boots on her floorboards. Lilain gently put down her scalpel and tiptoed over to a tall cupboard in the corner. Her gun hid inside it. Long Tom’s cogs and levers glinted menacingly in the lantern light, like the complicated fangs of some skinny monster.
Rhin tottered over to the bowl in question and quickly pieced his armour together, from his legs to his shoulders. The cold metal felt good against his hot skin. He winced as he grazed one of the cuts Lilain had made. There came a loud crash from the kitchen, and Lilain looked at Rhin.
‘Serpeds,’ she growled, and the faerie nodded.
‘My blades?’
Lilain reached for a nearby container. ‘Don’t let me down, Rhin,’ she warned him as she crept forward, lowering the muzzle of her gun at the foot of the stairs.
Rhin’s fingers strangled the hilt and haft of his sword and knife. Maybe tonight was the night he would make amends, he silently told himself. Tonight he would put an end to all this nonsense. They crept towards the dusty stairs, faerie and letter, each with their ears tingling with the sounds of banging and crashing. The intruders had moved upstairs, to Lilain’s room and the study. The sound of crashing bookshelves and hurled boxes became constant, just like the pounding of heavy boots.
Rhin closed his eyes and tried to count them. Six, he guessed, picking the ruckus apart with his keen ears. Six men, and no doubt armed. No orders or voices. These were professionals, and they were looking for something. Rhin’s mind began to churn. He gripped his sword tighter, conscious of how sweaty his hands were. He bit his lip and tried not to taste the fear at the back of his throat.
One by one, the boots fell silent on the floorboards. The only sound was Lilain’s heart, beating like a war drum. There was a sheen of sweat on her brow. Her lips were tight and pale, and yet she held that gun of hers as steady as a rock, as if she were holding a new-born made of glass.
There was a creak as the door to the basement yawned. Shadows from the hallway skittered down the steps. Vague shapes of heads and arms. Lilain cocked her gun as quietly as she could. Rhin took a step towards the shadows at the edges of the room, sword and knife dancing back and forth to hide how much they wavered. He could feel his magick tingling in his fingers and in his stomach, ready and waiting. Nobody breathed. Not Lilain. Not the faerie. Not even the six men poised on the stairs, clubs and knives raised and waiting to fall.
Boots hammered the stairs like elephants galloping. An almighty thunderclap deafened the basement as Lilain fired too soon, spooked by a shadow. A chunk of wall exploded under the shot, half-blinding the first man down the stairs. He cried out but kept on coming, a heavy wooden pole in his ham-sized fist. Lilain frantically worked the levers of her gun as she reloaded. Just as the man raised the pole to strike, as the muzzle of her gun came close to poking the man in his belly, she fired. A gaping hole appeared in his stomach, blown right through him, and he reeled backwards, blood spraying like a fountain. Shouts and cries filled the air.
The other five charged forward, spreading out like hungry fingers. They knew speed was their ally. Rhin raised his sword and let his magick flow. His form shivered and faded as he darted towards the first challenger. Black Fae steel made quick work of his Achilles tendon, even through his thick boots. The man howled as he bit the dust. He fell silent when a sword was buried in his left eye, right to the hilt. Rhin snarled in his own tongue.
If the men were shocked to find a murderous faerie amongst them, they did not show it. Two of them began to circle the shimmering shape, their wooden poles and clubs banging the ground in unison, flicking dust to keep him visible. Rhin hissed at them, but they kept on coming, forcing him back into a corner. A club clipped him in the ribs as he tried to roll free, and he was sent spinning into the wall.
Rhin snarled again, cursing their mothers and fathers and every generation through time. He swung his sword as one man came too close, drawing a bloody line down his arm, but that did not deter him. Another swing, and Rhin took a chunk from his leg, baring his arteries to the hot air. This time, the man slumped to his knees and began to growl with pain. Rhin smirked, but his victory was short-lived; a wooden pole caught him square in the back and he sailed across the basement, leaving a neat hole in a wooden crate.
Lilain was faring no better. The remaining two men had managed to snatch Long Tom from her grasp, but not before one last thunderclap. The bullet ripped a hole in the dusty floorboards above, showering them with splinters as they struggled. Lilain fought like a caged demon let loose. She scratched at eyes and bit at fingers, kicking and screaming all the while.
For a moment it looked as though she would fend them off with her wild thrashing, but then a seventh man strode down the stairs. The way he strolled across the room, so casual, hands in pockets and whistling audaciously, was bizarrely threatening. This man had no mask nor hood, just a simple black bowler hat and a smart coat. He didn’t even have a weapon. Lilain began to scream for help as the two men pinned her down on the table. The man in the hat came to look down on her as she thrashed and spat and screamed.
‘No point yelling, ma’am,’ he said, in a worryingly polite tone, the tone of a man who enjoyed his ghastly job far too much. There was something in his two-tone eyes that Lilain recognised. He was a rusher, pure and simple. That glint, that fire in his gaze was unmistakeable. ‘Nobody can hear you down here. And even if they did, I doubt they’d care,’ he added, with a gold-toothed smile.
‘You can tell Castor to go fuck himself.’
The man smiled again, and tugged at the brim of his hat. ‘Why,’ he said, curling his hand into a fist, ‘you can tell him yourself, ma’am.’
With speed that defied the eye, his fist shot out and struck her square in the face. Lilain sprawled on the tabletop, her rage suddenly and deftly extinguished. As she mouthed half-words and gurgled blood, the man leant forwards to whisper in her ear.
‘And that was only a drop of mantis-shrimp blood. Imagine what a whole vial could do. Food for thought, letter,’ he told her, as Lilain slipped into darkness. He sniffed, and pointed to the two men holding her. ‘Take her to the carriage. If she struggles, beat her, but keep her alive. You two, tear this place apart and then burn it,’ he ordered. The men obeyed him without a sound. Lilain was hauled away by her arms, dribbling blood across the dust and up the stairs. The other two slipped metal bars from their coats and proceeded to turn the basement into kindling and splinters.
From the shattered hole in the crate, Rhin watched bleary-eyed. The table was overturned and had its legs broken. Bottles, vials, and syringes were smashed to diamonds. The sink was kicked free and sputtered brown water onto the floor. Even Long Tom was broken in half and cast aside.
The man in the bowler-hat stood by and watched, hands once again tucked into his pockets. He waited until they had found the door behind the bookshelf, before whistling sharply. He strode forward, already unbuttoning his coat.
Rhin waited a long time for the man to return, and when he did, he was holding a cluster of vials in his hands. There was a smile on his face. ‘Very nice, Hark. Very nice,’ he was muttering. He turned to his cronies. ‘Destroy it all,’ he ordered, casual and cold.
They needed no further encouragement.
With his work
done, the man strolled back to the stairs. Rhin’s vision was becoming hazier by the second, but before darkness overtook him, he could have sworn the man caught his bleary gaze, and winked.
Chapter XXXII
OF CRIERS AND COWARDS
‘I’m almost certain of it now. Somebody is stalking the grounds, right from the pines down to the lake. I’ve twice seen a shiver in the shadows, and this time I think they saw me. I swear I heard a hiss before they vanished. Found the footprints too, in the snow. Definitely Fae.
Three years. Three bloody years, and now they decide to come after me. I need to protect Merion.’
6th June, 1867
Merion saw the pillar of smoke clear and stark against the looming storm. A thin streak of ash-grey, painted against bruised grey-black. His stomach had already been in his mouth. Now it practically perched on his tongue. Merion wanted to vomit, but he forced his legs to run harder, faster. He could see the first edges of orange flame between the buildings, ugly and sore against the misty night.
Merion sprinted up the rise in the road and skidded to a halt in front of the house. Flames belched from the windows on the northern side, while the south oozed smoke through every crack and seam. The front door was broken and splintered. Merion’s face hung slack and aghast. Even though it had felt like a borrowed home, it was the closest thing to a home he had, and now it was going up in flame and ash.
But Merion did not have time to wallow in horror and misery. His aunt could still be in there. That blasted faerie too. The boy sprinted around the side of the house, shielding his hands from the heat, and darted for the hatch to the basement. The latch was hot, so he used his shirt sleeves to slide it aside. Smoke poured from the spaces around its hinges. Merion yanked open the doors with a cry, and a cloud of black smoke billowed forth. The young Hark retched as he tried desperately to knuckle the sting out of his eyes.
‘Aunt Lilain!’ he yelled, but there was no answer. Merion slid his feet over the side and pushed, landing hard on the platform stuck halfway down the shaft. He had to wriggle into the basement on his belly, choking on the thick, acrid air. All he could see was a swamp of black and orange, thick with smoke.
