by Ben Galley
‘I see,’ spoke the lips … of the girl … the talking girl. Oh, Almighty.
‘Yes,’ Merion smiled like a fool. Then, mercifully, he remembered his manners, and clung to them like a life-raft. He waved a hand in a slicing motion and then bowed low, speaking as loud and as clear as he could manage.
‘Might I, er, introduce myself, miss,’ he said, ‘Tonmerion Harlequin Hark, at your service.’
He wasn’t sure what to expect as he straightened, but to his welcome surprise, the young lady curtseyed in return, making her blue dress rustle. ‘Calidae Ester Serped, at yours, sir,’ she replied with a smile.
Merion beamed. Serped, screamed his insides. How had he forgotten? How could he have not guessed? Her dress must have been pure Francian silk. The pearls on her wrist were the second biggest he had ever seen. Her bright flaxen hair was perfectly curled and interwoven with silver lace.
‘Daughter of Lord Serped, I presume,’ he asked, keeping it formal. It seemed to be the only way of keeping his cheeks from betraying his grin, and it kept his eyes from lingering.
Calidae kept her smile, but her eyes took on a different shine. Curious, they roamed over him, giving her the look of a mouse assessing a lump of cheese. ‘Call me Calidae, please,’ she said, staring down at his strange shoes. The smile grew. ‘My father told me the rumours.’
Merion cocked his head. ‘Rumours? Of my shoes?’
Calidae actually began to circle him. It was rather off-putting, to say the least. Merion tried to keep his formal composure as he followed her with his head. It was then that he noted her guards, standing a little further down the street, hands on swords. One wore a black suit and a bowler hat. A pair of darkened glasses covered his eyes.
‘Rumours that a lord of the Empire had come to Fell Falls. Well, the son of a lord that is,’ she said, slowly.
‘A son of a lord without a father is a lord, I believe.’
Calidae suddenly grew tired of circling and came to rest barely two feet in front of him, with her hands clasped behind her back. ‘Well then, Lord Hark, what brings you to such a place as this?’ she asked.
Merion decided to play the game. Of course she knew about his father. Perhaps this was her way of being polite. ‘I could ask you the same question, my lady,’ he countered. ‘Ladies first.’
Calidae raised her chin. ‘And I would answer that I accompany my father on business. And that the practice of “ladies first” does not apply when the lady has asked the first question.’
‘In that case, Calidae,’ Merion replied, ‘I would answer that in light of my father’s recent murder, I now live with my last remaining relative, who for reasons unknown has chosen Fell Falls as her place of residence. I have been here almost two weeks now.’
‘My condolences,’ Calidae bowed her head. ‘To the lost,’ she added, raising a hand curled around an imaginary glass.
‘The lost,’ repeated Merion as he raised his own, though his reach was a little lower than Calidae’s. Politeness indeed, he thought, and he warmed to her even more.
When she looked at him next, Calidae had yet another glint in her eye. She leant even closer. ‘I will tell my father that the rumours are true,’ she said, almost whispering. ‘He will want you to come to dine with us, on the riverboat. You must be craving real food by now, and real company for that matter.’ Calidae smirked conspiratorially before stepping back to curtsey again. ‘I look forward to it, my Lord Hark.’
‘And I you … I mean too,’ Merion stuttered, kicking himself internally.
Calidae tittered, turned, and walked away, the guards trailing silently behind her. Merion was left standing alone in the street, part of him wanting to bludgeon himself with a stick, and part of him wanting to dance. The former was winning, for the moment.
Inside the rucksack, all Rhin could hear was the odd catch of a word in amongst a stream of self-deprecating grumbles. ‘Stupid … fool … And I you … idiot.’
Rhin nudged him through the fabric. ‘Easy, Merion. It’s girl-magic. Remember Illysa, Junton Korville’s daughter? You could barely say a word then, just stared at her and flapped your mouth like a fish.’
Merion huffed, ducking into an alleyway. ‘That was two years ago,’ he said.
‘It’s a trick they learn young: the knack of reducing a man to a quivering jelly. We grow immune, in time. Well, faeries do. I don’t know about you humans.’
Merion groaned. ‘Thanks. As ever, you’re a rock of support. What would I do without you?’
‘I should start charging you,’ mused Rhin. ‘And just think: dinner with the Serpeds. Dinner with Calidae.’
Merion did not reply, but Rhin could not miss the little kick in his step.
‘I think it may all be coming together, Rhin,’ was all Merion said on the walk home.
*
When they arrived at the house, Merion found a portly man standing outside. He bristled with frazzled red hair. It had obviously been liberally churned by nervous, anxious fingers. The man’s eyes were wide and stained red with tears. He had a hat in his hands, and his fingers kneaded it continuously.
‘Can I help you?’ Merion asked of him.
‘My dog,’ whimpered the man, staring at the door of the house. ‘Ruffian. Big ol’ beast. Dropped down dead just last night gone. Healthy hound as well, there were naught wrong with him. Then all a’ sudden,’ the man paused to whack his hat against his leg, ‘dead as tumble-weed. Two little marks in ’is throat. Little cuts,’ he said, tilting his head back and jabbing two fingers at his sweaty, red throat.
‘My condolences,’ Merion said. He had nothing to offer the man, except for: ‘A rattlesnake, maybe?’
But the man shook his head, adamant. ‘No sir. Too far apart. Little men did this.’
A chill ran through Merion. ‘Pardon me?’
The man looked around at the roots of the house, as if making sure no eyes nor ears lurked there. ‘Faeries, boy. Little people. Little cuts.’ The man jabbed again at his throat.
‘Well, thank you,’ Merion mumbled, and rapidly made his way indoors. The door to the basement was open; a telltale sign.
After placing his rucksack in his room, telling Rhin to stay precisely where he was, and then shutting the door, Merion plodded down the steps and into the cool of the basement.
Lilain was bent over her table. Her door to her secret lair was open. She looked as though she were almost done. The needle was out. As was the thread, and together they were almost done making the dog whole again. All except for a few bits of meat and a stolen drop of blood or two, lingering in a little vial by the dog’s head.
Ruffian was indeed a ‘big ol’ beast’. This was not a dog. This was a pile of black muscle with four giant paws and a face that looked as though it had been smashed in with the flat of a pan. Amid the wrinkles and drooping folds of its pitch-black snout, Merion could see sharp yellow fangs, poking out at odd angles.
Truth be told, Merion was glad the thing was dead. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder as he stepped into the light. ‘There’s a mad man out on the steps. Says he’s lost a dog.’
‘Aye, that he has,’ Lilain answered.
‘But this doesn’t look like a dog. Looks more like a boulder. With teeth.’
‘Swartzhund. Prussian breed. I’ve seen bigger,’ Lilain rattled off. She lifted up the vial and jiggled it between two fingers. ‘But it’s a pure breed, and that means a good shade.’
Merion took a step forward. ‘What can it do?’
Lilain rolled her eyes. ‘See? Too eager.’ She paused to tut. ‘Strength. Strong sense of smell. Fangs, in some cases, though I’ve witnessed that go wrong many a time. Lips and fangs don’t get on. Like I said, magick ain’t pretty.’
‘Well, I thought you should know that the man thinks that faeries killed this brute of a dog.’
‘Hmph,’ Lilain snorted.
Merion raised an eyebrow. ‘It sounds as though you do not believe in faeries.’
Lilain glanced at him.
‘Why? Do you?’
Merion shrugged. He was so used to lying that he did it naturally. ‘I’m thirteen. Faeries are for little girls and storybooks.’
Lilain gave him a strange look and hummed. He had passed. ‘Don’t be so naive, Merion,’ she said.
‘Anyway, I know you believe. Lurker told me about the three beasts you’ve never caught,’ Merion replied.
A bloody fist clenched and pressed against the scarred table. ‘That blasted …’ But her words trailed off. Perhaps they were not meant for Merion’s ears. ‘Well, he’s right: dragon, mermaid, and Fae.’ Lilain counted each one of them on her fingers.
Merion needed to probe. ‘So you believe in faeries, but you don’t think they killed this dog?’
‘Not for a moment, young nephew. He’s probably just drunk on grief.’ Lilain prodded the dog in the chest. ‘Never said I didn’t believe. I just know there aren’t any faeries out west. In fact, I reckon there’s not a single faerie in this whole Kingdom.’
Merion tried very, very hard to suppress the smile that ached to spread across his dusty cheeks. Thankfully, he succeeded.
‘And so, another for the shelf,’ sighed Lilain, as she lifted up the vial to stare at it. ‘I think I need a new cupboard.’ she muttered.
‘Maybe I should try it out?’ Merion said.
‘Ha,’ she snorted. ‘This shade? It’d melt your insides. That’s what happens when you drink a shade that ain’t yours. And that’s why I haven’t changed my mind, Merion. And I’m not going to, so stop pushing me. The only thing you ought to be trying is a book.’
As Merion clenched his teeth and tried to stay calm, Lilain knelt down to pluck a few dusty books from a cabinet. ‘Here we are. The Book of the Leech, that’s a good place to start. As is Farringdon’s Compendium of Shadecraft. The Laminus Maleficarum, let’s not forget that. We start studying tomorrow, if the wraiths don’t decide to pay us another visit. Or any Fae for that matter,’ Lilain said, with a wink.
Merion couldn’t return it. He stared at the pile of books balancing in his hands. ‘Tomorrow,’ was all he said. Tomorrow I’ll go fetch Lurker from the jail, was what he thought.
‘Now,’ Lilain clapped her hands, jolting her nephew from his staring, ‘I’ve got to go see a man about a dog.’
‘A dead one,’ Merion mumbled.
‘As a doornail, Nephew,’ Lilain replied, and then with one nimble movement, slid her arms under the mighty hound and lifted it to her chest. Merion was slightly shocked, it had to be said. Somehow she did not look the slightest bit strained.
‘Bodies are heavy. Years of pushing them around on carts will give you a few muscles, here and there,’ she told him with another wink. Merion watched as she strode to the stairs, dog aloft. ‘I’ll be back once I’ve got rid of Mister Leaky Eyes. You’d better get reading.’
As soon as he heard the clomp clomp of boots on the boards above, the books went flying. A simple overturning of his hands, and they fluttered and spiralled to the dusty floor. One broke its spine on impact. Merion bit his lip. He hadn’t quite meant to …
‘Easy now,’ muttered a familiar voice. It was Rhin, shimmering in the nearby shadows.
‘Are you mad, Rhin? Lilain will be back any second!’ hissed Merion.
‘And I’ve been here all the time. I followed you down. Wanted to see what all the fuss was about.’
‘You’ve lost it. I knew it. Baked your brain in the sun …’
Rhin shook his head. ‘Your aunt is no fool.’
‘That she is not, but you will be, if she catches you. She’d bleed you in an instant.’
Rhin tapped his sword and smirked callously. ‘I heard. Let her try,’ he said.
Merion stared down his nose. ‘That is my aunt, Rhin.’
‘Sorry, but that’s all the more reason to keep me out of sight.’
Merion had turned a strange shade of red. ‘I told you to stay! You wandered down here!’
‘Well, now I know to be more careful, don’t I?’ Rhin said, crossing his arms. Something was worrying him. ‘Do you think she’s right, about there being no faeries in America?’
Merion clapped a palm to his brow. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care. You shouldn’t either.’
Rhin narrowed his gaze. ‘I want to know whether I should be watching my back or not, Merion.’
‘Watching for who, Rhin?’ Merion sighed. ‘Nobody knows about you!’
That did not seem to settle the little faerie, and he made no reply.
Merion was too concerned with his books. ‘I can’t believe she’s making me read all of this before I can get my hands on … that,’ Merion groused, then gulped as he eyed the vials of blood on the nearby shelf, just inside the lair. Thick, gelatinous, seeping blood. Merion felt a little bile rising in his throat, a little churning in his stomach. He growled them away. A bloodrusher who could not stand the sight of blood? Unimaginable.
‘Well, why not?’ Rhin shrugged.
‘How did you learn to swing a sword, Rhin?’
‘Well, by …’ Rhin saw the point Merion was making. He did not like the idea of making it for him.
‘By swinging it, I’ll bet,’ Merion said, slapping the dirt floor. ‘Not by reading books!’ He went straight for the first vial his shaking hands could reach. He held it in his palms and gazed at it. The blood inside was the colour of rust. The label was as indecipherable as all the rest, just a row of spikes.
Rhin was not impressed. ‘You’re a bloody idiot if you pour that down your throat. You heard your aunt.’
Merion glared. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you knew all about bloodrushing!’
Rhin stepped forwards and into the dim light. His skin glittered. He had that dangerous look in his eye. ‘No, boy, but I’ve had magick running through my veins longer than you can fathom. Several centuries, by my reckoning,’ Rhin replied, voice cold. ‘Put it back, Merion.’
But the longer Merion stared at the blood in that little vial, the stronger his certainty grew. Before long, he was gripping the vial so tightly he feared it might shatter. ‘I know I’m a leech,’ he growled. ‘Lurker said it was so. I am my father’s son. I know I’m right.’
Rhin was getting angry now. Frantic even. Merion could see it in his lavender eyes. ‘You could fill this basement with what you don’t know about that vial, Merion. Put it back!’
There was a quiet squeak as the cork came free. Merion stared sideways at him, daring him to stop him, to pounce and wrestle him to the floor.
And pounce Rhin did, for the faerie was in no mood for games or further words. The boy was serious, and the aunt’s words had scared him deeply.
Rhin lurched forwards like a cheetah, dirt flying from under his sharp nails. His arms pounded the air, and his wings, now spread and humming, threw him forward.
It took barely a second for Rhin to close the distance and collide with the boy’s ribs. Unfortunately, it took only half a second for Merion to throw the vial up to his lips and splash the blood onto his tongue.
By the time the two crumpled to the floor in a cloud of dust and scattered books, Rhin was wrapped around the boy’s throat and pressing him to the floor. ‘Spit it out!’ he was yelling.
The blood had already slipped to the back of Merion’s throat. He was now faced with a rending decision. To gulp the cold, sour blood down, or to vomit, or choke, right there with his face pressed into the dirt, Lilain bound to arrive at any second.
Rhin grabbed Merion by the cheeks and knocked his head against the ground. ‘Spit it out, I say, before I punch it out of you!’ he bellowed. He caught the defiant look in the boy’s eyes and shook his head, horrified. ‘No! Don’t you dare!’
And there it was: that dull silence and then the squelching of the throat; that deep gulping sound that filled Rhin’s heart with anger, fear, panic, and all sorts of other emotions.
‘You fucking dolt!’ Rhin shouted, half strangling the boy.
‘Agh!’ Merion winced, throwing his hands over his ea
rs and elbowing the faerie aside. The world was spinning like a top. His head felt like the anvil of an angry blacksmith. Almighty, this rushing works fast, he inwardly groaned. There was no going back now.
Merion cried out and clawed for the table as his stomach lit itself on fire. His throat was filled with burning bile. He clapped his hands to his stomach and instantly regretted his decision. In one single deafening wave, the world seemed to rush into him, a wave of chatter, thunder, rasping and scraping. He could hear every mouse in every wall. Every syllable on Lilain’s lips as she tried to extricate herself from the awkwardness of a man blubbering on her doorstep. Every thud of every distant hoof, every rattle of Rhin’s armour. Merion heard it all.
‘Aaaagh!’ he cried. It felt as though his head were going to be split in two.
Rhin was now pacing to and fro, wracking his brains. He could hear no footsteps in the hallway above, no aunt on the stairs, nothing. He had to make some sort of noise.
While Merion convulsed on the floor, eyes rolling back, Rhin cast about like a madman, hunting for some sort of pan, or bowl, or spoon to bang against the sink in the corner. Rhin jumped onto the lip of Lilain’s bloody workbench and instantly spied his target. He drew his black sword with a flourish and brought the flat of it down against a bowl full of dog-flesh and sent it spinning across the room. It hit the wall with a clang and a squelch, and that was good enough for Rhin.
The faerie went at it with a will, hacking and slashing at anything metal he could find on the tabletop. Bowls. Scalpels. Pliers. Saws. Trays. They all soared in graceful, tumbling arcs to smash and clatter against the walls and pillars. Merion writhed all the while, yelling and cursing the noise. It looked as though he was trying very hard to stuff his fists into his ear. Rhin kept on swinging.
