Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3)

by Ben Galley

  Her room was cool, thanks to the window being constantly open now she was playing host to the visits of magpies. Calidae placed her hot face against the cold glass, looking for any flapping shapes. The sky was streaked with cloud, and growing dim now that afternoon was slipping to evening. No magpies in sight. Just a few ravens, circling a pine tree in the garden.

  She swept from the window and resorted to pacing, walking out her angst. She found it worked wonders. Every day spent in Dizali’s presence made it harder to restrain her emotions, and his increasing suspicion tightened her nerves. She had caught the sideways glances, the slitted eyes when he thought she was asleep in the carriage. She found solace in the counting of the days, of which there were fewer and fewer. Her victory was close, and that was armour enough. What was the point in wallowing, when you can be winning? Another of her father’s adages.

  She recalled the Queen’s haunting face and wondered what the mad creature had meant by her words.

  Vengeance… boiling her up… leaving her hollow.

  They had put a chill in her; that much was true. She wondered whether they referred to her thirst for more: more blood, more power, more secrets. A Queen would certainly know a thing or two about that.

  Doubts were like knots in muscle. They had to be worked upon, manhandled, forced into submission. Calidae had become skilled at this after the past few weeks. Within an hour, her stubbornness had broken down Dizali’s suspicions and the Queen’s threats into objectives and obsoletes. She was enjoying this new habit of calculation. It made a fine difference to the impetuous girl who had hurtled her way across America.

  A growl of her stomach sat her down at the dressing table to ready herself for dinner. Yet another quiet, uncomfortable meal with the Lord Protector, no doubt; and perhaps a select few of his minions, if she were lucky. One of the Order maybe, or one of the Eighth. At least there would be crimson wine. Perhaps if Dizali was in the drinking mood, she could at last slip away to the northeast wing. She sucked at her twisted lip.

  As she combed her hair into place, she checked her skin for any sores that had been stubborn enough to hang around; a practice that had become habitual since stepping onto the Black Rosa. Caves and rocky desert tors hadn’t been the ideal place for maintenance.

  Her face, scalp, and neck were practically healed, but there were a few small places were the fire still burned in some shape or form. The tenderness had also faded. Now Calidae’s fingers could roam freely, skipping over her hairline, or her ear, or the ripples in her neck. She smiled then, as she always did; staring at herself, admiring the new her, stamping out any doubt that was bold enough to poke its prickly head.

  ‘I am a Serped,’ she told herself. ‘And Serpeds always win.’

  There came a timid knock at her door. A maid. ‘Supper, Milady.’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ Calidae called out, halfway through changing her dress. She had opted for something slightly grander than was strictly necessary. She didn’t care. Let it bother Dizali, make him squirm. Every time she did that, she learned something new about the way his tongue worked; how he bent his words, and those of others. The chance for a free lesson should never be snubbed.

  She found Dizali at the head of the dining table. She took a different spot than usual, sitting to Dizali’s side instead of the far end. The Lord Protector didn’t deign to rise. ‘Lady Serped,’ was all he said, before continuing to eat. Tonight’s supper was salmon and delicate slices of potato roasted in cream and cheese. A carafe of crimson wine caused Calidae’s gut to murmur.

  The butler appeared at once, sliding a plate under her nose and removing its silver lid with a flourish. Vegetables also found their way to the table. Silver cutlery rattled against silver trays.

  Dizali saw to his own plate, glancing up at the girl every minute or so. Calidae ignored his looks.

  ‘I have been thinking, Lady Serped, about what the Queen said today,’ he announced, once his plate was clean and a stray bone had been removed from his goatee. Judging by the smudge of red at the corner of his mouth, he was certainly in a drinking mood tonight.

  ‘Her curse?’

  ‘About vengeance, actually.’

  She busied herself with her fish. ‘What is on your mind, Lord Protector?’

  Dizali poured more crimson wine into her glass, even though she had yet to take a sip.

  ‘The Brothers Eighth have heard word of an American ship docking in London, about a week ago.’

  That was news indeed.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘An ironclad, no less.’

  ‘How curious.’

  ‘Curious indeed, Calidae. Far too curious for a coincidence.’

  She calculated a response to change his focus. ‘You believe King Lincoln is seeking vengeance for Cirque Kadabra?’

  The casual sip of his wine told her that no, he did not. In fact, it appeared as though he hadn’t even considered this. She pressed on. ‘I thought the consensus was that the Order’s involvement was anonymous. That Lincoln suspected nothing? This could spell tr—’

  ‘The Eighth say that Tonmerion Hark was spotted disembarking. Along with a wrinkled woman.’

  ‘A wrinkled woman?’ Thank the Almighty for short-sighted dock workers.

  ‘And what is most strange is that the ironclad’s appearance coincides with the time you arrived, Lady Serped. In fact it was the very same day. Truth be told, it makes me wonder what vengeance the Queen was inferring.’

  ‘That is to be expected. I fled as soon as I could. No doubt Hark did the same, chasing me down. And rest assured, Lord Protector, I did not arrive in an American ship. And it certainly wasn’t an ironclad.’

  ‘What kind was it?’

  Calidae raised an eyebrow. ‘Is this an interrogation or a supper, my Lord? You seem to distrust me all of a sudden. For reasons that aren’t known or understood.’

  ‘I seek only to understand every angle. What manner of ship?’

  Calidae replied with all the confidence of rehearsal. Merion had insisted on testing every inch of her survival tale on the voyage. ‘A trading sloop. Barely sea-worthy. Grecian, I believe.’

  Dizali leaned forward. ‘So the name Black Rosa means nothing to you?’

  ‘Not in the slightest, my Lord. You’ve no reason to doubt me. We share the same goal, after all. The only desire for revenge I have is reserved for Tonmerion Hark.’

  Dizali thumbed his goatee. The keys around Calidae’s neck felt hot and heavy.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you are satisfied, Lord Dizali.’ She was holding her fork tightly, almost hurting her fingers.

  ‘Oh, I am not satisfied. Not yet.’

  ‘Will you insult me further?’ Calidae snapped. ‘I have been nothing but honest ever since my arrival, and have done everything as you say. Everything! As a member of the Order, I believed you trusted me implicitly. Is this not so, or will I have to prove myself further?’

  Dizali looked at her carefully. He took his time with his thoughts, spending at least a minute chewing on them, his stare locked on Calidae’s impassive eyes.

  ‘It is because you are now a member of the Order that I must know you can be trusted. Why did Hark not kill you after he killed Gavisham? Why spare you, if he was chasing you down, as you say?’

  Calidae folded her napkin onto her lap and fixed him with her ice-blue eyes.

  ‘Look at my face, Lord Protector, and tell me it doesn’t make you shiver. Not outwardly, perhaps, but definitely in some private, morbid imagining of wearing the same skin. The feel of it. Now take a moment to consider how you would feel if you were the cause of such injuries, such losses. It would give you pause, would it not? It may even stay your hand, if you were my enemy. It certainly stayed Tonmerion Hark’s hand, and I do not mind saying it made me hate him all the more. Pity is nothing more than cowardice in a prettier costume. His mistake will be his undoing. Does that answer your question?’

  Dizali said nothing. He emptied his glass with two large gulps and rose to his f
eet. He put his fists to the tabletop and watched as she removed herself from her chair.

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Thank you once again, Lord Protector, for the meal,’ said Calidae, curtseying.

  She left him at the table, bound for her room. There would be no sneaking tonight.

  Chapter XIV

  FATHER’S SON

  9th August, 1867

  ‘All I’m saying, is that if you really think hard about it, blood rushing is just odd. You’re drinking animal blood, for Almighty’s sake. Doesn’t it ever feel strange to you two?’ Merion threw out his argument, glancing between Lurker and Gunderton with a hopeful expression.

  They swapped a look, shrugged and then chorused, ‘No.’

  Merion scowled.

  Evening had fallen, and London was beginning to sparkle. Despite the eager mist, which had clawed its way up the steep riverbanks to lurk in the cobbled alleyways, lanterns and gaslights shone brightly through the murk. The buildings cut misshapen silhouettes from the purple sky as it bruised to velvet black. Here in the old city, the rooftops were crooked spines, the walls leaned in all directions, and the guttering clung on for dear life. These were London’s oldest roots, and by the Almighty, they were decrepit.

  Merion stepped over a puddle, dashing it with his boot. He shrugged. ‘Then I’ll just have to assume you both lack a touch of refinement.’ He chuckled, receiving a sharp nudge from Lurker.

  The old prospector sucked again on his cigarette. ‘I ain’t the one who’s still squeamish ‘bout puttin’ the red in his belly. Yellow’s more your colour.’

  It was Merion’s turn to do the nudging, and he did so with a mock swipe at Lurker’s hat. The prospector caught his wrist in a flash, and grinned. Merion chuckled and tutted.

  ‘And yet you won’t teach me to fight,’ he said.

  ‘I only fight ‘cause I can’t rush five veins like you.’

  ‘Five veins?’ Gunderton raised an eyebrow.

  Merion nodded. ‘I learnt reptile in Cirque Kadabra. Yara Mizar’s letters weaned me onto it.’

  ‘Not bad,’ said the Brother. ‘But I’ve seen better.’ He winked.

  Merion was curious to find out where.

  Gunderton gave him a broad smile. ‘Your father could rush the whole Star.’

  ‘Almighty…’ said Merion, flushed with pride, but also feeling a little sting of jealousy. A decision fuelled by passion was always swiftly made. He would have to master the last shade, when the dust had settled. His mind flashed back to the hour spent at Lilain’s table in Fell Falls, and how brutal the insect test had been.

  He was the Bulldog’s Boy. And he would make his father proud.

  Merion had often wondered why the Bulldog had never revealed his secrets, as Castor had done with Calidae. Despite the doubt this subject bred in him, a single thought stuck like a chicken-bone in his throat: his father had sent him to Lilain, a letter. The more Merion pondered it, the more he found hidden compartments to that dying wish. It was as Akway, the Sleeping Tree, had said: Karrigan had a secret he wished him to learn. His mind turned to another time in his aunt’s old house; of eavesdropping through a door, devouring the words of Lilain and Lurker as they argued arguing about whether Merion should learn of Karrigan’s greatest secret. When I say he’s ready, she had said. Not, ‘No!’ or, ‘Never!’

  When.

  Discovering bloodrushing. The Serpeds. Lincoln. Everything. This was his father’s plan as much as his, and that gave him comfort.

  ‘How far now?’ asked Lurker, tossing his cigarette into a puddle. His accuracy was rewarded with a sharp hiss. It had rained again that afternoon, spoiling the promise of a beautiful warm day.

  Gunderton pointed them left, down another cobbled street. ‘Another mile.’

  ‘You said that last time,’ said Merion.

  ‘I thought you’d be used to walking, after tramping all the way across the Endless Land.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘It’s the time, not the miles, that concern me. We still have a lot to do.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Gunderton.

  In truth, it was almost exactly a mile. Lurker told them so. His feet never lied, or so he said. They found the squat bookshop with its lanterns glowing orange. The sign confirmed it was open.

  ‘Not too late after all,’ Gunderton said, rubbing his hands. ‘Letters like to stay open late. They can make a bit of coin while they work.’

  ‘I can smell blood,’ Lurker rumbled, sniffing the air. ‘And I don’t mean from in there.’

  ‘Probably just the mist, mixing up your scents?’ Gunderton suggested.

  ‘Mmm,’ said the prospector. ‘Don’t like this mist.’ He fell in line behind Merion. Gunderton led the way inside.

  The bell chimed as they entered, and Spirn appeared as swiftly as before. Merion wasn’t quite sure, but it seemed that the mountain range of books had grown even larger since their last visit. It hardly seemed possible.

  ‘Evening, Errant, and with acolyte Merion in tow again I see.’ Spirn extended a hand over the counter. They all took turns to shake it.

  ‘And John Hobble,’ said Gunderton, clapping a hand to Lurker’s shoulder. ‘A friend visiting from the New Kingdom.’

  ‘An Endless Lander, eh?’ Spirn said, voice low.

  ‘True enough,’ answered Lurker.

  ‘They have good letters out there, John?’

  ‘Some of the best.’ Merion could tell Lurker was thinking of Lilain.

  Spirn’s grave face snapped into a wide grin. ‘Well now you’ve finally found the best. You’ve never met a letter like me, John. You’re in for a treat.’

  Lurker spread a few of Lincoln’s coins on the counter. ‘Magpie, then, and lots of it.’

  ‘Right you are, sir!’

  Spirn clapped his hands and began to prowl through the nearest pyramid of tomes. He mumbled and hummed as he searched. ‘Anything else, gentlemen?’

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve had any faerie in?’ Merion asked.

  Spirn looked up from his work and stared at the ceiling in deep thought. It made the boy’s heart lift, but it came crashing back down as quickly as the letter said, ‘No. It’s a rare one, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘More electric eel, please,’ said Merion. ‘And some newt, if you have that.’

  ‘Wisp?’ said Gunderton.

  ‘Oh…’ Spirn paused, working his teeth around his bottom lip. ‘Yes. One vial.’

  ‘Gecko?’ asked Merion, hand still clamped to his side.

  ‘You’re in luck.’

  ‘And possibly some weasel?’

  ‘A flitter? Well, why not.’

  Spirn took his sweet time finding the vials. A good five minutes passed before he had put the last vial on the counter. He ran his fingers over the glass and corks, counting the cost. Before he could name his price, the doorbell rang.

  They turned as one, and together their hearts clenched in shock.

  A Brother stood in the doorway, paused in confusion, bowler hat in hands and suit smarter than a shop window mannequin. Two faces peered over each of his shoulders, blinking in the bright light of the shop. The acolytes wore hats to match their master’s.

  ‘Busy tonight, Spirn?’ said the Brother, in a clipped Empire accent. With Lurker standing at the back of the queue, his wide frame casting a shadow, they had not yet recognised who it was that stood in their path.

  Lurker wasn’t about to give them a chance. He flew into action, grasping a handful of books with one hand. He managed to fit three in his huge fingers, and hurled them at the Brother. With the other, he reached for the Mistress, hiding underneath his leather coat. He dived for cover as he squeezed off a round.

  The Brother was fast, sinking to the floor as the Mistress sang, deafeningly loud. The bullet ripped cloth from his shoulder, and found a new home in the forehead of one of the acolytes. The man reeled backwards into the night, stone dead.

&nbs
p; Pandemonium erupted. Bodies threw themselves in all directions. Gunderton hurled book after book at the doorway, vials smashing, as he reached for his crimson. Merion snatched a vial of electric eel from the counter. Finding cover behind a table, he threw his head back and gulped it down, feeling the familiar burn. He knew this shade like a lover knows every curve and hollow of their partner.

  Within moments he was rushing, dragging the magick from his mind and pressing it into his hands. Hairs stood on end, skin rippled, and sparks jumped the gaps between his fingers.

  ‘NOT IN THE SHOP!’ Spirn was screaming, as he watched books fly. The Mistress ignored him. Another concussion shook the bookshop. The bullet went high, smashing a window.

  Merion decided to ignore him, too. This was a Brother and his acolyte. They deserved no pause or polite conversation. The boy poured lightning onto them as they scrabbled out of the doorway, bearing teeth. Books sizzled and smoked. Flames erupted from more than one pile. The acolyte wailed as the sparks coursed over his back before he escaped into the wet night.

  ‘Run!’ Gunderton hissed, swiping their vials from the counter, throwing a pouch of coins to Spirn, and sprinting from the door. He downed the weasel blood as he ran.

  Merion and Lurker needed no encouragement. They bounded after him, knowing their enemies would be reaching for their own vials. Merion felt like a bubbling pot. Had hatred not spurred him, then cold fear would have done the job. He saw flashes of the fight with Gavisham behind his eyes; the blurry edges of a choking death. He drew strength from those memories, and let them rush alongside the magick, turning his legs to pistons.

  One. Two. Three. They burst from the door like rats from a rattled pipe. Fire flashed in the night, reaching out for them, singeing their boots and coat-tails. Gunderton curled into a roll to avoid the heat and then doubled back to charge at the acolyte crouched by the bookshop’s door. The old Brother was like a shadow, ducking and weaving over the wet street. There was a loud crash as the acolyte’s head met a window. Fire sputtered over Gunderton’s cloak, but he kept swinging his punches.