Bloodrush (Scarlet Star Trilogy #1)

Chapter 33 - Trigger Finger

'The fucking Wit. Of all Fae, Sift sent him, and his Black Fingers, all twelve of them. They stepped right out of the bushes at the foot of the tower, as if they were out for a stroll. It was a miracle they weren't seen. I thought I would have to fight my way out, but Sift had sent him with an offer-an offer of truce if I handed back the Hoard. I couldn't tell him I had given it away, especially not to Karrigan. They threatened to cut Merion's throat if I didn't. And mine. Roots damn it! After all these years!'

6th June, 1867

Hearts are treacherous things. At times they can beat so proudly it feels as though they will burst from your ribcage at any moment. They can drum a tune to run to, or fight to, or love to. But they are not to be trusted, for every heart will skip or slump, sickeningly so, and always when you need it not to.

Merion cursed his quietly as he stood, dripping, on the rise above the landing. His feet were numb blocks, his hair a matted, swimming mess, his clothes chafing strips of cloth, and his legs dead and buried. But his heart was the true criminal, slinking away, deeper into his chest, purged of all vim and vigour.

The riverboat sparkled through the thick curtains of pouring rain. A hundred lights glittered along its side, yellow, white, some even red. Smoke scattered from a half-dozen chimneys, chased by the storm. She looked altogether too awake for Merion's liking.

Merion gripped his gun as tightly as his numb fingers would allow, and gritted his teeth. He stirred up every dark thought, every desperate mental cry, every flash of emotion he had borne to that muddy rise, and brought them to the boil again. He felt the heat spread from his face to his chest. Slowly his heart began to lurch and obey. Slowly his blood began to simmer again. Lurker had told him that boiling blood was a fine thing every once in a while, and that time was now. The young Hark bared his teeth and set off down the hill, keeping his gun low and slightly behind him. Two hooded figures stood at the riverboat's gangplank, guns on their shoulders, and looking entirely too miserable. Merion racked his brains as he marched through the mud, as the lightning flickered around him, bleaching the night into terrible starkness.

They had seen him. He was only a hundred yards away now. Even the rain couldn't hide him in the orange glow of the riverboat. Merion slipped the vial of ox blood from his pocket and set the glass to his lips. He could smell the copper stinging his nostrils as he flicked his head back and drank it down, putting the red in his belly. The vial was thrown to the mud and crushed underneath his shoes as he marched.

Confidence was his ploy, he had decided somewhere about halfway down the hill. That, and the innocence of youth. Merion pasted a sad and desolate look on his pale, rain-streaked face as he approached the two men. They were already signalling him to halt. One had raised his rifle. Merion kept the Mistress out of sight, carefully turning it around so he could hold her by the barrel.

Twenty yards now, and already he could feel the hot blood coursing through his veins. Now his heart wanted to thunder, that was for sure. He had to strain hard to keep it from bursting into pieces. As the blood entered his skull his vision swam, and for a split second he faltered, almost tumbling into the mud.

'Stop there, I said!' shouted one of the lordsguards over the hammering of the rain. He was peering out from under his hood, trying to get a gauge on this bedraggled wastrel. Was it just a boy, just a young lad?

Merion held himself hard against the magick as it yanked at every fibre in his scrawny body. This shade was strong indeed, but then again, oxen do have a reputation for strength.