Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3) (6 page)

‘What fish you like, little man?’ asked the other fishmonger, waving a hand over the wares trapped behind a glass counter. All sorts of sea-life sat there, goggle-eyed and shiny, lying atop piles of pale ice. Merion rubbed his hands and reeled off a list he had been working on for several days now.

‘Carp, whole. Moray Eel, also whole if you’ve got it. Any squid, perhaps? No? Alright. Maybe some tuna? Great. A head if you have it. Lobster? Only a small one? That’ll do, I think.’

The two men went to work, digging in barrels or rescuing fish from the ice, wrapping it all in brown paper and bagging it up with the practice of years. Merion wondered if he had been mistaken about the men. Perhaps they were all simply brothers. Whatever they were or were not, his paranoia could at least be forgiven, after the last few months he’d had.

Next he moved to the two smiling butchers, and rattled off the other half of his list.

‘Any squirrel in? No? That’s a shame. Rat? Yes, whole, please. Almighty knows what he’s having the chef cook up.’ (More laughter at that.) ‘And lastly, hopefully, some mole? Excellent! Magpie? Another whole.’

Merion was secretly beside himself. He hadn’t expected to find so many shades in one place. He had his hands full within a few short minutes, arm sockets already aching from the weight of the paper bags. And he was only just getting started.

The men hollered out the total and Merion carefully reached inside his coat pocket, trying not to jingle too many of his coins. He winced at the cost for effect, though he doubted it helped. The smiles of the men didn’t flinch, but their eyes did. Merion was quite clearly loaded, as Rhin would have put it. Oh, how he wished he could stop thinking of the little beast.

‘You need a hand, little man? For carryin’?’ one of the men asked, rounding the side of the counter.

‘No, thank you. I don’t have to go far,’ Merion lied.

‘Sure, little man?’

‘It’s a dark night,’ added another.

‘I’m fine, thank you. Honestly.’

With the bill paid, Merion thanked the men a few more times and shuffled quickly out of the door, back into the gathering evening. The clouds had grown bored of pelting the city, and the rain had finally stopped. He set off at a brisk pace, heading north and taking some of the wider streets, aiming out of Cheapside and away from the river. He spied a pharmacy with a lantern still alight in its doorway, and hurried to it. It must have been past five o’clock already.

Inside was cold, and reeked of mothballs and bleach. Merion had to breathe though his mouth as he set his bags of meat down and surveyed the counter. There were no muscle-bound quadruplets to greet him this time; just a thin woman who must have been part parrot. Her nose dominated her face, almost dwarfing the spectacles that balanced there. She had twitchy eyes, and wore a long, grey physician’s coat. Merion offered his best smile. This was not going to be as easy as buying meat.

‘Hello, I’d like to purchase some supplies for my master, Doctor Jepson, of Flint Street,’ he lied, hoping Flint Street wasn’t too far away.

The woman pursed her lips for a moment, and studied Merion’s face. He kept his smile and pointed to the counter. ‘Just a syringe and a scalpel. He is currently in the middle of a surgery, and both have broken on him. Would you believe it?’

The woman flashed him a glance that said no, she didn’t.

‘You’re the last shop I could find that was open. Hopefully you can help me?’

With a tut, the woman unlocked the counter. ‘I was ‘alfway through closing up.’

‘I have the coin right here,’ he replied, digging out a pair of silvers.

‘It’ll cost you a bit more than that!’

Two more silvers were added, and an extra large smile. ‘Your smallest syringe then, please.’
Clink
went another few coins, making six. ‘And a needle and thread, perhaps. And seven small vials.’

Another tut, as the items were lined up on the counter. ‘Perhaps a bag?’ Merion was pushing his luck. With a crackle, a paper bag was shaken out and passed over. He packed quickly and carefully, placing his new things on top of the carp, and then said his goodbyes. ‘Doctor Jepson sends his thanks. As does his patient, I’m sure.’

‘Hmmm,’ was all he got in reply.

Outside was a flat grey; neither evening nor day. The clouds hovered over the now-distant spires, stealing their tips from view. Merion rolled his shoulders and hurried on down the street, negotiating the slippery cobbles with care. He had to at least make it some of the way to Harker Sheer. He could continue on at first light if he needed to. He had the time.

*

Later, after hours of walking, Merion was flagging. Ten days aboard a swaying ship will take the strength out of anybody’s legs, and he felt like a newborn calf, staggering with every step.

Harker Sheer was close, but not close enough. A place to bed down was his priority now, and he longed for somewhere off the streets. He checked for followers over his shoulder; not a soul shared the cobbles with him.
Perfect
. Merion ducked into an alleyway and rested his arms for a moment while he looked around for a suitable hiding spot.

To his left, the passage curved under an arch that prevented two buildings from leaning into each other. Just before the arch was a ladder up to a ledge where a door and pulley had once been. The door was now sealed with newer brick, and a broken spar of wood sat fixed above, long hacked away. In the gloom, Merion made out a tumbledown canopy hanging over the ledge. He clenched a fist and picked up his bags with a groan.

It took several journeys to shift his supplies up the ladder and onto the ledge. He had to feel the edge with the toes of his boots to avoid falling, and he prayed he wouldn’t roll off in the night.
Maybe he should lash himself to something
.

Merion had remembered to take a candle and a box of matches from the
Black Rosa
, and he put them to work, tucking the light away in the shallow corner between the doorframe and the old brick. He wasted no time in stretching or yawning. He got straight to work; fishing out the vials, syringe and scalpel from the bag.

‘Heart, liver, or lungs. That’s what you said, wasn’t it, Aunt Lilain?’ Merion muttered to himself, rubbing his forehead as he recalled all those nights in the basement, watching her dissect the animals, siphoning magick from dead flesh. The stabbing guilt came for the second time that day; guilt of leaving his aunt and Lurker behind. It had plagued him every day since he had left them in Washingtown. Every time, he repeated his reason to himself.
He was keeping them safe; saving their lives, even
. He had no clue whether they understood, but he would bear their hatred if it meant they stayed clear of the fray.
Out of this bloodfeud
. Amends would have to be made later.

Since it had already been skinned, Merion decided to distract himself with the mole. From what he remembered, mole was a fine shade. Milkeyes, it was called. It helped a rusher to see in the dark, but it also carried the threat of cataracts if abused. He didn’t fancy that.

The young Hark placed the mole on the paper bag and began to slice through its flesh. He dug beneath the ribs and pulled them apart, wincing at the cracking of little bones. Even after all this time swilling blood, seeing death up close and far too personal, gore still made him want to gag.

Merion guessed at which bloody lump was the heart, and reached for the syringe. Biting his lip, he slid the sharp needle into the organ and pulled gently on the plunger. There was a sucking nose, and blood began to sputter up into the glass chamber. Not much—barely a mouthful—but it was all he was going to get. He managed a little more from the liver. Flicking the glass as he had seen his aunt do, he removed the needle and plucked a vial from the pack. With utmost care, he poured the blood into the vial, waiting for every last drop before he shook it out, cleaned off the needle, and scratched an “M” into the glass. He grabbed the next animal immediately; he had a lot of work to do.

So engrossed was he with his job that the sound of boots on cobbles—two pairs of boots—fell on deaf ears; as did the hushed whispering, and rustling of cloaks as hands pointed to a faint flicker of a candle above the alleyway. When he was halfway through bleeding the tuna, an impassive face reared over the top of the ladder and growled at him in a garbled language. Merion scrabbled backwards in shock, almost falling off the ledge. His foot sent the fish spinning over the side, and it squelched on the ground below. His heart thudded like a blacksmith’s hammer. Thoughts of his last fight—of Gavisham’s fingers crushing the life out of him—flashed through his mind.

‘You are no lord’s boy, are you, little man?’ growled the fishmonger from earlier, as he pulled himself to standing. The smell of fish was palpable. He was still wearing his apron, although the cloak was a new addition. Merion saw a glint of something in his hand. His eyes flicked to the fishmonger’s boots, where his scalpel lay next to the vial of mole’s blood. His gaze darted between each one, trying to decide.

It was the appearance of a second face at the top of the ladder that made his decision for him. The icy fingers of death had already touched him once, and he had no desire to entertain them again.

Merion lunged forward and snatched up the scalpel. He hurled it as fast and as hard as he could before barging forward. It was a clumsy throw, catching the fishmonger across the back of the hand; but it was enough to send him tottering. Merion’s shoulder ramming into his gut finished the job. The fishmonger’s heel caught the lip of the ladder and he fell into the darkness with a wail. A sickening crunch cut him short.

The vial was empty by the time the butcher hauled himself onto the ledge, brandishing a cleaver in his ham-like fist. He waved it around in mad arcs, boots inching forward with every swing. He didn’t seem to fancy following his brother down to the cobbles.

Merion felt the blood surge in his stomach and clenched hard, forcing the magick into a dash for his skull. A hiss of exhilaration escaped his pursed lips; he hadn’t rushed since the night of the Bloodmoon, and by the Almighty did it feel good.

By the time he had the rioting blood under his control, the butcher was only a few paces away. No longer was his face expressionless; in the faint light of the candle, he had spied the meat, the vial, the syringe, and now the blood on Merion’s lips. ‘Vampire!’ he spat, waving his cleaver again. Merion bared his bloody teeth.

‘Leech, actually,’ he said, as the blood surged into his fingers and into his face. He held strong through the pain, letting the shade go to work. His fingernails were growing thicker, sharper, thrusting out of his fingertips. In a few short moments he bore two handfuls of claws, brown and knotted like antlers. He grinned at the butcher, even though he already felt the shade struggling to endure. The mole hadn’t been exactly fresh, and the blood had been lacking. Merion would have to be fast.

‘What by the Almighty are you?!’ yelled his attacker, face aghast.

With a kick, Merion extinguished the candle, and plunged the ledge into darkness. He blinked and found the night aglow with a pale light. He could see everything in crystal clarity: the horrified grimace on the butcher’s face; the sweat on his brow; the bootlace escaping from its knot. His mole eyes saw all.
What a fine shade indeed!

The butcher was afraid of the dark, it seemed, and set about trying to carve it to pieces with the knife, howling for the Almighty at the top of his lungs. His reaction was to be expected; he was sharing a small ledge with a clawed vampire. Several nearby dogs took to howling at the racket.

Merion ducked a vicious slash of the blade and slammed his foot down on the wayward lace. At the same time, his claws raked the butcher’s coat to shreds, finding skin beneath. The butcher stumbled backwards with a cry, his cleaver falling to the stone. Merion kicked out while he still had the upper hand (or claw, to be exact). The man flew into the night, just like his brother.

Merion crept forward and peeked down. The fishmonger was struggling to his feet; he was clutching his back with one hand, and waving his filleting knife with the other. He balanced a boot on the ladder once more, and Merion saw in the man’s eyes that this had gone beyond coin. It was now personal.

Slashing at the empty air above him, the fishmonger climbed, pain flashing across his face with every rung. He was clearly struggling. The butcher lay where he had landed, silent and still. Merion could see a dark puddle gathering on the cobbles around his head.

The young Hark slipped backwards to perch on the far end of the ledge, giving himself some room. Once the fishmonger had finally dragged himself up the ladder, he began to thrust indiscriminately into the shadows. His breath was laboured, and Merion could see the blood at the corner of his mouth. He was close to collapse.

Merion edged along the brick and worked his way closer. The knife-blade almost caught him once, but he flinched away at the last moment.
Thank the Almighty for mole eyes
.

He ducked and slashed out with his weakening claws, cutting across the back of the man’s legs. The fishmonger sank to the stone like a sack of coal. He hissed as he flailed. ‘You evil bastard! You monster!’