Bloodrush (Scarlet Star Trilogy #1)

Chapter 31 - Of Clever Beasts

'That damn boy, leaving the door unlocked. Maid almost walked in while I was showing him how to use a sword. Damn it if he hasn't got a tongue though. He convinced the old woman he was practising his waltz. Gods love him. I never thought I would count a human as a close friend. Roots, as my only friend.'

6th June, 1867

Breathless, the faerie sprinted. He could run for hours. He could run for days. He could probably run for weeks, and yet this handful of miles between the barn and the Runnels dragged and stretched and crawled past no matter how hard his wiry legs pounded the sand, no matter how hard his wings heaved and thrust him forward, no matter how many boulders he bounded or corners he whittled down. He kept his eyes on the house and its cheap yellow lights. Each glowing pinprick wore a sleepy aura in the rising mist. Rhin hung onto their paltry glow as if they were ropes to haul himself forwards on. The back yard was quiet and dark.

Words were nowhere to be found, neither on his tongue nor in his throat. He had hoped a few might have materialised by now, but all he tasted was dust instead, and the constant, cold vanguard of the storm. He could hear its rumbling in the distance, testing its voice for the evening's performance. Rhin rumbled also, clearing his throat of the sand and dry spit, and tested his own voice on the shadows.

'Lilain ...' he whispered with a wince. 'It's about Merion.'

'Merion's in trouble.'

'I'm a friend of ...' Rhin wondered whether that was too much of a lie.

'This is going to sound strange, but ... shit,' Rhin wrung his hands. 'It's all gone to shit!'

With that cry, a chill of fear and failure swept through him like a winter river bursting its banks. It nearly floored him, driving his hands to his stomach and his chin into his chest. He felt sick, and yet all he had to vomit was a strangled sob. Rhin spat his frustration on the floor and forced himself forwards towards the doorstep. This night was not over yet.

The kitchen was dark at its edges, the candle in the window, old and withered. Battered pans sat like battlements along the countertops, stubborn suds still clinging to their lips. The table was strewn with old paper and cloths. Spotless vials hung upside-down to dry on little spikes. Worried hands always find tasks to busy themselves with. There was no sign of Merion's aunt at the table, nor in the hallway. Merion's door was dark and no lantern hung outside in the road. Only a dim sliver of orange light crept out from under the basement door. Rhin took a breath. Why was he so scared? He had just robbed a human locomotive, for Roots' sake.

'And look how well that went ...' he muttered to himself.

The door inched open with a loud creak, and Rhin had to fight to hold back his invisibility, second-nature to him as it was. This all felt tospy-turvy, to be prowling in full and open view. Even in the hallways of Harker Sheer, Rhin had always crept unseen. But now here he was, on his way to break another promise, to reveal himself to Lilain, a letter no less, with his blood on her brain. He would have to be quick with his words instead of his magick for once. And still his tongue felt like sandpaper.

Perhaps it was the faerie's fear that distracted him, or his task, or just the simple fact he was not used to throwing a shadow. Fae magick wrapped light around itself. Shadows become obsolete with practise. As Rhin strode deeper into the room, and past a little candle sitting on the bottom step, his shadow crept with him, splayed on the wall, all haggard and monstrous. Had his eyes not been glued to the empty shadows at the end of the wall, he might have noticed. He also might have noticed the heavy blanket, the sandbags, the ropes, maybe even the huddled figure hiding between two bodies, waiting for just such a shadow to come creeping down her stairs.