Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3) by Ben Galley Read Free Book Online

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