Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

PENDLE HILL , with all its history and horror, lay a day, and one infuriating night, behind them. Pitch adjusted his seat on Lalassu's broad back, scowling over at Silas whose dull brown wool cape matched his equally dull, brown gelding. The horse was a stolen addition to their party, thanks to Tyvain who had willingly gone along with the ankou's ridiculous decision that it was safer for Pitch to ride alone upon Lalassu. Silas claimed some nonsense about being better able to notice an oncoming threat; though Pitch suspected part of the issue was more to do with how his arse rubbed against the ankou as they rode. Still, Silas would not hear a word of daemonic insistence that Pitch was capable of looking after himself. Silas insisted on playing sombre bodyguard.

So yesterday some poor bastard would have gone to set out for his afternoon ride only to himself without a mount, and a small pouch of coins in exchange for his troubles.

‘I can definitely see a greater sway in that poor horse's back, with all the weight it carries, Silas.'

The ankou pulled from his thoughts with a smile. ‘Is that so? I think he is doing most admirably.'

‘Well you would, because you can't see how much shorter its legs have become since you mounted it.'

Silas laughed, but it was a heavy sound, as though he did not have the strength to shift his ribs. The cape that Isaac had given him certainly didn't do the ankou's complexion any favours, but its unflattering colour could not be entirely blamed for making him appear so drained. In the weakness of the morning light Silas was pale, and looked altogether as exhausted as Pitch himself felt. The night in a gods-forsaken barn had done neither of them any favours at all.

According to Jane, it had not been a barn, thank you very much, but a very simple country house with beds enough for all. Pitch was told to appreciate the fact no owners were about, so none of their tired party had to bother with any enchantments or sweet talk to secure accommodations. True, no one had the energy for such things, but that was not to say Pitch had forgone hope of a lazy tumble between silk sheets with Silas. No matter how badly his body ached–and gods it fucking ached with unpleasant pains–he was hungry for at least a minute alone with the ankou.

Evidently, one minute was far too much to ask.

The residence had been made for a family of Gilmore-esque dwellers, apparently. The beds were single and tiny, barely able to accommodate Silas by himself, let alone with company. They indulged in some heavy petting, a decent rub to tide them over, but Silas had not done well with knowing the rest of the group was just a paper-thin wall away. He'd preferred to keep to kisses, which Pitch agreed to endure. But, besides all that, Pitch had admitted to himself with great ire, that they were both too fucking exhausted for fucking.

From behind, a snort came from one of the black geldings pulling the carriage. Silas's attention darted there, that pained expression appearing on his face again.

‘Jane will inform us if Sybilla needs anything,' Pitch said. ‘We can't go much slower or we shall be at a halt.'

‘I know…but she is being most stubborn in continuing on with us. I fear it is far too taxing on her.'

‘And I fear you shall end up with a black eye, if you keep fussing over her as you do. Not everyone is as tolerant of your coddling as I am, you know.'

As Pitch had hoped, that shifted Silas's concerns from the angel, and delivered a more enthusiastic smile. ‘You are indeed so very patient with me, my dearest.'

‘Don't you forget it.'

The journey away from the cockaigne appeared meandering, taking a westward turn at first, then they kept north. Tyvain, Jane, Sybilla and the simurgh, with Scarlet playing attentive nursemaid as per Lucifer's instructions, all travelled in the carriage. Jane refused to allow much of a pace; citing Sybilla too poorly to manage a lot of jolting about. The journey was slow, but an hour ago Isaac informed them, in his grumpy way, that they had reached the outskirts of the Yorkshire Dales.

‘Bloody rollin' hills. Enough to make a man seasick,' he'd mumbled into his scarves.

But of course, the ankou had a very different opinion.

‘Isn't this countryside astounding, Pitch?' Silas said, his voice deep and growling. ‘How I would love to see these hills in the springtime. I dare say they would challenge your eyes for beauty, with their hue of green.'

‘Well, they could try, I suppose.' Pitch was trying very hard to be astonished at the lay of the land, at how breathtaking it all was, but in truth he was more enamoured by the new and stirring timbre of Silas's voice. Depths that made it rumble in his chest, and caused Pitch's nerves to thrill; and other parts of him to protest at how neglected they felt. ‘I could do with some springtime right now. The temperature has plummeted, don't you think? Or perhaps I am simply noticing it more, now that I've been abandoned alone on horseback.'

Silas cast him an indulgent grin. ‘I imagine that cloak is as warm and cosy as it looks, not to mention you are a fire daemon, my darling. And I know for certain your flames are warming you nicely. You were like a stovepipe to hold onto.'

Pitch touched at the rather sublime fuchsia cloak that Tyvain had won in a bet at the town they had stopped in to take some lunch the previous day. Well, she insisted it had been won, but Pitch suspected it too was the result of sticky fingers. Along with the soothsayer being sick and tired of hearing Pitch complain about his borrowed attire from Isaac. ‘Is that why you are punishing that poor horse and not riding with me? If I was too hot for you, I can remedy that.'

Silas chuckled. ‘It was not your flame's heat I found difficult to bear.'

Was he a little rosier in the cheeks? ‘My good fellow, were you having trouble keeping your thoughts pure, as you rode up against me?'

Definitely rosier in the cheeks now. Pitch's suspicions about the motive behind separate horses had been spot on. ‘You know I was. And it was inordinately uncomfortable for me. For you as well, I dare say. What with all the…with all the….'

Pitch grinned. ‘With all the what, sweet Silas?'

‘Stop it.'

‘But I don't understand. With all the what?'

Silas's glare was only mildly threatening. ‘Stiffness,' he hissed. ‘The ruddy great pillar I had because you insisted on twisting about so.'

Oh, this was a delightful game. ‘Did you grow hard? I did wonder at that poking in my back, I thought it felt a little bigger than your thumb.'

Silas shook his head, glancing back to where the carriage had drawn closer. ‘Will you stop it. Isaac shall hear.'

‘I can already bloody hear ya,' the coachman called, ‘and I'll be havin' nightmares if ya don't damn well shut up.'

‘Oh come now, don't pretend you won't think of this when you next fist yourself,' Pitch said. ‘I know you shall picture me, pressed beneath this mammoth of a man, legs and arse wide open. Jealous, and rightly so.'

‘Fucking tosser.' Isaac flicked the reins, urging the geldings into a faster walk. Silas and Pitch pulled aside quickly, lest they be run off the road.

Phillipa, who was perched on the roof of her beloved coach, nearly sputtered out her ghostly innards as she tried very hard not to laugh aloud.

‘Ain't funny,' Isaac shouted.

‘It is a little,' the spectre returned.

With the back of the carriage now in view, Silas heaved a great sigh.

‘Pitch, you are atrocious. That was very unkind, and hugely embarrassing.' He scolded gently, and, great gods of Arcadia, Pitch nearly swooned right off the mare. The ankou's baritone was positively sinful. He had emerged from the wreckage of the cockaigne an absolute delight to listen to, with a commanding tenor in his voice that had been absent before.

‘I promise I'll behave myself if you ride with me again.'

‘I do not trust that promise in the slightest. Besides, a distraction, such as you are, my dear, is ill-advised. We need to keep our wits about us still, no matter how decisive our victories in the cockaigne.'

Pitch sobered at that. ‘You do know how to ruin a mood.'

Silas edged his horse closer, reaching for Pitch. But he was no longer feeling quite so bawdy and jovial and tried to urge Lalassu away. Of course, the bloody Pale Horse betrayed him, shifting to where Silas was within reach. Enough so to run his hand up Pitch's back.

‘That's not my intention, you know that. I am going a little out of my mind not being able to hold you. If you had any idea how wonderful you look in that magnificent cloak, what that colour does for your complexion…well, you'd know it is torturous not to be closer to you right now.'

Pitch was not the swooning type, not at all. But that voice…and the sickeningly sweet words, the sincerity they held–and being so damned tired he was ready to cry with exhaustion–had him clutching at Lalassu's mane, lest he fall off the damned horse. Silas's saddle creaked as he leaned in, and Pitch did likewise. They were but an inch from a kiss when the soothsayer ruined what pitiful closeness they could find.

‘You're goin' too fast, ya bastard. What are we runnin' from?' she shouted, hanging her head out one of the carriage windows. She was a quick study, finding Pitch and Silas in their respective leans. ‘Oh feck, forget I asked. Ride on.'

She slipped back inside. Silas kept on, regardless of the interruption, and brushed his lips against Pitch's. But his damned horse was no ally, discomforted at being so close to Lalassu, who was a decent few hands taller, and much wider of girth. The brown horse side-stepped, pulling Silas out of reach.

He groaned with dissatisfaction. ‘When we stop for lunch,' he declared. ‘You and I shall go off on our own, and continue this. I swear to you.' He nodded his head towards the Pale Horse. ‘Do you hear that, Lalassu? And we shall take our time. Send word to Sanu that we may be a few hours later than planned.'

His attempt at lightheartedness fell short, and a look passed between them that Pitch understood well. They did not yet know where Lalassu guided them, but they knew this to be the final journey well enough. Silas's gentle smile hurt to look at, and Pitch turned away, nudging at Lalassu's sides, sending the mare slightly ahead of Silas and his steed.

They rode on, keeping the horses at a walk behind the carriage. Lalassu showed no impetus to pass them, and considering she was the only one who knew their way, Pitch made no attempt to guide her. After a while Silas took up humming, a quiet contented melody that was almost as pleasing to listen to as his growling voice. It was lulling, and soothing; and gave Pitch a strange sense of being close to the ankou, which he sank into greedily.

He had no idea he'd dozed off until he was jerking awake, arms flailing, torn from a dream where he'd been drowning in pastel colours, and feathers. So many fucking feathers, choking him, filling his belly where the emptiness left a wide open space to fill. His arms had been leaden; raising them even fractionally was a mammoth effort, and when he finally managed it, all he saw was a great spanning wing of lavender and subtle peach.

He coughed, clutching at his throat.

‘There now, you're safe, just a dream.' Silas rode right alongside him, with one hand braced to Pitch's shoulder. Lalassu's mane covered Pitch's legs and lap ensuring a fall had never been a concern. ‘You fell asleep rather quickly.'

Another few coughs and Pitch got a handle on things. His throat loosened, and he blinked himself back into reality. ‘Where is the simurgh?' he said, hoarsely.

‘In the carriage, with Scarlet, and the others. It has not stirred.' It had not done so since leaving Newchurch, slumbering in a sort of hibernated state. ‘Is there something wrong?'

Pitch shook his head, fully awake now, and feeling a bit of a ninny for the wild awakening. ‘Keep on. It was a stupid dream, that's all. I've not slept in what feels like several decades, I suppose there are bound to be repercussions.'

‘You can speak to me freely, you know that, don't you? If it helps to talk of what you've endured…'

Not so many months ago Pitch would have launched into whole-hearted ridicule and derision at that. Ranting about how he did not need anyone to lean upon. He still did not like the idea of using anyone as a crutch, but then, Silas was not just anyone.

‘Perhaps in time,' he said, staring at the carriage, a few horse-lengths ahead of them still. ‘But it truly was just a dream. I think it a remnant of being restrained for so long.'

‘Very well, consider the offer always open.' Silas squeezed his shoulder gently, and let go.

‘What I truly need, what we both need,' Pitch said, ‘is a decent wash, and a visit to the finest tailor in the dales.'

‘Oh, bloody hell, yes. And a dressmaker who can sew up a corset for you,' Silas added. ‘Christ, what I would not do to see you caught up tight in whalebone and lace.' He made a small, irritated sound. ‘Sorry. You have just spoken of being restrained and –'

‘Gods, there is no comparison, take back that apology at once.' Pitch scowled. ‘I would like nothing more than to have you bind me tight. But I think satin, rather than lace, what say you?'

‘I say I'll be demanding we stop at the next damned town and taken straight to their seamstress.' Silas practically glowed with delight. ‘What shade do you think? I'm partial to green of course.'

Pitch hiccoughed a laugh, his ribs protesting distantly. ‘Of course. So I hope you shall not be disappointed if I say peach quite takes my fancy.'

They carried on in that vein a while, inane, silly talk that was like a balm to the soul. Both smiling, laughing, ignoring the bruises and cuts and hurt of the cockaigne. They spoke as though this quest was all but over, the worst of it left behind in the UnSeelie Court's realm. But Pitch knew Silas was likely doing just as he was; pretending each step they took through the scenic countryside was a mere joy ride, and not the blasted funerary procession it likely was.

Lalassu jolted him from his dangerously melancholic thoughts with a turn of foot, a sudden lurch into a trot on the widened road that brought them up alongside the carriage.

‘Bloody horse,' Pitch cursed as he struggled to find his rhythm.

Isaac slowed the carriage. ‘What's going on?'

‘Buggered if I know,' Pitch grunted.

But the answer was quite obvious just a moment later.

The Pale Horse threw up her head, so much so that Pitch glimpsed the velvet tip of her nose before she lowered her snout once more. Her mane lifted, and the weaving began. The intricacies of the design spread themselves out, the fanciest he'd seen the mare create thus far; a narrow building, squat and rough in design, two storeys, that seemed to sit directly on top of the arch of a bridge.

‘What is that supposed to be?' He frowned. ‘Silas, decipher your horse, will you?'

But it was Isaac who spoke up first. ‘I know that place.'

‘You know what that tangle of horsehair and fleas shows us?'

Lalassu snorted, and Isaac scowled. ‘That's Bridge House at Ambleside. We're headed for the Lake District.'

Pitch glanced back at Silas. ‘It does not sound like your favourite kind of place, my dear.'

‘I dare say I've visited far worse,' Silas said, giving Pitch a grim, tired smile. ‘Isaac, how far, do you think?'

‘I reckon we've got a couple of hours ahead, a little more perhaps. We will be there well before sundown.'

‘Praise the feckin' saints,' Tyvain called out. And this time even Jane was relieved enough to join in.

‘Now that is news to my ears.' The elemental leaned out the window. ‘Sybilla really needs to be lying down, this bumping about is doing her no good.'

‘Don't be using me as your excuse when it's your arse you're worrying about.'

‘It's my boobies, if you must know. A lady can only take so much jiggling about.'

Sybilla laughed, and though it was weak, and every bit as exhausted as Pitch felt, he couldn't help but relish hearing the Valkyrie's amusement.

Her injuries–terrible burns–were a shocking sight to behold. The attack that Pitch had believed killed her, had done awful damage. It was an absolute miracle that she had survived the strike of Gabriel's halo. Silas had been oddly reluctant to speak of the circumstances in any detail, saying only that they'd talk of it when he was certain Sybilla was not in earshot. Regardless, it was clear that her efforts to save both he and Silas at the churchyard had taxed her terribly. Pitch's thoughts went to the Dullahan, too. Another who had gone to great lengths to rescue them.

Silas had been right in trusting him, so it turned out.

‘Onward we go then, let's not tarry,' Phillipa declared, joining Isaac on the driver's seat, much to his teeth-grinding annoyance.

‘Watch yourself, ghoul.'

‘How dare you, sir. I am a spectre.'

‘You're a boil on my arse. Good thing Ambleside's got a darn decent alehouse, is all's I'll say.'

Isaac clucked his tongue at the pair, and the horses leaned into their braces, working into a brisk walk that took them away, leaving Silas and Pitch to watch their progress.

Neither of them made move to follow.

Beneath the rumble and rattle of the carriage Silas said, ‘Do you think Ambleside is where the Sanctuary is, so close to the cockaigne all this time?' He stopped short of asking Pitch if he recalled the place; a good thing, for the answer would have been curt, and sharp and unfairly hurtful.

Pitch shrugged, running his hand over Lalassu's waterfall of a mane, which was now returned to its long, uncomplicated lengths. ‘If we do not believe anything is possible by now, Sickle, then more the fools we are. But it would certainly seem odd.'

Silas hummed his agreement, and still they remained unmoving. Just staring ahead, with the swish of the brown horse's tail all that disturbed the silence. The day was cool, as all tended to be in December; a fire would be welcome, as would a warm meal and a soft bed full of hardened ankou.

But still, the reins remained loose in his hands. ‘Do you suppose we could walk a while?'

Silas did not falter. ‘Of course. I'd relish the chance to stretch my legs. There is no great rush.'

Which was a lie, of course, and they both knew it, but they dismounted nonetheless, and walked along together, secluded between the horses, as the sun began its lazy winter rise.