Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MICHAEL MUST be drunk. Or he'd become a fucking terrible shot, since last Pitch had been anywhere near him in a battle. Charlie sought to lift his head from the ground, where Pitch had the lad pressed beneath him.

‘Stay down, idiot.'

‘Who is out there?' Charlie's voice quavered with distress.

‘A bastard. Where is Scarlet?'

‘I don't know.' The lad slipped in shale, causing a new rivulet to run.

The ground shook with another blast, another shockingly bright explosion that caused Pitch to blink through tears.

Another miss.

What the fuck was going on? They were sitting ducks, here upon open hillside, and yet three strikes now had blown wide. Each time, the shot of angelfire sent off a shower of stone, hot as embers, which must have been terrible for the mare to endure, but Lalassu held their canopy fast.

‘Let me out, you daft nag.' Pitch did not dare extend his flame too far, for fear of giving the horse any more to contend with, but Lalassu was giving him no way out. ‘I can deal with him.'

Which was actually part lie, he had no real clue what he could do against a Seraph; but he was useless here, beneath the horsehair. And his fury was difficult to manage. The cunt of a sire of his had betrayed them again. How else could this prick have found them?

‘It's a Seraph, Pitch.' Silas was on his knees, hunched over, his hands hovering over Charlie's head; a rather useless shield against nothing, as so far nothing had pierced Lalassu's protection. Pitch was squeezed uncomfortably between them, his body laid flat against the lad. They were a ridiculous, stacked pyramid. ‘Are they not the highest of angels?'

‘Yes, but that has not stopped me before. And a direct strike will be more than your horse can bear. I need to get out, Silas.'

Another blast rocked their world. Pristine white light seeped through the tiny cracks in the Pale Horse's mane. Lalassu screamed, and for a terrifying moment Pitch thought the mare had been struck, but it seemed she was just as pissed off as he was. She rose to her feet, keeping them beneath her veil. Silas eased back enough that Pitch could slip free, scrambling to one side as Charlie coughed and spluttered, his face darkened with being pushed into the ground by the pressure of a daemon and ankou atop him.

‘Climb.' Silas's commanding tone brokered no argument, even if Pitch was inclined to protest. ‘Move now.'

Strands of horsehair touched at their backs, like guiding hands to urge them upwards, and Lalassu wound a particularly thick strand about Charlie's waist, preventing the lad from an outright fall.

‘She could have done this from the bloody start,' Pitch said, though none bothered to reply.

Together they laboured on hands and knees, clawing ever higher whilst their poorly-aiming assailant took their time with their next shot.

‘Something's not right, Silas.' Pitch and the ankou moved, side by side, just behind Charlie who puffed as he hurried to make his way up the unforgiving slope. ‘Michael does not miss.'

Once again a blast came. Once again, it struck near enough to make a blinding flash, and send the shale rattling and cascading, and generally making their day preposterous, as they sought to climb through the instability.

But there was a difference this time.

Amber and vermilion hues joined that of the stark white.

The flaming shades matched those dancing beneath Pitch's skin.

‘Fuck,' he whispered.

There was a reason for Michael's ineptitude, and it was not inebriation.

Pitch's distraction caused him to stumble. His knee met a lip of rock with eye-watering force. Material ripped, and skin tore, but before he had chance to finish a curse Silas grabbed him by the waist, keeping him steady, despite the ankou's own awkwardness of angle.

‘What is it?'

‘There's a daemon out there. They have to be the reason that arsehole can't seem to strike a target.'

‘Lucifer?'

Likely, but the intensity of the flame was not as it should be if the King of Daemonkind were responsible. ‘I'm not certain.'

The shifting, rocky ground gave way to a flatter surface, covered with thin grass, and softer soil.

‘This is it. The cave is here, I remember all this grass.' Charlie found a turn of speed, straining against Lalassu's more cautionary pull. ‘Let me go now, we're here. It's just here.'

A blast of angelfire sent everyone diving for cover.

‘Let me see, damn it.' Pitch grasped at Lalassu's mane, and the mare obliged him, parting her strands just so. Pleasing as the view was, it did not give him hint of either angel nor daemon. Only will-o-wisp. Scarlet danced about, stubby hands bloated to make them more visible. As though anyone would need guidance towards the roughly built wall that bordered the entrance to a low-roofed cave.

‘See, do you see it?' Charlie's laughter bordered on manic.

Pitch gave no answer, for only a blind man would not notice the Priest's Hole. Lalassu peeled back her mane, letting it fan upright behind them, giving them room to finally get to their feet. Charlie found a turn of foot that was impressive, clearing the short distance to the cave first. Scarlet squeaked and chittered like a lunatic, waving them in.

Silas turned to reach for Pitch, who slapped his hand away.

‘Go. Go. I'm right behind you.'

The wall was barely deserving of the name, made from the shale which littered the area, and clearly man-made. Likely a wind-break for any fool who decided to hike this way and found themselves overnighting in the inhospitable landscape. Perhaps the long-dead priest who gave the place his name was the first fool among them.

Charlie slipped through the gap in the wall towards the right hand side of the mouth of the cave.

‘Edward!' he cried. ‘Edward?'

Pitch did not enjoy the note of consternation he heard. Nor how Scarlet's colours bounced against the back wall of the shallow cave. This was little more than a shelter carved out by the incessant scrape of the wind. There was no continuation, no tunnel to lead them to wherever this confounded Sanctuary awaited.

‘Charlie, where is Edward?' Silas had to bend to enter the confines. ‘This is a dead end.'

‘No, I promise you. It's not.'

The ground rumbled, and shivers of dust fell from the roof.

‘Pitch, get inside,' Silas said, whilst Scarlet went into a maddened dance which clearly said much the same thing.

‘No, I need to see…oh!'

Lalassu shoved him into the cave, sending him into an undignified stumble from which Silas saved him. The ankou edged them both out of the way, so that the mare too could enter. She barely fit, her head lowering, her heavy breath shifting the dusty floor.

Pitch shook off Silas's hold and crouched behind the layering of shale. He narrowed his eyes against the dying glare of the last blast. The view, as it dipped into nightfall, was admittedly, stunning; the roll and dip of endless hillsides, barren but no less beautiful for their dominance of the landscape.

A landscape that was streaked with scorched earth: like the markings on a tiger's back the burns of an angel and daemon's battle were cut into the ground.

Pitch stood, leaning his hands upon the wall, craning his neck to peer down the slope.

‘Pitch, be careful.'

‘Do you see that?' He ignored the ankou's warning. ‘Down there, a horse.'

And a rider.

Flaming. Dazzling. Though rather unsteady in the saddle.

Their fire-hues glanced off the coat of the black horse beneath them.

Silas drew in a breath, and though he did not lean out as far as Pitch, he too strained to catch a better glimpse.

‘Is that Chollima he rides?'

‘Who the blazes is Chollima?'

‘The Dullahan's horse.'

‘If he does so, he does not do it well.' Pitch squinted, taking in how precarious the daemon appeared on the horse's back. His flames were vibrant, splaying from his back in the imitation of wings so many among the elite of daemonkind preferred, but those wings swayed alarmingly, their tips almost touching the ground at times. ‘There is something wrong.'

‘Has the angel struck him, perhaps?'

‘Most likely.'

Behind them Charlie still called on the lieutenant.

‘Let us in, Edward. What is wrong?'

Pitch peered at the sky. ‘Where is the angel? Do you see him, Silas?' There was a deep silvery-grey as day and night exchanged ownership of the light. The first of the stars were hinted at. An angel would have been the brightest among them, magnificent where the night lights were mediocre.

The sky held no magnificence, so far as he could see. Save perhaps for the half-moon that waited for its time to take charge of the night.

‘Nothing of note.' Silas replied. ‘Do you think Lucifer might have chased him off?'

‘Chased off a Seraph?' Pitch nearly choked on bitter laughter. ‘There is optimism, and there is stupidity, my dear. Especially considering Lucifer barely seems able to keep his saddle.'

Scarlet tugged at one of the layers on Pitch's carrick coat, hauling at him so he might go deeper into the cave. ‘Stop it. Do you not see the stone? Am I to walk through it?'

The wisp made a despondent sound, which to Pitch's ear was recognition of the fact that they were now holed up in little more than an indent in the rock. No more a cave than a decent wardrobe. If they had been sitting ducks before, now they were fish in a barrel.

Silas touched Pitch's arm. ‘Stay low, I'll see if I can assist Charlie.'

‘By what? Punching a hole in the rock? We are clearly in the wrong Priest's Hole.'

‘We are not,' Charlie snapped. ‘He's here. Sanu, too.'

‘Then they wish to see us roasted alive by angelfire. I told you, Sanu despises me.'

He threw flippancy and vile humour up like a shield, sheltering behind his tactlessness, while sickened by the notion that after all this, after coming so far, there was a very real chance he'd see Silas and Charlie, Scarlet and Lalassu die at the hands of a raging angel.

The notion both sickened, and fuelled him. Lucifer may seem like a drunkard in the saddle, but Pitch was anything but. And even Michael's performance left much to be desired.

In contrast, Pitch was revived. Strong as he'd ever felt. And he had a far better understanding of the power he carried. A power that lay quiet, still, watchful and ready.

He'd not see his friends and lover incinerated, because he'd simply sat here.

If Lucifer was fighting, so too would he.

With Silas's back turned, his attention upon Charlie, Pitch straddled the wall. And stepped out of its shelter.

He knew it a mistake, the moment the cool air ruffled his hair, and a shadow flittered above.

‘Vassago, no!'

Lucifer's cry filled the valley, bounced from the hillsides and roared into the cave behind him.

The world lit brilliant white.

Lalassu's scream joined that of Lucifer's. The entire world sounded like the wail of a banshee.

Pitch turned, his flames pouring from his hands. Catching a meagre glimpse of the descending angel, a falling star with hint of Michael's human silhouette at its core. The Seraph unleashed a torrent of angelfire, cutting open the earth like a hot knife through butter. A great force ploughed into Pitch's side, pushing him from the path of Michael's downpour.

The waft of charred flesh was sickening, the agony of the mare forever scorched onto his psyche.

Silas screamed his name, the ankou's desperation terrifying.

Pitch hit the ground at a horrendous velocity, and tumbled. His head glanced against sharp rock, his clothes shredding, his coat slapping at his face as his fall gained momentum.

The terrain jabbed at his lungs, stealing his breath, his own flames licked at his skin as he struggled to gain some semblance of control.

‘You fucking moron,' he roared, at himself.

His terror, his fury, braced him, he threw out his hands and grabbed. At anything. Something. Whatever would end this sickening arse-over-tit descent.

But in return something reached for him .

Tiny gasps, grunts and straining, joined the clattering of stone and pouring of soil. And the maddened descent slowed. There were pinches at his arms, at his legs, as though he'd just landed in an ants' nest.

‘That's it, you've got him.'

‘Careful there, Boyd.'

‘Stop bossin' me about, Leslie.'

‘Get the fuck off me,' Pitch shouted, finally finding purchase, lodging his feet into some rock that did not simply just roll with him this time. ‘Let me go.'

Not ants, but gnomes. A veritable battalion of the blasted things, poking from the ground through crevices, and for the luckier ones, bare patches of earth. Each held a handful of Pitch's clothes.

‘What are you doing?' he demanded.

‘Saving your bloody arse, you ungrateful sod.'

The strangeness was far from over.

‘Vassago, look out!' Lucifer and Chollima were at a flatout gallop towards where Pitch had come to rest, down very near the bottom of the slope he and the others had just worked so hard to surmount.

The daemon king had shimmering wings of flame behind him, stunning, but not nearly as vibrant as they should be. Lucifer was injured. Oddly, there was more vibrancy around his body. Silver light.

‘Get up, he's coming back.'

Lucifer gestured skyward. And rose from Chollima's back.

Lifting higher. Coming out of the saddle entirely.

Lucifer flew.

But daemons could not fly.

His body glowed silver, and as Pitch followed his skyward drift, the tinkling of silver bells rang out.

‘Gods,' he whispered.

Lucifer was covered head to toe in a glimmering layer of peri, the tiny creatures of the woodlands, normally frightened of their own shadows. Here, giving a daemon true wings.

Pitch's gaze shifted higher, and all else was forgotten.

The angel came at them like a comet, a glowing ball of destruction that Lucifer rose to meet.

Pitch staggered to his feet, his flames igniting. Blazing with a crisp intensity that his sire's did not.

Michael took aim at the King of Daemonkind.

His blast was mighty, every bit intent on ridding the world of the daemon who threatened him.

But Lucifer was not alone this day.

And nor was Pitch. The simurgh brushed a lazy stroke against his insides, and Pitch's grin was a vicious, greedy lift of his lips.

Sire and spawn counterattacked as one. Pitch's brighter flame, the very heart of a volcano, engulfed the lesser blast of the king; a unification of power, a joining of Dominion Prince and kingly Majesty.