Chapter Twenty-One

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE BOAT glided over water that grew greater in depth. The Ferryman used no visible means of propulsion–no oars or pole–and stood utterly silent with their lantern, which did not sway on its hook as they moved.

The light it cast did not reach the quartz in the water as before. The depths grew in their fathoms. Pitch watched Silas's observance of it with an ache that helped draw his thoughts from the pains of Lalassu.

‘Silas, stop looking over the edge.'

The ankou was trying awfully hard to be stalwart, but the brave man had a limit to his courage. Pitch could not blame him for that; endlessly dying through drowning must wear down a fellow.

‘I thought I saw a fish, that's all.'

Scarlet's answering snort said exactly what Pitch had been thinking. ‘Bloody rot. Now look at me, and forget all else. I know you adore staring at me. Come on now.' He pressed at Silas's cheek, urging the ankou to turn away from the water. ‘Look at these lips, how plump they are, how ripe for biting at. You do so love to bite them, don't you?'

Silas took a breath too long to answer. ‘I do. I do. But you'd tell me if I do too much?'

‘Don't ruin the mood, lover. Now, what else of mine do you like in your mouth?'

Pitch took his hand; their thighs pressed, their ankles touching, Pitch practically buried into his side. But Silas, damn him, still seemed distracted; blinking too fast, as though he fought an impulse to gaze once more at his nemesis.

‘Shall I give you a clue?' Pitch asked.

He took Silas's free hand, where it gripped the edge of the seat for dear life, and made a great show of dragging it slowly up his own thigh, taking it all the way up to where a slip to the right would land it upon the soft bulge between Pitch's. He considered asking again if he should use his enchantment to smooth out Silas's distress.

‘I'm fine,' Silas said, quietly, resisting Pitch's efforts. ‘And though your cock is quite possibly my favourite thing in all the world, I truly am fine. I don't need a distraction.'

Which was such a terrible lie even Scarlet's motionless eyes seemed to roll.

‘Who said anything about you?' Pitch would not give up without a fight. ‘Perhaps I am feeling unsettled and wish you to tend to my needs.'

‘Here, and now?' Silas spluttered, and his ridiculous blinking ceased. ‘Are you mad?'

‘Perhaps. Highly likely. Now, come on. I am feeling very rejected right now.'

He tugged hard and managed to land Silas's hand right where he wanted it. Finally the distraction was enough. Silas jerked with laughter; a low rumble, not unlike distant thunder. ‘You are utterly ridiculous.'

Distracting, actually. Pitch gave himself a private pat on the back for a job well done. Silas was still chuckling, and now laying kisses upon Pitch's hand. Breathing; the ankou had remembered how to breath.

‘Is everything all right back there?' Charlie twisted in his seat. ‘What has come over you?'

‘Nothing has come!' Pitch raised Silas's hand, like evidence in a courtroom. ‘That is precisely the issue, dear boy. This hand is going to waste, despite my pleas.'

Even Edward managed a soft smile. The ferryman of course ignored it all.

‘Stop it,' Silas pleaded. ‘Charlie pay him no attention. I beg you.'

‘No need to beg.' Charlie shook his head, and turned back to where the way ahead lay.

Pitch would obviously say nothing to Silas, not now he was calmer, but he'd noticed that for all this time moving forward the boat had not drawn any closer to the far side of the chamber. He glanced back the way they had come. Ground had definitely been covered, for there was no sign of the shore or the rock where Edward had been sitting. There was only water. With its dome of quartz above. Spreading out in all directions.

‘Ferryman,' he called. ‘How long shall this journey take?'

‘As long it needs to.'

‘Arsehole,' he muttered. ‘Those of an overly philosophical nature should be burned at the stake.'

‘Perhaps a bit harsh,' Silas smiled. ‘But I am not in full disagreement.'

They fell to silence. Pitch ran his thumb over Silas's fingers, thinking of Lucifer's injury. He didn't realise he was being too rough, too vigorous, until Silas stayed his hand.

‘Are you trying to take off some skin?'

‘What? Oh, no. I was just thinking about Lucifer.'

‘Rather enthusiastically.' Silas wriggled his fingers. ‘Where was your head?'

And because he was getting much better at telling Silas what was on his mind–for the most part–he said, ‘Michael took his vestige. It was hidden beneath his fingernail, and that cretin angel decided to simply remove the entire digit. I have no idea how Lucifer managed to put on such a show back there, but I'm not surprised he's been unconscious this long.'

‘Christ.' Silas surveyed the king where he slept. ‘That must be terribly painful.'

‘It is, though it will dull. And losing his vestige won't kill him, but he shall feel like dog shit for quite some time.' Pitch tried to withdraw his hand, but Silas halted the retreat.

‘You don't still feel that way though, do you? You don't have your vestige.'

‘Thank you for stating the bloody obvious.'

‘That came out all wrong –'

‘You don't say.' This was not quite as fun as making lewd comments to keep Silas's mind off the boat situation, but Pitch would roll it. The waters beneath them were notably deeper, the edges of the chamber stretching farther away as they journeyed, seemingly, to nowhere.

‘Forgive me.' Silas tried to back himself out of his corner. It was delightful to watch. ‘But you are not forthcoming when it comes to what ails you. Has it pained you all this time?'

Pitch shrugged. ‘I can't really tell, on account of my plethora of pains. To begin with, I am in the worst type of pudding club.' He slapped at his stomach, making much theatre of it; rewarded with the sight of Silas fighting a grin.

‘A pudding club?'

‘That's what those of us in this delicate condition call it. I'm expecting a bouncing baby bird, any day now.' He twisted his arm to jab at his back. ‘And let us not forget that I also had an angel turn me into a daemonic target, and his aim was horrid. That strike rather hurt, too.'

Silas might have only seen the true wound once, but that was evidently too much for him. His unhappiness made his shoulders slouch. ‘I cannot imagine what pains you have tolerated.' He lifted his arms, intending another of his plentiful hugs, probably.

Pitch waved him off, frightening Scarlet who evidently thought themselves about to be smote, and zipped off the ankou's shoulder to dart over to the slumbering Lucifer.

‘Honestly, Sickle. You must not…Ah!' The blistering pain struck hard and fast. Pitch buckled forward, his hands landing on Silas's thigh, gripping hard. ‘Blast it.'

‘Does the simurgh hurt you? Pitch, answer me.'

The answer was yes, a resounding yes. But he'd not say so.

‘No…I mean, it pinches, quite vigorously. But nothing I cannot handle.'

He hoped. The wildness was living up to his memory of it. Those days in the past–before they had found something of a truce–when it used to batter at the cage he'd forged in his gut, demanding escape.

Pitch exhaled, every bit the expectant mother breathing through her pains. ‘There, see it has passed.' He plastered on a grin. ‘Perhaps it was too many Brussels sprouts at the last supper.'

Silas gave him an unimpressed look. ‘You refused to eat any.'

‘So I did. Foul things.' He shrugged. ‘Perhaps this blasted thing simply knows where we are bound. Perhaps we are closer than it appears. Silas don't look at me like that. Do you truly think he'd have us brought all this way, only to give me an aneurysm at the very last stage?'

That did not go down well. Horror marked Silas's face. ‘Christ, Pitch. I have no bloody idea what this blasted angel intends, but do we put such a thing past him?'

He glanced at the water, as though considering throwing them both overboard and making a swim for it.

‘Gods, man. It is fine. I'm fine. Perhaps the simurgh gets sea-sick, I don't fucking know. But it's done with now, alright?'

It was so far from done with that Pitch could barely feel his pulse; the beat was so rapid it blurred into one long hum.

They were getting closer. He knew it. The blasted Cultivation certainly knew it.

And he was not ready. He would never be ready for this return. To a place he could barely recall; and wished he could forget.

He glanced ahead at Edward. Thinking of how the ferryman addressed him with such title. The simurgh had shifted then too, when the coin was exchanged. A curious roll of movement unlike any he'd felt before. Not a struggle, not a vie for freedom, as he'd felt just now. He wasn't sure what to make of that last pain.

But as he stared at the lieutenant, Pitch realised he had missed something equally, if not more, intriguing; the chamber had become a cave once more. One with an open mouth.

Charlie spied it at the exact same time. ‘Look, the way ahead is open. I can see outside.' He stood up, a hand on Edward's shoulder for balance, despite the stability of the boat. ‘Are those mountains?'

They bloody well were. Beyond the yawning mouth of their chamber, the sky held hints of dawn's palette; silver dominated, but with tinges of blue and subtle pink evident. Pitch might have wondered how a whole night had passed, were he not captivated by the rest of the scenery; mountains, indeed. They were snow-capped and sharp-tipped, commandingly high; ringing a vast body of water where islands lay further out. There was no hint of any settlement on the isles, certainly nothing that might be a Sanctuary; their foliage stripped of green by the encroaching winter and left stark and uninviting.

Silas sought to get to his feet. Pitch slapped at his leg. ‘Stay down. Don't you dare rock this boat.'

‘Do you recognise anything, Pitch? Do you see it? The Sanctuary?'

‘No, I recognise nothing.' Pitch stifled his bitterness. ‘I was not exactly allowed out for safari. And no, I don't see the Sanctuary.'

He was not sure if he was relieved, or furious.

‘Charlie, please. Be careful.' Edward urged the lad to sit down, but Charlie was feverish.

‘No, wait. That land….those peaks. I think I know…' He cut himself off, with a frustrated cluck of his tongue. ‘No. It can't be.'

‘Can't be what, Charlie?' Silas demanded.

‘Sit down.' The ferryman spoke for the first time in gods knew how long. ‘Now.'

Charlie sat quickly. Edward turned. Not to the lad, but further on around; to Lucifer who slept on through all. The lieutenant gazed down at the king, and said, so softly it was almost missed. ‘Almost there, Luci.'

When Edward lifted his head Pitch had a moment's sight of his face; the white gleam of angelfire hinted there in his irises. Pitch flinched.

And in that second it took to do so, the chamber vanished.

Their boat sat out upon the centre of the great lake; where December reminded them all it had arrived, the breeze stirring goosebumps and ruffling the surface of the water.

Silas let loose a sudden cry, his gaze fixed toward's the boat's starboard side, his hands braced against the rim, knuckles white.

‘Silas, gods, steady yourself man.' Pitch grabbed his arm. The ankou's muscles were tensed.

‘Pitch. Oh ,Christ…Pitch, do you see it? That grand house.'

Until then, he'd still been absorbing their sudden shift from chamber to open air, but he'd have to have been blind not to see what Silas pointed out now. There on the shore, perhaps a mile across the way, was a formidable mansion. Its massive pedimented porch was supported by dramatic, paired Tuscan columns; two storeys of classical architecture, with north and south wings, that spread itself unashamedly across the manicured lawns and careful gardens. A boat-shed was further down the shoreline, with a long jetty that stretched like a wooden finger; pointing at them.

He glanced at Silas. The ankou was terribly pale. ‘Do you know this place?'

Silas's mouth worked, as though he meant to answer, but no sound came. There was an odd distance in his eyes that made Pitch feel suddenly and terribly alone.

‘Silas, please –'

‘Charlie, be careful.' Edward's cry turned Pitch's head.

The lad seemed overcome by the very same melancholy that had struck Silas. He stepped over the seat, and would have gone further had Edward not been holding his sleeve. His mouth was agape, his eyes rounded like a deer caught in torchlight. Both of them focused on the damned house. The ferryman had not moved from where they stood, sentinel at the prow. Their armour held embellishments of gold that Pitch had not noticed before.

‘No. No, this cannot be.' Charlie let out the strangest sound, something layered with both anguish, and joy.

‘What the blazes is wrong with you two?' Pitch demanded.

The ankou swallowed, and it looked a painful thing. ‘Pitch…that's…' Silas's lashes fluttered and Pitch truly thought the man about to pass out.

‘Go on.' He worked at being gentler now. ‘What do you see there? Are there souls?'

Silas shook his head, still intent on the shore, as the boat drifted ever silently away, headed out deeper onto the lake.

Charlie spoke first. ‘That is Rossdhu House. That is where I was born. My home.'

Finally Silas moved. His eyes dark as they set on the lad. ‘We are in Scotland.'

Charlie nodded. ‘This is Loch Lomond.'

Silas turned his attention back to the water, which lay like a sheet of pewter around them. He leaned over the edge, his fingers hovering just above the surface. He trembled. Pitch sat close enough to know Silas's entire body shook.

The cold seeped into Pitch's bones. He recalled their pillow talk, all the ankou had said of his demise. A loch. A jetty. A drowning.

And he could barely catch his breath for knowing. ‘Silas…is this the place?'

The ankou seemed smaller, more in need of Pitch's presence. He touched his hand to Silas's shoulder.

‘This is the place. My loch.' The ankou's voice was the quiet approach of a storm. ‘My grave.'