Chapter Twenty-Three

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

PITCH FOUGHT Charlie for the right to lift Edward from the shallow cradle of the boat.

‘I could manage him. Careful of his arm, slow down!' The lad buzzed about him like an irritating fly, moving hanging limbs, adjusting the lieutenant's shirt when his position bunched it at his chin. ‘Let me fix it, he won't be able to breath.'

Pitch knew his eyes aglow, and gave no shits at all. Charlie did not frighten easily. ‘Get out of the way.' He stepped one foot on the edge, calculating the depth. Not substantial; he knew that from Silas already being in the water. But the ankou was so blasted big, Pitch might end up submerged if he assumed things, and there was the milkiness of the water to contend with. The bottom was entirely hidden.

‘It is shallow.' Silas stood just shy of knee deep. The ankou had not hesitated to leap overboard. Brave bastard he was now.

‘Watch his head.' Charlie was not to be satisfied. ‘Don't let it loll about like that, damn you.'

‘You've met your match in coddling, Silas.' Pitch elbowed the lad out of the way, lifting Edward at an angle, so could see where his feet would tread. ‘Tend to Lucifer, Charlie. And leave me be.'

‘Don't jump from the boat, Tobias. No! Don't you dare.'

Pitch jumped. Hardly an Olympic effort, and more of a long, reaching step. One steadied by Silas's hands at the small of his back.

‘I'm fine,' Pitch said, more sharply than Silas deserved. ‘Help Charlie.'

The ankou did, as so often, what Pitch asked, and turned back to the king and the lad.

The water was warm as shallows in summer, and moved more languidly than true water should. Underfoot, the ground was pliant as damp sand, but crunched, oddly, like eggshells.

‘Gods, you are such a fool, man,' Pitch whispered to the silent lieutenant. ‘You would not be here if you were not so determined to make a friend of me. You would be no one's puppet, and I'd not feel sick with guilt every time I laid eyes on you. Whatever form he takes, Seraphiel is not worthy of you.' He dragged in a breath. ‘I'm sorry, I'm so sorry this happened to you. I'm sorry this happened to you all.'

Edward opened his eyes, mere cracks, through which only reassuring grey was evident. No angelfire. No intrusion. ‘This is not your fault.' His lips were cracked, a tiny bubble of blood upon the bottom. ‘You do not need anyone's forgiveness, least of all mine. I love you, Tobias. You are and will always be, my friend. And I have no regrets. None.'

‘You are mad.'

‘I think I can be forgiven for that.'

Pitch gave him a placating nod. ‘I'll allow it, considering.'

Edward's smile had always been a sweet thing to see, and this was no different now, even as Pitch worried it might be among the man's last. ‘How charitable of you.'

Laughter, it turned out, was beyond a beleaguered prophet. Edward convulsed, fresh blood striking beneath Pitch's chin.

‘Shit, Edward? Gods, Edward, can you hear me?'

‘What's wrong?' Charlie called. ‘Pitch, is he alright?'

Edward's convulsions strengthened, and he jerked in Pitch's hold. His eyes returned to rolling in his head, a horrid gurgling coming from him. Twice Pitch was struck in the face, and once he nearly lost his footing altogether when a spasm coincided with him stepping into a hidden divot in the soft, gritty sand.

The churning of water behind announced the rush forward of the ankou.

‘Silas, is he…gods, tell me he is not…'

A shake of the head sent dark curls shifting. ‘He is not dying, Pitch. I'm not sure what this is, but it is not death.' He turned. ‘Ferryman, where is the path.' Silas made a sound of annoyance. ‘That bastard. He's left us. Do you know the way, Pitch?'

There was nothing but genuine enquiry in his tone, but nevertheless Pitch snapped at him. ‘No. I don't know the fucking way. I wasn't exactly let out to take strolls.'

A heavy hand laid on his shoulder. ‘I'm sorry. Forgive me.' Of course Pitch did. None of that, nor this, was Silas's fault. ‘We will find our way.'

Edward had stilled, his hands curled beneath his chin, his face a terrible shade of grey. But he breathed. Pitch could hear him rasping.

They emerged from the water.

‘It is strange, is it not,' Pitch said. ‘How close you and I might have been here at times.'

‘No so close as we are now.' Silas slipped an arm around him, escorting him up onto the narrow sliver of beach. ‘Do you suppose it coincidence, or divine purpose, that led the goddess to choose me from a loch so near to a Seraph's Sanctuary?'

Pitch stared at the tangle of slender young trees up ahead, pondering the question. ‘I'm not sure how long the Sanctuary has existed, but I don't think it coincidence, no. It is more likely that this place holds some power.'

‘What sort of power?' Silas cast a glance over his shoulder. ‘Are you sure I can't help you Charlie?'

‘Do I look like I need help, Silas?'

‘No, you don't.' He smiled, and his gentleness always managed to melt something in Pitch. No matter the circumstances. He became the focus of the ankou's attentions once more. ‘Forgive me. Go on, what power do you think is here?'

Pitch shrugged, more to ease the tension in his shoulders than anything else. ‘At a guess, perhaps one of the seals is nearby. Three were set, and Seraphiel was responsible for one. I don't see why else he'd be so intent on bringing me here otherwise. Do you sense anything of the Blight?' But he knew the answer already. Silas was untroubled by souls. Pitch felt that he knew the man well enough–knew each tick of his jaw, every flicker of his eye–to know if Silas were in any distress.

‘No.' Silas did not let him down. ‘In fact, there is more peace here than I experienced before we found the Priest's Hole.' He touched at his ear. ‘Though my ears are still ringing. Their din was terrible.' Silas sighed, and rubbed at Pitch's back. ‘I wish I had been able to find my way out of the loch, so I could have saved you from this place.'

Pitch laughed, and Edward made a small sound of discomfort at the sudden jolt. ‘Truly, you are the most sopping romantic I've known, and I've known my share.'

‘Oh, my dear fellow, I have barely begun. Once we have settled this matter, prepare to be swooning, noon and night, as I court you with an extravagance and charm of which the poets shall write, for ages to come.'

‘Do you have a fever?'

‘Only one that burns for you.' Silas's wink was ridiculous.

‘Charlie, hurry up at once. Silas is trying to kill me.'

The lad was close behind, not even puffing with the effort of carrying the king of Daemonkind; carrying Lucifer in such a way that his knees were very close to his chest, no doubt in a bid to keep his feet from dragging in the water thanks to the lad's small stature. Pitch hoped for Charlie's sake that the king wouldn't wake soon. He'd not be pleased at being carried about like a bundle of rags. A bundle of rags being made a home for a will-o'-the-wisp, no less; Scarlet was there, half hidden by collar and hair, their glow subtle, a singular colour, a soft yellow, as though they sought to match themselves to the glint of leaves and air.

‘It sounds like a blasted lovely way to go,' Charlie said. ‘If you ask me.'

‘Well, no one bloody asked you,' Pitch huffed.

Silas's low laughter held the gravitas of mountains. And Pitch grinned back at him. They were both acting a little mad; holding a nervous energy that needed placement.

Stupid sweet talk might be the only thing holding them both together.

They halted, just short of where the coarse sand gave way to the delicate velvet of verdant moss, and the gathering of trees; with their grand golden leaves and bone-white trunks. The thickness of their crowding was substantial, and at a glance Pitch could see no evident way through.

‘Are we supposed to chop our own path?' he muttered.

Silas moved closer to the woodlands, where many of the trunks wrapped one another like serpents, whilst others stood straight as pillars. He strode up and down the beach, frowning, and muttering about how there seemed no visible way. The leaves shifted with a wind that did not reach them, Pitch felt no brush of it against his skin.

‘Perhaps it needs a taste of your blade,' he called, casting an anxious glance down at Edward. He preferred the man thrashing about, to this new…deadness. ‘Cut the fucking trees down, and let this be done with.'

The axe was not required. Scarlet whisked from their place at Lucifer's collar, and flew straight past Silas who was pushing at a tree trunk, as though considering simply shouldering his way through. Pitch had no doubt it was possible.

Scarlet chirruped, their colours pulsing with the rainbow's spectrum, though the yellow hues shone brightest of all, as though intensified by the damned amount of gold in the surrounds. Scarlet vanished between two trees that curved in towards one another like dancers bowing.

‘That's too small a gap,' Charlie said. ‘For me, let alone Silas.'

The ankou traipsed the line between sand and moss, moving to where the wisp had entered.

‘Scarlet?' Silas leaned in towards the bowing trees. And took a step.

He promptly disappeared. Charlie gasped. Pitch scowled, gripping Edward tighter, letting more flame tease at his fingertips.

‘Silas?'

‘Illusion, another blasted illusion,' The ankou shouted, and stepped back into view. Scarlet perched on the top of his head, waving bloated fingers, as though they'd been missing for months. ‘Rather clever though. Come on, this way.'

‘Go on, Charlie.' Pitch nodded the lad ahead.

Silas vanished again, and then Charlie and his daemonic passenger did the same. Pitch stepped up to the bowed trees. They were not, as it had first appeared, side by side at all. But rather one was set at a short distance behind the other; and the gap between them allowed glimpse of a pathway. Silas and Charlie stood waiting, another tangle of trees just behind them, but, Pitch suspected, another gap was to be found there.

A trick of the eye; a well-loved trademark of the fae.

Pitch had not stopped to think of the builder of this Sanctuary. Which of the Children of Melusine held such an enormous secret? Their coffers must be overloaded; if the angel had not killed them the moment the last stone was laid. He vaguely recalled Bess speaking of a missing sibling, on a night when he'd paid more attention to his whisky and winning hand than to idle chatter. Pitch had little interest in the Children, save for when they built places like the Fulbourn, or the Crystal Palace. Then he would quite happily murder them himself.

Pitch adjusted his hold on Edward, shook off some of the gritty sand clinging to his own boots like burrs to trousers, and moved deeper into the woodlands.

Scarlet led the way, quick to discern where the gaps lay. Something of a marvel, really, for Pitch's own eye was fooled every time, disbelieving there could possibly be a way through a tangle of trunks.

He kept his eye on Silas, mostly to discern if the scythe told the ankou anything of concern, and partly because there was comfort to be found in watching someone who took up so much space in the world. Silas's bulk filled the pathways. He had to turn side on to manage some of the smaller sections, whilst Pitch had no such issue; Charlie even less so, despite having Lucifer to carry.

Pitch knew the Nephilim upon the Hellfield, he knew how their size had terrified so many of the daemons in his legions. He could only hope that whatever Angelic power awaited in the palace up ahead, held even just a touch of that fearfulness; at the very least, a caution. One that would keep Silas safe.

‘We are here,' Silas declared.

Scarlet emitted a sound that was undeniably one of awe.

Charlie breathed in. ‘I thought it astonishing before…but…oh, my word.'

The last to arrive, Pitch nearly ran into the back of the lad who had stopped to stare.

Certainly, it was a sight.

Now they were much closer it was evident that the walls of the palace were not simply white. They were the same milky hue as the water, but with an opalescence that hinted at pastel hues as the light reflected the golden leaves of the woods, and gilded spires. The gold on the spires was polished to a shine, making pointed suns up high, reaching towards a sky that was low and close and white as a bride's veil.

The air was crisp, clean, generous on the lungs, as it would be if they actually stood in the Scottish Highlands.

How was it possible this place could be forgotten? Pitch winced, searching for something–anything–that might strike him as familiar.

The lay of the garden certainly wasn't. It could have been plucked from Versailles itself. In fact, he'd wager the architect had either stolen ideas, or built both places. The hedges were topiary of the highest and strictest order, the pebble pathways cut in circular patterns, the marble fountain at the centre–a burly man in a chariot with two wild-eyed stallions leading him forth–was worthy of any monarch's palace. White rose trees pinpointed each corner of the rectangular yard, their blooms far too large, and nonseasonal, to be natural design. Scarlet landed upon one, and disappeared into the petals, the flower was so large. Everything was immaculate, not a white pebble out of place on the pathways, not an errant leaf fallen. It felt almost a travesty to walk upon the path.

There was something to the white and gold theme that was unsurprising, but nothing else of the place gave him a sense of familiarity.

They gathered in front of the statue, facing the front entrance. A green-gold doorway, the electrum metal a product of silver and gold mixed together, marked the entrance into the palace. It was, of course, imposing; the height of one and a half Silas's, with a massive ornamental door-knocker at its centre. The design was of a pheasant, with the lengthy tail exaggerated here, so that it almost swept the ground. Gold, of course, the entire thing, though it was not so polished as everything else around it.

‘That's a pheasant,' Silas said, as though none of them could know that. ‘Quite remarkable workmanship, don't you think?'

Charlie and Pitch hummed in vague agreement. And they all just stood there. Pitch and Charlie with arms laden, Silas with arms folded, and Scarlet squealing with delight as they jumped from bloom to bloom. Someone really ought to move. Pitch considered it, and decided it was really quite pleasant just where they were. He hefted Edward, shifting the man's weight, which was far too paltry.

‘Knock on the damned door,' Lucifer coughed.

Charlie screamed, nearly dropping the daemon who had been utterly motionless until that moment. Silas only just managed to step forward in time, preventing an unfortunate fall upon the pebbled ground.

The king groaned at the sudden movement, coughing again, and expelling a rather foul substance, red mostly but with hint of black combined. Silas cast him a look, oozing with his confounding concerns.

‘We must get him inside.'

Pitch was very aware of that. But this threshold felt enormous. He nodded, but could not bring himself to take a step. Charlie was watching him, as was Silas, and both waited.

‘Too late for pause now,' Lucifer spluttered, his lips stained with the vile fluid that he'd coughed up. He truly was more pleasant company when he was more dead. But most disagreeable was the fact that he was quite right.

He glanced at Silas. There was no judgement to be seen there, no impatience, or worse, disappointment that he found Pitch lacking. A little of his terror subsided, giving his thoughts time to resettle. Of course he knew why he was here. This world, Silas's world, Charlie's and Edward's too, might be free of the scourge of the Blight, if Pitch just stepped across that threshold.

Still, it was not until Edward whimpered, his face scrunched with silent pain, that Pitch finally nodded.

‘Let's go.'

The ankou's gaze lingered another heartbeat. Pitch sent a silent prayer to worthless gods that Silas would not ask him if he was alright. The answer was no. Very much no. The catastrophic incident with Lalassu had caused something to slip inside Pitch. Like the earth splitting after a tremble from its core. Doubt had slunk in when the Pale Horse fell. Festering in the cracks that formed inside him.

He'd been a fool to think he could slip free of the yoke of the Berserker Prince. Pitch acted on violent impulses still. He remained a selfish prick whose chaotic nature brought terrible harm, and yet here he was.

Letting Silas give him a grim but understanding smile.

Letting the ankou walk ahead. Allowing him to approach the threshold that Pitch himself could only yet stare at.

And his lips, damn them, would not part to tell the ankou to stop. To stay away. To leave while he still could.

Silas strode ahead, steadfast, whilst Pitch roiled. The ankou took the handful of wide splayed steps two at a time. He took hold of the pheasant's tail, up near the base of its body, and glanced over his shoulder.

‘Ready?' Silas said, brown eyes soft and full of kindness.

Pitch should never have allowed him here. Certainly never should have gone along with the ankou's notion that this task was best done together.

Before Pitch's cracks could widen further, he shrugged on his familiar, acerbic guise. ‘Get on with it, you oaf. It's a door, not the Seal itself. I don't understand why we must knock at all. Fucking dreadful hospitality.'

Not a one of them reacted to his little temper tantrum, none recoiled, nor told him to fuck off.

He talents were embarrassingly rusty.

Silas lifted the knocker and let it fall. The clang that rang out was not the heavy clack of metal on metal that Pitch expected. Instead, the pretty notes of a windchime filled the air: tinkling delicately, where all else of this place seemed so solid and robust.

Barely had the melodious ringing begun than the green-gold door opened, swinging inwards. Silas backtracked down the steps.

A woman stood silhouetted by the glow from within, her figure like something brought to life from a Reuben painting: a generous swell at the hips and breasts, with the slightest of narrowing at the waist, accentuated by the ruffling of a modest peplum. She did not acquiesce to the dress expected of her sex, and instead wore what appeared to be stockings with melon hose. If Pitch's assumption was correct–and in clothing he was rarely wrong–her costume was at least a century out of date. The finer details were ambiguous, as the light cast her front into shadow, but her aura, subdued as it was beneath the greater brightness, told Pitch a grand story indeed.

A Child of Melusine.

She was a sister to Old Bess. And, less pleasingly, to Palatyne.

Though who she was, he could not say. The Children of Melusine were multiple in number. And their allegiances varied wildly: Bess pledged himself to the Order, Palatyne had been bought by the Morrigan, or the Erlking, perhaps. And Seraphiel had lured this creature into his employ.

Silas glanced at him, and mouthed a single word. Child? The fact he made a question of it gave Pitch reason to think her naming melody was as contorted as her aura. Pitch nodded.

The Child's colours were right, for the most part, but there was an unusual amount of sunflower yellow in the design, that was foreign to the half-fae's usual presentation. As though the Sanctuary's heavy gold accenting had tattooed itself upon her.

The woman bowed deeply. ‘Your Grace, the warmest of welcomes to you. Long have I awaited the return of your presence.'

‘Me?' Pitch frowned.

She righted, a soft tinkling joining her movement, the click of jewellery somewhere on her person.

‘No. Though your return, your highness, is just as longed for. It is the point of everything, after all. You do not remember me, I suppose?'

‘You suppose right.' Pitch glared, in part because she was infuriating, and partly because his lack of memory formed a hard ball of tension in the pit of his stomach, near where the simurgh huddled, as unhappy about things as he was.

Silas glanced between them both. ‘You were here, when Pitch was held by the angel?'

‘I have been here since I built this Sanctuary. I have served His Grace for several centuries,' she said, an airiness clinging to her words.

‘Then you knew him a prisoner?' Silas's voice held an angry tenor, all the more ominous for his deep tone, but the Child was unmoved.

‘Prisoner? That is too harsh a word.' She shrugged lightly. ‘He was confined but not neglected, I assure you. However ferocious his incubus appetites were, His Grace was most generous with seeing that his vessel was sated. He needed you in fine form, after all.'

An actual growl came from Silas, and his step forward held all sorts of menace. As rousing as it was to see the ankou ready to throttle the half-fae for his sake, Pitch edged Edward's feet, so that Silas would have to push him aside to go any further. The ankou would do no such thing. His glance was filled with displeasure though.

‘My Lord Death,' the Child continued, unflinching, despite the obvious dislike of a very large man. ‘Might I offer my condolences on the loss of your mare? The Lady of the Lake mourns with you. Do come in.'

Silas deflated at once, and Pitch's fingers dug a little tighter against Edward's body.

‘Satine is here?' Silas asked, carefully.

‘Not entirely. Not as you would think.'

Intolerably nebulous as always, the fae. But Pitch had no chance to snap at her, much as he desired too, for Lucifer had found energy enough to protest at Charlie's handling.

‘Set me down, blast you.'

He gave the lad small choice in the matter. Charlie grimaced as he tried to avoid being struck in the face by the preposterously unsteady king, who had to lean on him heavily once he was set on his feet.

‘Is he here?' Lucifer demanded, looking dreadful with his stains of blackened blood.

‘In a manner of speaking, your majesty.' The Child inclined their head and stepped aside, moving out of the glare that hid her, revealing attire that was unmistakably from a bygone century: a lacy ruff circled her neck, and sheer white fabric covered her shoulders and chest, meeting heavy burnt orange material with pearl bead-work and slashed sleeves which hinted at satin beneath. Her hair was braided and looped beneath her ears, with a pearl hairpin atop her head that shone with topaz stones. And yes, it was most definitely white stockings and orange and gold hose dressing her lower half. ‘Though not as he would desire.'

‘Don't befuddle us with your cryptic fae-speech, blast you.' Lucifer managed most of it without coughing. He paused to spit, more distasteful black dollops. The bruising at his jaw was a grotesque mottling of rusty brown and mould green. ‘What is your name, Child of Melusine? Who vexes me so?'

‘I am Jacquetta.'

Silas breathed in, and Pitch glanced at him. ‘Do you know her?'

‘I know of her. You are the lost Child,' he said, with the wrinkled forehead of someone in serious thought. ‘Your sister Palatyne thought you dead, buried in a cornerstone by the angel, to reinforce this Sanctuary.' He glanced at Pitch. ‘I was informed at the church after we escaped, but had given it little mind. Palatyne had told Old Bess it was the reason for her siding with the Erlking.' He looked back to the woman, his gaze hard as marble, his commanding tone never more impressive. ‘That alliance nearly cost Pitch his life.'

The Child, Jacquetta, showed the first sign of anything but smooth indifference. Her hand lifting to the ruff at her neck. ‘I am neither buried, nor dead. And it insults me, that she imagined me so fool-hardy. I serve a righteous angel, but I imagine Palatyne served only her own avarice. The UnSeelie Court glitters brightly. She would be easily swayed, and it has nothing to do with concerns for me. Forgive her, your grace. My sister's head is easily turned by material things.' She spoke all of this to Edward, who had gone back to his terrible stillness in Pitch's arms.

‘That half-fae matters not. The prince lives.' Lucifer grunted, his vestige-less hand curled into a fist, and pressed to his chest. Scarlet, bravely or stupidly, flew in close to fuss about him like the tiniest of nurse-maids. ‘I ask you again. Now speak plainly. Is Seraphiel here?'

All the mightiness of the king could not hide the frailty behind his words. The uncommon desperation that embroidered the question.

‘The purebred holds the answer to that,' Jacquetta remained enigmatic. ‘And the prince holds the purebred. Will you step forward, Prince of Daemonkind?'

There was only one answer, of course; they could not stand on the doorstep forever. And truly, what choice did he have? But the weight of this answer felt tremendous.

‘By the Celestials, Vassago. Why do you wait? Move.' Lucifer shoved Charlie aside, and the lad nearly took a tumble down the steps. Scarlet was their rescuer, whipping in behind the lad to catch him.

Silas stood tall and imposing, unafraid of Lucifer. ‘Do not touch Charlie again. And Pitch will move when he is ready. Give him a moment.'

‘You don't have a moment, your highness,' Jacquetta replied. ‘Or rather, the prophet does not.'

‘His name is Edward.' Charlie spoke up, Scarlet nodding emphatically as they took a seat on the lad's head.

‘His name shall be on a tombstone before long,' Jacquetta declared.

‘That is a lie!' Silas's words boomed like Big Ben's toll. ‘He is not dying.'

‘You do not know what he is, Lord Death. There have been no prophets of a Seraph before him.' Jacquetta's brown eyes sparkled as she stared down at Edward. ‘His Grace is truly a wonder.'

The lieutenant moved, and his eyes fluttered open. The calming grey of the man himself.

‘Edward?' Pitch said.

‘It is you who is a wonder, Tobias.' A harsh, painful whisper. ‘And he knows it. He has always known it. It is why you were chosen.'

A wonder? Edward was truly delirious then. Pitch's thoughts filled with Lalassu, with the horse's scream as the angel struck. An angel who might yet find his way here, and destroy everyone in this Sanctuary. Everyone who was here because of Pitch.

‘Take me to him.' Lucifer made a shoddy job of the last step, tripping on its lip, grabbing at the doorframe. ‘Now, Jacquetta. Which way to your master?'

‘I will show you a way, but it will not be the right way, without the prophet. Or the prince.'

‘Pitch, do not let them rattle you.' Silas was right there. He regarded Pitch in the only way he seemed to know how; as though he were delicate and precious as a masterpiece. ‘I will be at your side, come what may. I promise you.'

Pitch stiffened. That was the whole damned, fucking problem. Silas was a man of his word. Edward exhaled. A frightening sound of release. He went limp again, boneless in Pitch's arms, returned to his bare existence once more.

If the Child said nothing else of worth, it was that Edward's time was short.

And Pitch would not see another of those who had followed him, fall because he'd made a wrong move.

‘You shall be free of this, Edward.' Pitch hissed beneath his breath. ‘Let it be done.'

He walked up the stairs, crossing the threshold with Silas and Charlie and Scarlet at his back.