Chapter Twenty-Seven

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

PITCH STRADDLED Silas's lap, where the ankou lay across a window seat marvelling at the array of blooms in the courtyard below. The bay window was diamond latticed–much like the one Pitch had awoken next to, after the Fulbourn–and afforded a fine view. Milky water spilled from another grand fountain. This centrepiece was a depiction of a creature, part horse, part mermaid; teeth bared, its mane a luxurious flow of carved marble, its lower half all sea creature, with a wide fluted tail.

Pitch could not bear to look at it. He was unsteady enough after the meeting with the angel. To remember Lalassu now was too much.

‘Look at all those musk orchids,' Silas said, his back propped against silk damask cushions. ‘They are lovely though, don't you think?'

Pitch hummed in the same noncommittal way he'd been using for the past twenty minutes, tracing his fingers over the smooth velvet of Silas's vest. A jerkin, in keeping with the odd affinity for clothes of eras past that Jacquetta seemed to relish. But by the gods, how the style suited the ankou.

By strange coincidence, or simply because the colour suited him so well, the jerkin laid out for Silas was royal blue, the same shade exactly as the ankou's beloved Inverness coat. Black trim around the embellishments at the shoulders and waist made the jerkin even more reminiscent of that coat.

Pitch ran his finger over the trim. The tightness of the fit accentuated the broadness of his ankou's shoulders, the solidness of his girth.

‘You like this outfit?' Silas asked, deep and soothing.

Pitch nodded and tapped his nail against each of the gun-metal grey buttons that ran down the jerkin's front; worn over a black satin doublet which was fastened tight at the wrists. Black leather trousers completed the ensemble, trousers that were far tighter than Silas liked, and he had said so a dozen times already. But they were exactly tight enough, as far as Pitch was concerned. He sighed and curled his fingers into his fist. His thoughts kept straying to the damage done to Lucifer's hand. His vestige gone. Torn free by Michael.

The Seraph was not known for complacency. He'd hardly scurry back to his rooms at White Mountain because of one fire-lashing from a couple of errant daemons.

Michael would hunt.

Pitch leaned back, resting against Silas's raised thighs. The ankou lay with his knees raised to accommodate the shortness of the seat and his considerable length. Pitch's fingers followed each line of the criss-cross laces on Silas's trouser front.

Jacquetta had directed them to a dressing room–deep within the meandering halls of the massive palace–where hose had been set out for them to wear. The Child had seemed surprised at Pitch's refusal.

‘You enjoyed the frivolity of fashion in the past. These were among your favourite.'

All the more reason to refuse them now.

‘Trousers,' he'd replied, and Silas's relief had been tangible.

She'd returned with simple linen for Pitch, and these sublimely cut black leather trousers for Silas. Pitch moved from the laces–where Silas's cock was nicely pronounced beneath the material–and cupped his hand to the bulge. But he did not hunger. Instead, he sought to take each part of Silas and carve it into his memory, setting every curve in stone.

‘Are we going to sit here just discussing flowers, Silas?'

The ankou set his hand to Pitch's cheek, his fingers touching the dampness of the hair framing Pitch's face. It had been a welcome relief to see washbasins full of warm water, and thick washcloths. Pitch had scrubbed hard at the dirt on his cheeks and the scent of Lalassu on his hands.

‘Are you in the mood for firmer things?' Silas said, his fingers splayed against Pitch's thigh. ‘I am not sure how well I can oblige you, darling. My stomach is in knots.'

‘I don't want us to fuck.' Pitch tilted his head back, and his hair slipped in beneath the flat collar of his shirt, tickling at his skin. ‘I should be hung, drawn and quartered for such blasphemy, but desire is not upon me either.'

Silas chuckled. ‘Not now, perhaps. But what a fine day we'll have when this is done.'

Pitch's head snapped forward, and heat spread through his eyes. ‘That is what I wish to talk about. You should stay here, and I should go on alone.'

He'd hardly expected peaceful acquiescence, nor did he get it. Silas grabbed his waist, and swung them both about, setting his feet on the floor, holding Pitch firm against his knees, glaring at him.

‘There is no discussion to be had here,' Silas said.

‘You've seen the state of Seraphiel. He's fit for residency in an asylum, but if what he says is so, I will need to be just as mindless to see this done. The lake was already too dangerous for you, and now it is intolerably so.'

‘Utter rot. Don't test me on this, Pitch. I am no weakling.'

‘No, but you are a handsome dead man, and I don't fancy seeing you otherwise.' Pitch put on his very best coy smile, whilst his ribs felt ready to shatter with rising desperation.

‘I will be there with you. You are wasting your breath.'

Pitch wriggled against the impudent fellow. ‘Let me go, Silas.'

‘You're not going in there alone. End of discussion.'

Silas was more than handsome; with his belligerence brightening his cheeks, and the tight clench of his jaw causing muscles in his neck to work. Defiance made Silas breathtaking.

‘I meant, let me off your lap. Don't hold so tight.'

The release was instant and the apology ready. ‘Sorry.'

‘Forgiven.'

‘Then this discussion is done with.'

Oh, good gods, the sternness was prick-stiffening. On any other occasion, Pitch would strip Silas's trousers off and impale himself at once.

But this occasion did not lend itself to carnality.

‘Fine.'

Pitch turned away and walked to the sideboard, where a pottery pitcher and matching cups sat. The tang of cider was evident. He poured himself a serve of the warm liquid, another for Silas. All the while, his mind worked furiously, searching for a clear path to follow; anywhere the Berserker Prince must be was not a place he'd allow Silas Mercer to set foot.

They sat quietly, sipping on the cider. It was warm and sweet, and Pitch would have devoured the entire pitcher; again, on any other occasion.

The Sanctuary had stolen every appetite from him; overwhelming in its grandeur, its memories, and the threshold it signified.

After a time, the soft pad of footsteps came from beyond the double doors with their gold motifs and wheat-field handles glowing. Jacquetta appeared, changed as well, into an ankle-length tunic, belted at the waist, with long draping sleeves. It was one-tone silver, a clear flouting of the obvious palace theme of gold.

‘Your Highness, they are ready for you. I will show you the way.'

When Silas rose with Pitch, she shook her head. ‘Just the prince, my lord. That is my instruction.'

‘Absolutely not.' Silas set down his cup in a way that made his already obvious displeasure plainer still.

But here was a chance for Pitch to make sense of his tangled thoughts. A moment away from Silas to think straight.

‘If that has been instructed, then that is what will be done.' Pitch picked at loose cotton on his long white shirt. Its billowed sleeves felt like blasted wings, the clothing so damned oversized. ‘The Seraph wishes to know the state of the simurgh. You heard the message earlier. I'm not about to go running off into the lake, considering we know there is damage done to the bird. But it is sensible that you are not present when a delusional angel is playing with divine magick.'

‘That is exactly when I should be present.'

Jacquetta's bluntness proved useful as she said, "You are not invited, my lord."

‘I don't need a bloody invitation.' Silas fumed, his neck reddening.

Sensing that this argument could go on until the next turning of the tide, Pitch ruled with an iron, somewhat cruel fist.

‘I don't want you there.' He tilted his chin, determined not to let the hurt in Silas's eyes affect him. ‘It shall be bad enough being poked and prodded yet again, without knowing that you stand there as witness. The simurgh was taken from me once already, and it was not a pretty scene. I know it will not make you happy, which will make the experience far worse for me than it has ever been.' He looked to Jacquetta to escape the ankou's visible distress and forthcoming protest. ‘Jacquetta, after I am delivered, take Mr Mercer to Charlie and Edward, and Scarlet.'

‘Of course, my lord. They are resting currently. The prophet is much revived.'

‘It would be best if we judged that for ourselves. That is why you will take Lord Death there whilst I see to the simurgh.'

Silas muttered against the title, but otherwise stayed agreeable; as Pitch had known he would. The rare thing that could separate Silas from Pitch's side was his love for those he called friends.

And it was not as though Pitch himself held no concerns for the purebreds and the wisp; he'd find comfort too, knowing they were safe.

Silas insisted on a kiss, and Pitch did not deny him. Brief but deep, it held a comfortable intimacy, though was spliced with a violent longing that threatened to engulf Pitch. He pulled from the kiss first; and stepped away without another word.

He followed Jacquetta with the ankou's wetness on his lips, and a lovely pain on the tip of his tongue from Silas's teeth. He'd been forceful, more so than normal; as though leaving Pitch with a reminder that he was here; or irritated at being left behind.

But if Silas had known the thoughts that jostled for position in Pitch's mind, the growing plan, he would have never have just stood there and watched him go.

Pitch was guided through long hallways and down several flights of stairs, using spiral staircases that left him dizzy. More halls followed, some expansive, lined with mirrors that reflected the white air, giving the impression of walking outside, beneath rows of heavy crystal chandeliers. The floors were so polished in places it was like mirrors lay there, too. All of it combined to give the place a sense of vastness that was unsettling.

He paused at one point, a dark corridor catching his eye. It was the only hint of gloom he'd seen since they stepped foot inside a palace that glowed.

‘Not that way.' Jacquetta had been terse, immediately bobbing her head in apology. ‘Sorry, your highness. But that is not the way.'

Pitch briefly considered telling her what she could do with her way, and heading down there regardless. But the simurgh stirred: hidden deep, making its presence known.

He kept on.

They travelled down another set of stairs, then another, until they were in the cellar, a domed room with a low ceiling and rack after rack of wine bottles, many with cobwebs and thick dust coating them. No wonder Seraphiel had been so adept at keeping Pitch inebriated here. This supply would take a decade to work through.

The simurgh brushed along the bottom of his ribs, slipping around his spine. The first definitive movement from the Cultivation since Seraphiel's awakening. There was no pain, but the sensation itself was ghoulish; as though the creature was trying on his skin for size or perhaps looking for an escape route. Who was not?

‘Will this travel never end? I'll be another hundred years old before I see Seraphiel, at this rate.'

Jacquetta produced a ridiculously huge key from the equally large drop of her sleeve. ‘We are here, your highness.'

‘My name is Pitch.'

She said nothing, and kept on to where there was a simple wooden door, thick panels, with black iron reinforcing it; Pitch noted the surplus of subtle runework on the wood.

‘This is as far as I go, your highness. They are waiting on you.'

The Child inserted the key into a lock whose large opening Pitch could have slipped four fingers into. Sparks jumped at the key's touch, and the waft of orange blossom briefly filled the air. Faerie magick always tended on the pretty side; even the UnSeelie cockaigne had not been without beauty.

Leaving the door closed, Jacquetta hurried away, promising to head straight back to Silas.

‘Come in, hurry up,' Seraphiel called. ‘Why are you just standing there?'

Patience was not a virtue of Higher Angels, nor of a princely daemon for that matter. The door swung open, perfectly silent.

Pitch bent to accommodate the low roof of the doorway, and stepped into what appeared to be little more than an extension of the cellar–minus the plentiful supply wine–but with the uncomfortable addition of a rectangular metal table, one that would fit nicely in a mortuary.

He looked away. Lucifer was in the invalid chair. The poor bastard still looked dreadful, but both he and Seraphiel wore outrageously elaborate coats.

Seraphiel had his long golden hair now tousled with curls, and looked ridiculous in a white satin justaucorps; with thick gold embroidery upon its deep pockets and enormous cuffs, and heavy braid work at the flare of its knee-length hem. White stockings defined a pair of muscular legs and accentuated his red heels.

‘Are you preparing to whisk back in time and join the Sun King in his court at Versailles?' Pitch made no pretence of enjoying the angel's elaborate look, not only was it gaudy, but it made him feel near naked for how under-dressed he was; and vulnerable. ‘What on Earth are you wearing?'

‘Clothes hardly matter, Vassago.' Lucifer's coat was a deep crimson, with the requisite gold trim. He wore breeches, and plain black shoes, so polished Pitch could have shaved with them as his mirror. Perhaps the king had done that, for his own moustache was gone. He was clean shaven, but still looked like he needed a decent wash; thanks to the patchwork of bruises, which seemed worse, not better.

‘Are you not healing?' Pitch frowned. ‘Or was the angel far too rough with you in his bed?'

Lucifer smoothed at his already slicked hair, glaring his very best glare. No hint of daemonflame in his irises, though. Another anomaly, considering how readily he usually flared with temper when Pitch was around.

‘Get on the bench.' Seraphiel drew on a pair of gloves. Surprisingly, not gold, but the duller grey of chain mail; actual chain-mail.

‘I prefer to stand.'

Pitch shot up into the air, a pressure throwing him onto his back, lifting him up and over the metal bench.

‘Fuck, set me down. Now!' He flailed his arms, and kicked his legs, like a child in the throes of a tantrum. He was dumped onto the table; a surface cold and hard.

The simurgh fed on his distress, losing its feathery mind: pressing at his stomach, stabbing at his hips, causing a scream to slip through grinding teeth.

‘Let me be.' Pitch reached for his flame, trying to find its brilliance in the calamity. Only the merest warmth rose to find him. He was being suppressed. ‘You cunt, let me fucking go.'

What moron was he, to have left Silas behind?

‘Calm down, Vassago.' Lucifer offered unwelcome advice.

‘Fuck off.' Pitch bucked his arse off the table, groaning with the effort of fighting off a pressure that urged his legs to part.

A futile effort, evidently. Each leg moved, a heel to each corner of the table. The resounding crack of restraints came; at the same time their coldness met the bare skin at his ankles. Memories were pounding at the back of his head, trying to force their way through bone.

‘Don't tie me down, fuck…don't do this.'

Seraphiel stood by, still adjusting the fit of his gloves. ‘As always, the sooner you calm, the sooner this shall be over. I need to examine the simurgh.'

Pitch's arms were thrust over his head, and restraints slipped around his wrist. He cried out. The pounding in his skull was excruciating.

As always : those two words shifted the stones weighing down his memories.

He'd been held here before; laid out and tied down, many, many times by this angel.

Panic was a wild stallion, stealing his breath, making his vision red and blurry with the crush of his trapped flame. He thrashed his head back and forth, trying to roll his shoulders, his hips, anything that would at least let him pretend he could escape this.

This is where he had been manipulated, and made a freak in Seraphiel's show. How could he forget?

His thoughts screamed, and barriers came crashing down.

This room was where he'd truly been trapped. Not that other; where he recalled lounging between silk sheets, or taking long, hot baths with a whisky in one hand and sweet cake in the other after he'd laid with the angel. That other room was illusion, or distorted reality at best; a dumping ground for when Seraphiel was done with him.

Here was where Pitch had actually suffered; worked upon and weaponised without agency, his freedom stolen.

‘I said fucking let me go.' If he roared loud enough, would Silas hear? Fuck, fuck. No. Stupid idea. Seraphiel would destroy him.

Pitch's chest heaved. The simurgh was a colt to his panic's stallion, kicking its silvered heels against his organs, thrashing itself mindless as Pitch's fear caught like kindling and burned them both.

‘Will this go on much longer?' Seraphiel was cold, clinical as he'd been every other time.

‘I don't need your chains, you arsehole. It is by my own free will I am here.' Pitch was screeching, sounding every inch the maniac he felt; and with the way the simurgh flew like a mad hawk within him, he'd be bleeding out of his orifices before long.

‘Stop. There is no need to restrain him.'

Lucifer wheeled his chair closer and touched a hand to Pitch's shin, just above one of the cruel shackles. Pitch stilled, gasping.

‘There has always been a need in the past.' Seraphiel frowned.

‘But that time is over, Raph. Just as you are not the angel you were, nor is Vassago the same daemon you worked upon. Let him be. He does not seek to escape his fate.'

Even the simurgh seemed lulled by the daemon's speech; reducing its chaotic scrambling to a quieter restlessness. Pitch hissed his breath, trying to gather himself; wrench back from the precipice.

He let his head rest against the metal; nekhri he'd assume, for how powerfully it bound him. Pitch waited for the two powerful lords of Arcadia as they duelled in a silent battle of wills. He had thought he and Silas the strangest of lovers, but here were the true champions of that title: a sexless king and a mad angel.

Seraphiel's lips twitched, his eyes ever radiant, but the creases at their sides hinted at a frown. With a tight nod, he turned away.

‘Fine. I have no time to argue with two stubborn creatures. But if you cannot keep perfectly still, daemon, it will be unpleasant.'

‘I am well aware of how much it hurts,' Pitch said.

Seraphiel's surprise was farcical. ‘You remember?'

‘That you tortured me? And that your supposed prowess in the bedchamber was all imaginary? Yes. But I know too because the simurgh was taken from me by the Morrigan.'

Shadows rippled over the angel's face, and he looked beyond Pitch, beyond where Lucifer worked at the restraint around his ankle.

‘Do not gloat, you fiend.' Seraphiel's grin was poorly shaped. ‘Do not listen to this and think you have won. You'll not take it from him again, Samyaza. Do you hear me?'

Seraphiel spoke to the wall; where runes flourished, crawling over the stonework like pretty serpents, covering every inch of the cellar. But nothing else, and no one else, was there.

‘Raph, keep your focus upon the prince,' Lucifer said, still working at Pitch's restraint. ‘The Watcher King does not hear you.'

The cuff came free from one of Pitch's ankles, and the next followed quickly.

‘Oh, he taunts me, Luci.' Seraphiel's laugh was part hiccup. ‘You do not hear what he whispers. He challenges me to fail.'

Lucifer's shoulder's lifted with a silent sigh. ‘Very well, then best you meet his challenge.'

He unlocked the restraints at Pitch's wrists and moved away. The king pushed at the rounded metal of the chair's wheels, moving himself to where the roof curved low and would likely have brushed the top of his head were Lucifer not sitting with shoulders so hunched, and head lowered. Pitch had never seen the daemon so boneless, in all the years of studying his arrogance.

Seraphiel appeared, sudden and bright-eyed, standing over Pitch, who barely had time to lower his arms, and rub at the abrasions there.

The angel handed him a short length of wood, not much larger than a clothes peg, and about as round.

‘Take this. Bite into it.' Seraphiel's eyes grew shockingly white and bright. ‘If you truly remember as you say, then you will know that what I am about to do makes you wish your life was already over.'