Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

THE TRIP to the Churchill took them right by the Golden Rule, and Pitch was sorely tempted by the waft of ale that came from it. Silas spotted Tyvain before the soothsayer noticed them. She was seated inside near the window, pint in hand, slouched back in her seat, chatting to a fellow whose beard put Silas's to shame, nearly touching at his ample belly. They were locked in conversation, and Tyvain looked for all the world like she was a local. Jane's meandering walk had put her only just ahead of Pitch and Silas. She waited at the main doors as they approached. The sleeves of her shirt were dark with dampness, as were a few strands of her hair.

‘Did you bathe in the river?' Pitch said. ‘Does the Golden Rule have no basins?'

She smiled, and something shifted within her hair. One of the sparrows peaked from between the strands. Odd woman.

‘Some of the asrai were rather exuberant when I chatted with them. The young ones tend to burst themselves when they are overly excited.'

Pitch felt Silas tense, and recalled something of the asrai being involved in distracting him in Sherwood Forest. He rubbed his hand over the ankou's arse by way of a very different distraction.

‘What did they tell you of this place then?' Silas asked, not nearly distracted as he should be, Pitch decided.

‘They are carefree, Silas. All is well.' She glanced at Herbert who was staring at her rather wide-eyed. ‘Hello there.'

‘You're beautiful,' the boy declared, not a hint of abashment about him as he stood dwarfed by Lalassu's powerful bulk.

Jane burst into an equally beautiful gale of laughter. ‘Thank you. And you are very handsome.'

‘Oh good gods,' Pitch growled. ‘We'll be at the Churchill. There is cake.'

He tugged at Silas's awful heavy coat, but the ankou was unmoved.

‘What of Sybilla?' Silas, ever the sensible one, enquired. ‘Shall I help you settle her in, Jane?'

She shook her head, and two tiny finches darted from beneath her hair. ‘We shall manage. Go on then. You know where we are if you need us. Enjoy, gentlemen.' She turned to enter the establishment, but paused. ‘Tobias, what of the…' she glanced at Herbert. ‘Your baggage? Would you prefer it stays with you?'

‘No.' Pitch needed no time to consider. ‘Leave it lie.'

‘Are you sure?' Silas said, quietly.

‘Very. I'd…I prefer…' Never to take in the simurgh again, to be the master of his own body once more. He'd prefer to pretend a while longer that he was free. ‘Not yet. Leave the bag in the carriage. Have Phillipa and Scarlet remain with it.'

Jane nodded. ‘Good care will be taken.'

‘You are welcome to come to the inn, too.' Herbert was far too occupied with Jane's beauty for Pitch's liking. ‘There's room for everyone.'

‘Thank you so much, but we will let Pitch and Silas settle in on their own.' Pitch caught himself before he exhaled too loudly with relief. ‘Perhaps we shall come for a drink later on? But best you show these fine gentlemen to their room now, they both look dead on their feet.' She winked at Silas but his smile barely lifted.

‘Yes, miss.' The boy nearly danced himself out of his own shoes. ‘Right away.'

The fool actually saluted her, before turning on his heels, a set of reins looped over each shoulder, waving Silas and Pitch onwards. ‘Quick, this way. Come on.'

‘Horatio! Damn you, I am not running in these fucking boots.'

Silas laughed, though there was not much energy about it.

Pitch brushed his hand against Silas's fingers. The ankou's skin was cool, and he allowed his flame to the surface. ‘Are you sure everything is alright?'

‘As you said to Herbert before, it's been quite the time.' He leaned toward Pitch. ‘And I think the past week is catching up with me. I did not sleep well when you were gone.'

It really was nothing to be pleased about, but Pitch could not deny the warmth at hearing it said. To be missed…what a strange, quite lovely thing.

‘Well, that was rather silly. I for one had the most wonderful slumber whilst packed into a glass tomb. Right as rain, I am.'

They both laughed, quietly, at the obvious untruth, and Pitch slipped a single finger into Silas's hand, who clasped it like a treasure.

Herbert guided them off the North Road, where the Rule sat, and onto the main street. They arrived ten minutes later, with Herbert declaring it loudly, pointing until they had both murmured their approval. The Churchill Inn was pretty, with its lower level pale rendered brick, whilst the upper levels were exposed slate and stone work. Three levels, with dormer windows on the roof, hinting at a usable attic space. Gold lettering across the inn's middle declared its name. The brown remains of ivy clung around the doorway, but winter had made a skeleton of the plant for now.

‘I can't decide whether to wash or eat first,' Pitch said.

‘You could do both, could you not? Sit in the bath and indulge in a tart? Now there's a sight I shall look forward to.' Silas's grin suddenly slipped and he grasped Pitch's finger tighter.

‘What is it?' Fucking gods, what now? ‘Is there danger?'

The ankou seemed to gather himself, his hold loosening. ‘Sorry, no, nothing of concern. There was just a very strong waft of the graveyard, it caught me off guard. I just…' He seemed uncomfortable, furrows creasing his brow.

‘You just what, my dear? Come on now, spill it. I need notice if we are to run again, these boots are torture, and I'm really not dressed for it.'

That smoothed out the big man's lines a little.

‘Nothing like that. I may have to excuse myself later on and take a stroll.' He touched at his chest. ‘I think I need…'

Up ahead, Hartford or whatever the blasted lad's name was, hollered for his father. ‘Some fellows are here for a bed and tarts, pa.'

There was so much to be said about that particular sentence, but Pitch held back the urge.

‘Go on, Silas.' This feeling of concern that came so readily where the oaf was concerned was bloody annoying. Life was far simpler when one did not give a damn.

‘I need to spend some time there.' Silas glanced at him and Pitch felt a prick of unease. ‘The graveyard, I mean. It will do me good, I think.'

Pitch stopped, pulling his fingers from the ankou's hold. ‘Because you are not good now? Are you unwell?' His own stomach did unwelcome flips at saying it. ‘Silas, don't fuck around. What is wrong? Out with it.'

‘I am not unwell, but I am drained…' he paused, and after coming to a visible inward decision, continued on. ‘I'll be honest and say I feel tired in a way I've not know before.' Pitch must have failed at hiding his concerns for Silas's expression fell. ‘No, no, there's no need for concern, I assure you. A decent rest and I'll be fine. I don't suppose I can take on the likes of the Herlequin and a goddess, and expect to walk away with little more than a sore thumb.'

Pitch scowled. ‘What is wrong with your thumb?'

There came that irresistible deep chortle again. ‘Nothing, merely a turn of phrase. I'm just saying, it hardly seems surprising to be a little tired. We both need rest, I know you are the same.'

Pitch's lips parted with a denial, which was simply stupid. He was fucking exhausted.

‘That's the front door there,' the boy called, pointing out the bleeding obvious before Pitch could press Silas further. ‘Tell Pa that Herbert sent you, I'll take your horses around to the stables in the back.'

Pitch huffed. ‘Half the world shall know we've arrived, with all that shouting.'

‘Come on with me, pretty mare.' The boy patted at Lalassu's shoulder, then gave the brown horse an equal share of attention. ‘And Mr Chocolate, you shall love our stables, plenty of fresh hay, and a dandy brush with your names on it. What do you think of that?' He turned suddenly. ‘What are their names, sirs?'

‘Lalassu is the pale horse,' Silas returned. ‘And…well, you were right, that is Mr Chocolate, the brown.'

Herman's poorly directed eyes widened. ‘Lalassu. That's the most wonderful name I've ever heard.'

Lalassu snorted and tossed her head, and with no more to-do the mare and gelding trotted off to follow the strange, slow young fellow whose laughter was every bit as childish as he. Childish but, Pitch must admit, endearing.

He turned his attention back to Silas. The ankou was not quick enough to cover the pinch of discomfort that lined his face, but he plastered a rather wolfish grin over whatever ailed him.

‘Shall we?' He swept his hand towards the door: a simple entrance of smoothed brown wood, framed by the winter-slumbering trails of a climbing rose. Wood smoke scented the air, a thick trail coming from the bulky chimney at the far right of the building.

‘We shall.' Pitch led the way inside.

‘Welcome to the Churchill Inn, gentlemen. I see you've made my son's acquaintance.'

Hector's pa was a stocky man whose belly sought to escape his vest, making pearl buttons strain. His wide smile showed hint of a singular blackened tooth towards the side of his mouth, and his neck was impressively thick. There was an affable air about the man, a sense that he was every bit as jovial as he appeared. Stepping across the threshold into the warmth and murmur of afternoon drinking, Pitch found his knots undoing.

‘Herbert is a credit to you, sir,' Silas said.

‘He said your cook makes tarts.' Pitch knew himself blunt, but truly felt the past few days earned him every right to be.

The publican appeared taken aback for a moment before his expression cleared. ‘Ah, you mean my partner Samuel? He is a master of the pastry, I have to say. A sight to behold in the kitchen.'

‘I don't know about all that but does he have any strawberry tarts about?' He earned a displeased nudge from Silas.

‘Excuse my companion, Mr…'

‘Churchill.'

‘Of course, Mr Churchill,' Silas said. ‘We wondered if you might have any rooms available?'

‘Just one, that's all we need.' Pitch was in no mood for the prejudices of humankind. He was not going to sneak about simply to pander to their bigotry. He wanted Silas in his bed, and he would have him there. ‘Your boy told us this was a welcoming place for all types. We are all types, I assure you.'

The innkeeper gave him a look, and it was best described as appraising. There were all manner of calculations going on behind his plain brown eyes. Gentle considerations though, not conniving.

Silas inhaled, no doubt about to smooth over daemonic bad manners, and Pitch was readying to use some enchantment on the human man to hurry things along, when the innkeeper nodded. ‘We pride ourselves on an open door here at the Churchill, my dear fellow. Let me show you to your room right away.'

‘You didn't say about the tarts?' Pitch raised a brow, aware he was being quite the demanding tosser, but a little too tired of tight boots and appalling clothing to care.

The innkeeper's laughter made his jowls wobble. Far more pleasant jowls than those Iblis had designed for his Dr Severs. These were made for humour. ‘I'm sure you know that strawberries are no friends of winter, but my Samuel is a master of creation. I have no doubt he can whip up something to suit your tastes. The sweeter the better, then?'

‘Saccharine like you would not believe.' Silas too seemed to have shed some of his angst. Likely it was the clutter of potted plants in the small foyer that pleased him, enough of them to have Pitch thinking of the Crimson Bow, with its crowded but pleasant interior. His fingers went, unbidden, to where the puncture in his earlobe was a reminder of Tilly. Another blasted creature to worry over. ‘He has the sweetest tooth I've ever known. It would be truly wonderful if something could be done by your fellow.'

Mr Churchill led them towards a narrow flight of carpeted stairs. ‘He's the best with pastry this side of the Scottish border, so far as I'm concerned. You'll not wish to leave Ambleside again, once you've had a taste of his wares, I can promise you that.'

‘I do hope you are not simply talking the talk because he has your balls in the palm of his hand.'

The innkeeper nearly missed a step, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Pardon?'

‘What?' Pitch shrugged. ‘He's your lover, is he not?'

Silas hissed something low and urgent but Pitch waved him off. Mr Churchill's look of alarm slid away, replaced with wide-grinned amusement. ‘You're a forward one, aren't you?'

‘Also, like you would not believe.' Silas sighed, gesturing for Pitch to head up first. But the innkeeper had not yet moved on.

‘You're not entirely correct.' The innkeeper pulled back his shoulders, his eyes bright. ‘He's not just my lover, he is the love of my life.' He glanced between Silas and Pitch. ‘Perhaps you already know that feeling, perhaps you'll come to know it, all I can say is there's nothing like it.' He nodded at some inner thought. ‘There we are then, that's said, and to hell with worrying about it.'

Pitch glanced at Silas. The ankou watched the fellow with a wistful smile. ‘Good for you, Mr Churchill. I think it perhaps the only feeling truly worth its salt. I'm glad you've known it.'

‘And you?' The man said, gently, keeping his gaze very fixed on the ankou.

Pitch cleared his throat. He could not stand another moment of this discussion.

‘Mr Mercer has had many lives, and no doubt many loves,' he said. ‘And tells them all, I'm sure, that he's terribly in love. He falls very easily and unwisely.' He regretted the snide words the moment they spilled from his tongue. Silas was holding onto the banister like it were a ship's rail in a storm-tossed sea, the weight of his exhaustion tangible. ‘Mr Churchill, would you please show us to our room, I think my man here is in need of a decent lie down.'

‘Of course, of course.'

Ignoring Silas's mutterings about needless fussing, Pitch insisted the ankou go first. He did not trust that Silas wouldn't collapse there and then. He'd have offered his shoulder, but Silas's breadth took up most of the width of the stairs. Once they reached the corridor though, Pitch lifted Silas's arm and draped it over his shoulder.

‘Here we are, make yourselves at home.' Mr Churchill opened the door to the very last room along the corridor. ‘I'll have some hot water sent so you can wash, and then I'll get to the kitchen and have a word with Samuel.'

Pitch's pulse jumped. Gods he was hungry. ‘If there are no strawberries, perhaps cherry?' He wrinkled his nose. ‘Pear if there really is no other option.'

Pitch knew he was being unreasonable with his requests considering the time of year, but if one did not ask, one certainly did not receive.

‘Will do my very best. I hope you are very comfortable, gentlemen. Is there any luggage you need brought up?'

‘No,' Silas replied. ‘We are travelling light.'

Churchill nodded, and left them alone, closing the door softly.

A generous lead-paned window drew Pitch's attention from the busy botanical wallpaper. Their second-floor level afforded a view over the tops of slate-roofed cottages and out towards the rolling green hills beyond. Despite it being early afternoon, the winter sun was waning, the light dulled with hint of evening's approach, but it made for a gorgeous landscape in the failing light.

‘Quite attractive, this place,' Pitch said.

Silas groaned, and Pitch abandoned the view at once.

‘What is it?'

But there was no need for the ankou to explain.

‘Oh fuck,' Pitch breathed.

The mahogany bed, with its half-tester canopy and lace drapes, was set into a recess in the far wall. The flame mahogany footboard was so high Pitch could have hidden behind it; and the creme, buttoned headboard was barely visible behind an astonishing array of pillows.

Silas stepped up to one side of the bed; where a bedspread with dominating yellow florals lay without a crease out of place. He spread his arms wide, and declared, ‘Thank bloody Christ.'

Silas toppled forward, a mighty oak falling, and landed face down. He groaned into the thick eiderdown, and patted at the empty space beside him.

‘Come and join me, it is heaven.'

‘Then don't dirty it with those blasted boots. Here…' Pitch lifted Silas's right foot and set about undoing the laces, tugging forcefully until he almost went arse-over-tit when the boot slipped loose. ‘Curse these infernal ugly things.'

Silas merely laughed into his soft haven, his sound muffled. ‘Oh bloody hell, I'm never moving again.'

‘That had best be a lie.' Pitch grunted, bracing as the other boot came free. He tossed it towards its pair, over by an elegant, mirrored armoire dresser. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at his reflection.

‘You might want to close your eyes while you fuck me, Silas. I'm as pretty as the arse end of a manticore at the moment.' He tried in vain to rearrange his hair into some semblance of order. ‘Something reeks, too, and I'm not sure if it's me, or your feet.'

Silas laughed. ‘I suspect both. And let it be said, you'll never be unfuckable as far as I'm concerned, but perhaps we should wait until the wash basin arrives?' He'd not yet moved from his fallen scarecrow pose upon the bed. Pitch threw off his own boots, casting them as far across the substantial room as he could manage. They landed near to where a well-worn brown leather armchair took up the corner, in prime position beside a carved wood hearth, its fireplace laid out with kindling.

‘Wait? I shall pretend I did not hear you say that.' Pitch unclasped the cloak, letting it pool around his feet in a flow of fuchsia. He shrugged off the bland coat beneath, and the smock beneath that, before he clambered onto the bed in dirty trousers and thin shirt, and straddled Silas. Pitch leaned down, nuzzling the back of the ankou's ear. ‘The water might take an hour, could we not at least warm ourselves up a little?'

Now Silas's groan was all for him. Pitch shifted his hair and laid feathery kisses upon his exposed neck. Leaning down like this, so close to the tantalising softness of the mattress, he was torn between notions of fucking Silas mindless, or having an afternoon nap. But his incubus blood was singing out. For a decent bit of handwork at the very least.

‘I'm so very filthy, Pitch.'

‘And thank heavens for that.'

Silas's laugh bucked his hips. ‘You know what I mean. I fear you'll chip a tooth on the grit if you keep kissing me that way.'

‘Just roll over, I shall I'll take care of the rest if you aren't in the mood.'

‘I beg your pardon?' Silas moved quickly, flipping himself over, nearly throwing Pitch off with the sudden roll. ‘Come here.' He resettled Pitch over his middle, and took his hand, guiding it to where fabric bulged. ‘There is not enough tiredness in the world to keep me from wanting you.'

Pitch rolled his eyes in a show of disdain for the sentiment, whilst inside his blood reached a new crescendo.

He moved his hips, teasing at the hard lump between his thighs. Silas gasped, and cupped a hand to the back of his neck, dragging him down, and claiming Pitch's lips in a forceful kiss. Their cocks were crushed against one another, both pleasurable and painful, and it drew moans all around. Pitch closed his eyes, which was actually a terrible idea.

Fatigue swept through the darkness to find him. He pressed a hand to the mattress to brace himself, and whilst he still nipped at Silas's bottom lip, he grabbed a handful of the ankou's bland coat and rolled to one side. Silas moved with him, letting himself be shifted onto his side so they lay now face to face. Pitch groaned anew with the relief.

‘Wonderful bed, isn't it?' Silas kissed his chin, his hand tracing the undulations of Pitch's side.

‘Surprisingly so.' He hooked his leg over the ankou's thigh, the reach spreading his arse cheeks, and straining the fabric of his trousers. Silas's hand drifted to find his buttons. And Pitch's eyes fluttered closed once more.

‘We should get you out of these clothes.'

Their lips brushed, their noses glanced.

‘Absolutely,' Pitch mumbled.

Neither of them made another move. Pitch peered through one narrowed eye. Silas had his eyes closed, too. Their kisses were airy, their foreheads touching. And though desire was hurting his balls, Pitch could not deny one very putrid truth.

‘My gods, we stink.'

Silas nuzzled his nose against Pitch's cheek. ‘We are positively awful. Why on Earth did no one mention it?'

‘I suppose they weren't sure how to tell the lord of death he smells like a mortuary.'

‘How dare you, sir.'

The ankou's fingers came back to life, forgoing undoing buttons and slipping down the front of Pitch's trousers to touch at dampness and rigid heat. He pinched the tip of Pitch's cock.

‘Oh, gods.' He thrust his hips forward, pushing himself deeper into Silas's hold.

‘Did you like that?'

The rumble of Silas's voice, the hunger there, drew a gasp from Pitch. ‘Do it again, I'll let you know for sure.'

Silas shifted his hand, gaining greater purchase. His thick fingers crushed at hard flesh; starting a beautiful dance of pleasure and pain. Pitch arched his back, grasping at Silas's shoulder. ‘Again.'

The ankou made a small, needy sound and obliged. This time using all his fingers, wrapping them about Pitch's cock, clenching hard, and being beautifully, perfectly mean about it.

‘Bastard,' Pitch panted. ‘Do it again.'

The growl that came from the ankou made Pitch's balls tighten harder. Which made the pain all the more delicious when Silas's fingers found them, took hold, and squeezed their denseness tight.

Pitch keened like a rabid animal, white flashes going off behind his closed lids.

‘More?' Silas whispered.

‘Yes, gods, yes.'

Silas balled his fist, crushing twin jewels with eye-watering ferocity. Pitch sailed into exquisite agony, alive to every end of every nerve. He rolled his head against the mattress, his incubus hunger maddened by the harsh play.

There'd been hint that Silas was capable of such roughness, but no sign he might enjoy it every bit as much as Pitch did.

The animalistic noises coming from the ankou, the possessive way his teeth teased at the lump at Pitch's throat whilst he so efficiently punished his balls, were a revelation.

‘Such a good boy,' he murmured in Pitch's ear. And it was impossible not to shudder. Not to swell so hard it seemed impossible his skin would not break. ‘Can you take more?'

Not if Silas kept talking like that. Pitch's head spun, and he was fairly sure he replied, but equally certain whatever he said was babble.

Silas relaxed his hold only a moment, to urge Pitch flat onto his back, and then drove his grip home again, pulling down as he did so this time; stretching the fine sack of skin around Pitch's balls until it could be dragged no further. Pitch's moan grew with the sweet torture, warmth spilling from the tip of his cock; pain balancing him upon a tipping point of sheer paradise.

‘I want you to come for me.' Silas was an utter fiend. ‘Will you do that for me?'

Yes. Yes. A simple word, one Pitch was incapable of speaking. Only a ridiculous gurgle escaped his constricted throat. The base of his spine began to burn; heralding the sheer ecstasy that would soon spill into his groin and erupt from his prick. He moaned like the very best harlot in the very best brothel.

The ankou shifted his mouth to Pitch's lips, breathing his command against them. ‘Come for me now.'

He squeezed, mercilessly, at beleaguered balls, whilst also taking firm command of Pitch's straining cock; sliding his hand up and down with such fever, Pitch was sent soaring beyond all chance of control.

Pitch shouted to the gods: his back arched, his release unstoppable. He came with a violence that sucked the breath from his lungs, and had him digging his nails in where he clung to Silas. He bucked and stuttered and went a little mindless with it all; and if anyone had asked him his name there and then, he'd have had no fucking clue what it was.

His incubus blood was greedy, drawing in the sensual, crackling energy between them. Gorging itself on the heat and desire that emanated from Silas. The ankou was a great body of lust, a beaming sun of want that saturated Pitch in a way very near to overwhelming. Silas held nothing of himself back. He was open, available. Ready to give far too much.

Pitch winced, and reined in the ravenous hunger that consumed him, even as his body still twitched with the violence of his spend. An incubus could lose control.

And he'd sooner starve than harm this man.

Then it was over, save for the shudders. Silas moved in for another of his deep kisses. He rolled his hips forward, and his arousal was still painfully evident.

‘Let me tend to that,' Pitch panted.

‘Not yet.' Silas traced a fingertip along his hairline. ‘You are glowing. Let me watch you enjoy your pleasure a while longer.'

Pitch smiled, tired and entirely sated. He slumped into the mattress, and Silas lay his head upon Pitch's damp chest.

‘You are quite the scoundrel, Mr Mercer.' He twisted his fingers through Silas's dark hair. ‘I did not think you'd care for more forceful indulgences.'

‘Ah, there you see, we have much to learn of one another.' Silas ran his fingertip through dampness on Pitch's exposed belly, his shirt having ridden up as he contorted. ‘I care for anything that makes you lose yourself like that. I could watch you spend all day.'

Pitch's eyes were determined to close. ‘I am preternaturally talented in many ways, but alas, endless climax is not in my repertoire.'

‘Very disappointing. Perhaps you should go bother the cobbler after all.'

Pitch flicked at his ear, eliciting a delightful whimper.

‘Before I go, I have something to attend to.' Pitch wriggled from beneath Silas's leaning weight, pushing the ankou flat onto his back. ‘Stay, do not move an inch. It is my turn for ordering about, now.'

Silas grinned, and lifted his arms, crossing his hands beneath his head. ‘Very well, then. It's close enough to Christmas, I suppose gifts are in order.' His eyelids were heavy, the rings beneath his eyes growing more pronounced as the light weakened with the afternoon. Now there was not just the reek of travel and maltreatment permeating; but the cloying, glorious scent of fucking.

Pitch nudged Silas's legs apart and lay between them. This was likely the most putrid he'd ever been in his human form. They were both wretched, and moving like decrepit old men. Pitch was sticky, hollowed out with fatigue, and yet, despite it all, he'd never been so content.

‘I'm not one for all this festive season malarky, myself.' He flicked at the buttons on Silas's trousers, and slipped the ankou's superb and rigid cock free. Pitch licked its reddened tip, and peered up through his lashes, the way he knew Silas liked. ‘But I can deliver a very decent gift.'