Chapter Thirty-One

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

THE MOMENT Pitch knew Silas deeply asleep, every rasp of breath familiar, he stepped from the faerie circle. He knew what he'd done was right, but that Silas would view it as an act of cruelty.

But Silas was at rest now; as he deserved.

Pitch had kept him safe. In one piece for his goddess. Time would wipe away his sorrow, and Silas would find another on whom to bestow his affections. Of course he would; if he could love Pitch, then he loved too easily.

Pitch's feet sank into the spongy depths of the moss, and his heel found the edge of one of the faerie circle's stones. Jacquetta had told him that the island on which she'd built Seraphiel's Sanctuary held many ancient circles; some so old, she doubted the most long-lived of the fae could speak of their origin. This one, where Silas slept, was primordial. Pitch had nearly choked on the irony.

Pitch stepped back onto the path. He ran a rough hand across his mouth, trying to wipe clean not only Jacquetta's potion, but the memory of Silas's face when realisation had dawned. For all Pitch's talk of wishing to save him, he had drowned Silas anew; done nothing, whilst the greenery smothered him, and enchantment overwhelmed.

But he had kept the ankou safe.

Was that not selfless? And weren't those who loved supposed to be selfless?

He rubbed at his stomach, all the more hollow for the absence of the simurgh. He needed that wildness returned, so he could get lost in its stolen power.

‘He sleeps deeply.' Jacquetta appeared at his side, falling into step.

‘I will not speak of the ankou.' He could not do so if his mind were to keep its pieces intact. ‘Take me back to Seraphiel. I go now, or I do not go at all.'

‘This way, your highness.'

She moved ahead, and he followed. Seeing nothing, hearing little. His pulse was like a drum in his chest, measuring out the paces, a foul nausea sitting with him as Silas's heartache replayed itself in his mind's eye.

They traversed a long corridor, moving back into the depths of the palace. He almost called a halt at one point, thinking he was going to be ill. He took hold of himself, shouting down the clamouring instinct to run back to the circle, and tear its prison apart.

He forced himself to recall his days as the Berserker Prince; when he'd cared for little but destruction and chaos: nothing so pretty and fragile and confounding, as that which plagued him now. That prince was the creature he protected Silas from, every bit as much as the Watcher King and his halo.

Jacquetta drew them to a halt at the foot of an imperial staircase. Two sets of wide stone steps, curving in opposing directions and winding back towards one another up at the landing. Jacquetta looked to the left, eyes narrowed, head cocked as though listening. Which indeed she must have been, for she nodded, and turned to face him, silver gown whispering.

‘You will be met at the ballroom. We will not return to the cellar.'

Jacquetta took the set of stairs on the right and made her way up.

Pitch trailed behind. ‘So long as this leads to an end, I hardly care.'

‘You'll be pleased, then. The ballroom is where you shall enter the lake. That is where the Seal lies.'

‘Here? In one of the rooms?'

‘Yes. What did you suppose?'

He wasn't sure what he'd expected; a long walk through a dark forest, or another trip with the Ferryman perhaps, to reach the entrance to Blood Lake?

Seraphiel's talk of using the lake waters in his Cultivations seemed far less of a mad fantasy now. Not only had the angel stolen a piece of the Primordial Flame, he'd entered a place that had been made deadly to Seraphim; defying Samyaza's curse that barred Michael and Ariel and Seraphiel from the lake.

Pitch did not doubt now that Lord Enoch had extinguished his favoured angel; an unstable Seraph with Blood Lake in his veins, was a catastrophe waiting to happen.

Pitch lowered his head: watching his knees bend as he took the stairs, his slippers set upon smooth stone, his hand grip at the carved balustrade.

Now, he was that godsdamned catastrophe that awaited; the keg to the simurgh's powder, with Blood Lake the fuse.

He grinned, crooked and thin. A good thing he'd betrayed the ankou, then. Kept him safe.

The lake could go ahead and swallow Pitch whole.

‘But you cannot have him,' he whispered.

They reached the top of the stairs, where there was but one way forward, with no sign of the landing that should have existed between the staircases.

Here there awaited only elaborate white double doors, with their gleaming crystal handles, and ornamented golden scrolls carved into the woodwork.

‘His Grace is inside. He shall show you the way, for he is the only one who knows it.' Jacquetta lifted her hand, fingers positioned as though she were a conductor readying an orchestra to begin. ‘Shall I open the doors?'

‘What else will you fucking do with them? Get on with it.'

‘Is there anything you'd like me to tell him…when the time comes, and it is safe for the Seelie Court to retrieve him?'

He wanted to slap the pitying look from her face. Instead, he let his flames dance at his fingertips, raising his hand towards her until she flinched.

‘There is nothing to be said. Silas will understand.'

‘Very well, your highness,' Jacquetta said, wincing. ‘Forgive me. I intrude.'

A twist of her wrist had the doors flinging open.

A ballroom lay beyond, just as she'd said, but it was no empty room, like all the others.

This one brimmed with a crowd that seemed poised to begin the next dance.

Jacquetta stepped aside, bowing low, muttering about tending to things. Perhaps wishing him good luck, it did not matter. Pitch was already moving on.

Crossing the threshold into the ballroom. The door clicking shut behind him.

Crowded as it was the grand room was perfectly silent.

All stood as though ready for the orchestra to strike at any moment.

The costuming was an astonishing mis-match of attire. Evening wear from every era of humankind that Pitch could recall: hose and bloomers were plentiful, as were high waistlines on sleeveless, flowing gowns, which contrasted those with enormous puffed sleeves and skirts wide enough to cause a black eye or two. Some men wore stockings; while others wore trousers, others still combined both, with shortened trousers to the knees, and stockings for the lower legs. Doublets and jerkins abounded, and intensely beautiful embroidered coats, with lace spilling at the cuffs. Cleavages were on display, pale white bosoms bursting the banks of square-cut necklines on rigid corsets, while others covered their tits entirely in lace, up to high necklines where frilled collars brushed beneath the chin. Pitch eyed them all with ill-placed jealousy. The assortment, hotchpotch as it may be, was utterly divine.

He glanced down at his own simple clothing, a loose shirt, looser trousers and slippers now stained from the moss.

He deserved no finery.

‘So what is this, then?' He called into the silence. ‘A dance before destruction?'

No one answered, much less moved.

Men and women were paired for the most part, but the gathering was not restricted to such partnerships: there were women together, and men in couples. Each pair stood ready to begin, arms lifted and hands clasped, frozen in a silent moment.

At the far end of the considerable room, a balcony housed a quartet: two violin players, a cellist and a harpist. Only the tops of their heads and the necks of their instruments were visible to Pitch, but they were as still and silent as the rest of the crowd. There was no conversation to be had, not a hint of life at all.

A panel along the far wall opened, and the colours of dusk and dawn emerged. The simurgh bobbed through the crowd, its elegant neck craned, peering over the heads of the parting dancers. Pitch frowned, trying to fathom how it moved so without its wings extended in flight.

‘Dominion, it is done,' Seraphiel spoke from amongst the throng.

The crowd parted, and the angel walked the length of the dancefloor.

The simurgh rode upon his shoulder, its colours contrasting the singular hue that the angel wore. Seraphiel was ludicrously resplendent in gold, head to toe; even his knee-high boots shone as though cut from the precious metal. His waistcoat relied on the purity of the fabric for splendour, rather than embellishment, with only the snow white lace at the cuffs breaking the dominance of gold satin. His hair was loose, like a veil of sunlight moving with him.

The simurgh's eyes of topaz were all of the creature that even came close to matching the angel for golden glow. And one of those eyes did not leave Pitch as they drew nearer. The bird's head tilted to watch him, its turquoise crown of feathers raised. One claw was still curled and useless, talons charred black.

‘It is not fully recovered?' Pitch said.

‘What could be done has been done. Lucifer could give no more.'

‘Lucifer?' Pitch studied the creature, frowning. Noting that the colourlessness at the neck was filled in now, returned to the spectrum of violet. ‘What has he to do with this?'

‘Everything.' Seraphiel raised his arm outstretched, and the simurgh stretched its wings just enough to jump its way along his arm, and settle near the flow of lace at his wrist. The blemish of grey at its wings was gone now too. ‘But I can take no more of his blood without killing him now. And though he told me to do what I must, I could not do it.'

He sounded so very surprised at himself.

‘What could his blood do for the Cultivation?'

‘Fix it, as you can see.' Seraphiel cocked his head, as the simurgh had done. ‘He is poisoned with many a vile thing, not least of which was divine magick. Now, brace yourself. I will make the return brief.'

‘Return?'

The simurgh alighted from its master's shoulder and swept down at him, coming in like the mist rolling in from a restless sea.

Instinct pushed Pitch back a step, his pulse quickening. Wings spread wide; casting the bruised purples of evening across the room.

A gleaming beak widened, a forked tongue darting forth, its length obscene. And mesmerising. He watched the odd dance of the tongue, felt his body loosening. His eyelids growing heavy.

‘Wait.'

Pitch was allowed that single word before he was struck.

His world went black. There was nothingness, and then the hardness of the floor at his back. The subtle stirring of the simurgh within his belly.

The Cultivation was returned, and he'd not felt so much as a pinch.

He blinked, staring up at an enormous chandelier, one with a forest of candles gleaming over its complicated array of crystal teardrop prisms.

‘Get up, Vassago.' Seraphiel moved nearer, an upside down vision as he stood at Pitch's head. ‘We do not have time for you to lie about.'

‘I feel fine. Thank you for your concern.'

‘Get up.'

He took Seraphiel's proffered hand, noting the golden colour of the angel's nails: painted or perhaps even gold itself. There was no give in the Seraph's flesh. He was hard, his skin tepid.

‘Follow my lead,' he said. As though Pitch had any other choice. ‘I will unlock the Seal, and you shall move to Blood Lake.'

He spoke with a child's enthusiasm, as though they were about to step into a parlour full of sweets and lollies. Pitch had never desired sweet things less.

Seraphiel led Pitch through the throng of waiting dancers. None turned their heads, nor flickered a glance. It was as though they were truly frozen. The angel did not lead him far, and stopped where the parquetry circled an intensely beautiful crest formed by differing shades of wood. Seraphiel's own crest; carved above his door in White Mountain, and in his throne which now sat vacant alongside Lord Enoch's in Gimli Hall. The design replicated the eternal wheels of guardianship that circled the Creation Flame. A thousand eyes watched from those wheels, and all were of the same size, same hue: red as cherries. But on Seraphiel's crest one eye was made much larger, and clear as a diamond; declaring him more watchful, more focused than all those who claimed to protect Arcadia.

Pitch moved with dull co-operation as the angel positioned him, edging him this way and that, urging his feet apart, raising his arm, like a too-studious dance partner seeking to ensure perfection. Pitch was distant to all the man-handling, with the simurgh a pressure on his bowels; making it feel as though he'd left it too late to relieve himself.

They stood beneath another chandelier, far simpler than all the rest, with only one tier. An assembly of white glass flowers, shaped with the wide petals of Easter lilies, on long curving stems of chalk white. The flames at the flowers' centres were the only hint of colour; rebelling against the golden standard with a blue flame.

‘Pay the bones no mind. Concentrate, Vassago.'

Pitch stared at Seraphiel. ‘Bones?'

‘Of the Watcher King, of course.' Seraphiel urged Pitch's elbow higher, frowning when he did not follow the instruction at once.

‘Stop that. Those are Samyaza's bones?'

‘Not all of them, great gods. You know the legend well enough. His body was cut up, and each Seraph has their piece. Mine anchors my Seal. I think Ariel has his embedded in his throne in Gimli Hall, so he might be seated on the traitor's face. Now, just tilt your chin higher.'

‘Touch me again, and I'll bite off your finger.'

But if Pitch had hoped to truly threaten the angel, he failed. Seraphiel's face was split by a rare and unwelcome smile. ‘You have fire in you yet. Good. Now, fix your hair.'

The angel tucked a finger beneath the strands near Pitch's ear.

‘Piss off, Seraphiel.' He jerked his head away. ‘I swear to you, you will lose that finger.'

But that only amused the moonstruck angel ever more. ‘Then I shall match Luci. Do you think he would like that? It seems the least I could do. I've rather made things difficult for him, don't you think?'

How did one answer such lunacy? Pitch grunted, the only reply he'd offer. His chest was tight. His fledgling hope that this journey into the lake might be a success was fading.

Pitch turned away from the glaring divinity that held him like a master with their string puppet.

Instead, he looked to the beauty of the woman's gown on his right. Magnificent folds of lemon silk, with creme ribbons dangling from her wrists and wound through her brunette hair. Her corset was cinched tight, an hourglass with the narrowest of waists. His thoughts insisted on returning to when he'd last been clad in rustling layers and tightened stays. The Crimson Bow remained a tiny island of paradise within his memories, his own sanctuary in which to hide from the horrors of his world.

‘You might have at least given me decent clothes to wear to my doom,' Pitch said.

‘What nonsense.' Seraphiel stopped nudging at Pitch's slipper, fussing still with position. ‘It hardly matters what you wear. You were always too preoccupied with such trivial things.'

‘How would you know? It seems you had me rendered mindless whenever I was here.'

The angel scowled. ‘Set your feet wider. This is a dance, not a presenting of arms.'

‘I might feel more like dancing if I were dressed for such things.' Pitch decided on churlish for his mood. ‘I am all but covered in rags.'

‘I care little if you are naked.'

‘No, apparently not.' Pitch widened his stance, assuming the position as directed. His taste for churlishness was done quickly. ‘Did we ever fuck at all? Or were those instances I recall just a conjuring of your making? Did I ever find any pleasure in your company?'

‘You are stalling.'

Well, he'd not argue with that. This room held a dank energy, as though all the dancers had been in throes of movement the second before he stepped through the doors. The air was faint with a hint of exertion, sweat, and, oddly, the ripe odour of the sea. Not entirely pleasant, and yet bracing at the same time. Base and…he struggled to find the word in his mind…primitive.

The quartet struck their first notes, tuning their instruments. The coarse notes had Pitch wincing. He licked at his lips, nerves jangling. The hint of Jacquetta's potion remained on his skin, and his downturn in mood plummeted further. Gods, let this be done with.

‘Your pleasure was not, nor is now, my concern.' Seraphiel answered a question Pitch no longer cared about. ‘Your strength is what occupies me. Now, rid yourself of this ridiculous melancholy, Vassago. Focus on the task at hand.'

Well, the angel could fuck himself very briskly. Pitch would make his pleasure Seraphiel's concern whether he liked it or not; just for old time's sake, and because he'd like to make the Seraph's life difficult, even if in the smallest of ways.

‘I'll focus as soon as you find me something decent to wear.'

‘What by the all the Celestials are you on about?'

‘You heard me. Or is your hearing as far gone as your mind?'

Twin moons, brighter than all the dazzling lights and jewels in the room, fixed on Pitch, a serious mouth tight. ‘Your appetite for the vanities of this world has not changed then.'

‘I'm surprised you noticed any of my appetites at all.'

To his great surprise, Seraphiel's gaze shifted away from him. ‘I noticed everything about you, Vassago. Why else would I have chosen you? You were not hard done by here.'

Pitch scoffed at that. ‘You Seraph have a strange idea of excellent treatment.'

‘You believed yourself endlessly fornicating, pleasured until your incubus blood was brimming –'

‘But I wasn't, was it? I was being worked upon in harsher ways. I was kept chained in a lie.'

‘I serviced you when necessary for your needs. You were sated, I assure you. It was simply not so often as you recall. And I have given you a power that the Lord Enoch himself would envy.'

‘Oh, so now you favour blasphemy? Enoch would be proud.'

The dancers shifted, fine materials rustling, polished shoes creaking. A thud came from the orchestral balcony. Seraphiel tightened his grip, and for a brief moment, Pitch wondered if he'd be traipsing into Blood Lake with Angelic injury on his person. Though really, what more could Seraphiel do to damage him?

‘What colour?'

Pitch frowned. ‘Colour of what?'

‘Clothes. Shall you be happy with gold?'

‘Dare it and I'll scream.' His mind went to a time of great pleasure, and what he'd worn in those stolen moments at the Crimson Bow. ‘Grey. I want grey taffeta, and its corset must be lined with diamond buttons. There should be lace at the collar and cuffs.'

‘I'm not partial to lace. But the rest can be worked with.'

The angel's hand slipped from the small of Pitch's back to the nape of his neck, and a soft hush of air moved against Pitch's cheek as the angel whispered a summons of his divine magick.

Warmth ran over Pitch's skin, and a tug came at his clothing, down at his shirt's hem. He glanced down. Half expecting to see Scarlet there.

But there was no rainbow light.

Nor, though, was there a plain linen shirt and oversized trousers covering his body.

His clothing was transformed. Not quite the same shade of grey as his gown at the Crimson Bow: this was lighter in hue, French grey as opposed to the cloud-grey he coveted, but lovely just the same.

A sudden tightening came at his waist, a cinching of unseen laces to force his figure into the lines of the hourglass. The simurgh nudged against the intrusion into its space.

‘Tighter,' Pitch said, breathing in to raise his ribs and lengthen his torso. ‘Tight as you can.'

Seraphiel obliged. The great and terrible Seraph, the Lord's favourite angel and Arcadia's mightiest since Samyaza, played couturier to a daemon's whim.

The assembly continued a moment longer until all was complete.

The gown was glorious, no doubt, its petticoat layers soft against Pitch's legs, its long sleeves snug as gloves. The taffeta had a velvet trim of viridian, and a jewelled brooch sat at the decolletage. He tilted it against its pin, trying to examine it from such a close angle. A portrait brooch, with emerald accents in yellow gold.

He tried to make sense of the image painted at the centre. Sickness swept him as he realised who the tiny bearded man with dark hair was in the portrait.

‘What the fuck are you playing at?' He demanded, snatching his other hand free, so he might tear the brooch away.

Seraphiel stared at him as though it were Pitch who was losing his mind. ‘I did not pay the ankou much mind, have I remembered him wrongly?'

‘Are you trying to torture me, even now?' Fabric tore with the rough removal of the brooch. ‘I am not carrying this pathetic trinket with me. I want no reminder of him.'

‘Lucifer said you had an unreasonable affection for the ankou.' Seraphiel shrugged. ‘The king has such sentiments for me. And as he was particularly enraptured by the brooch I made for him, I assumed you'd be pleased too –'

‘Stop talking, for the love of all gods and their Celestial arseholes. Stop.' Pitch drew back his arm and cast the brooch deep into the assembly of dancers. ‘Open the Seal, Seraphiel. Now.'

The angel had followed the path of the flying brooch, and continued to stare into the crowd. ‘Was there something I was supposed to recall about that ankou?'

Pitch's flame shuddered. ‘About Silas?'

‘Yes, yes. If that's the large man's name.' He drew his gaze back to Pitch sharply. ‘I'm sure there was something of him that was memorable. Was he anything more than ankou?'

Pitch delayed the answer by reaching for the angel's hands. By the gods, this creature was falling apart. Not a bad thing, in this case, forgetting that Silas was Nephilim; but what if Seraphiel also forgot how to open the fucking Seal?

He entwined their fingers and set his position once more.

‘I'm ready,' Pitch said.

‘Whatever for? Wait…yes…you're right. We are preparing…' A moment of unconcealed distress whispered across the angel's face, his eyes' light dimming. ‘For something important, are we not?'

Pitch's heart struck up a violent rhythm.

‘Opening the Seal…sending me into Blood Lake.' He worked dutifully at keeping his voice even, the panic at the angel's frailty hidden. ‘Have your musicians begin. Perhaps that will help you recall?'

Another wave swept the angel's expression, and this one carried the confusion away; brightened his eyes and raised his cleft chin. ‘Music, yes. The dance. We are here for the dance.'

The quartet struck their first true chords. Seraphiel adjusted his pose, stepping back so his feet were not hidden beneath the length of Pitch's gown. His skin warmed and the glow of his eyes made Pitch blink.

‘Begin.'

One word, with a resonance that worked past the fabric, and through the whalebone, through Pitch's own skin and bones, to where the simurgh waited. The cultivation swept up, nudging at the base of his ribs. Making shallow breaths even shallower.

The harp joined the violins; the cello coming in last of all with the robustness of its notes.

Seraphiel drew Pitch into the first step of the dance, and it began.