Chapter Thirty-Two

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

PITCH FOLLOWED Seraphiel's lead, his slippered feet moving with a life of their own. He should have asked for better footwear. But then, if he were expected to swim after this, he'd be casting off these flimsy shoes quickly.

‘When I arrive in the lake, what must I know?' he asked, ignoring how the sea's waft grew stronger.

Seraphiel twirled them about–proficient in his dance skills at least–as they moved from beneath Samyaza's bone chandelier.

‘You know what you must.'

Pitch ground his teeth, but was not surprised by the vagueness of the answer. He was just grateful Seraphiel knew what lake he spoke of at all.

‘But are there no hints of what to expect?'

Seraphiel released his hold on Pitch's waist and spun him out to arm's length. Taffeta formed a cloud of soft grey about Pitch's legs, before Seraphiel drew him back in, right up close, so they stood body to body. The angel was tall, not so tall as the ankou, but that did not stop a painful comparison.

‘I expect that your way will be clear,' Seraphiel said. ‘And what is needed to be obvious. Listen to the instinct that guides you, follow the Cultivation's desire, for it shall crave nothing else but to serve my will.'

Pitch opened his mouth, a torrent of questions ready, and Seraphiel threw him into another spin. This time, the angel let him go.

Pitch floundered only briefly, before his hand was taken by another. A fellow in a dapper black tailcoat and velvet collar, with shoes that tapped out every step he took. The fellow was adept. Moving Pitch in three clockwise turns this way, then four in the other. A dip had Pitch bent backwards before he was raised with a firm hand between his shoulder blades. The man did not look at Pitch as he held him, staring over his shoulder all the while. Never blinking, not speaking a word.

Every dancer was the same. This was a crowd of automatons, everyone an able mover but rigid in their approach, like soldiers tasked with simply getting the job done. The air grew heavy with strenuous movement, and the pungent scent of the ocean was dampened somewhat.

Pitch was handed over to another, a woman in garb not unlike Jacquetta's, though this tunic was scarlet in collar. Pitch glanced about the room. On the fanciful chance he might see the absent wisp returned. Waving its chubby hands to farewell him.

Pitch sighed. Was he any less mad than the angel?

After a few more turns, and three more partners, Pitch saw a pattern emerge. His exchange moved in something of an hourglass shape, taking in a corner, moving into the middle, then back out to the adjacent corner and across the top of the floor, or bottom, depending on the stage of the dance.

The longest pause was beneath the floral chandelier of bone, where the irritating dips occurred, and Pitch was bent back, grateful for the corset which braced him.

With each replay of the pattern, the music quickened.

Pitch searched for Seraphiel amongst the dull-eyed crowd. He was not far, one pair over, performing all the steps required but with his eyes never leaving Pitch.

‘How long shall this go on?' Pitch called, already a little breathless.

‘Until it is done.'

Gods, he despised the evasive nature of the Higher Angels. All their holier-than-thou espouses were so fucking patronising.

‘Am I to enter the lake with bleeding feet and exhaustion?' He gasped as the woman who led him pushed him into another back-bending movement. ‘Fuck…must you be so rough?' She said nothing, her eyes fixed beyond him, their whites a little bloodshot. Her ringlets barely shifted, despite the increasingly frantic pace.

‘Do not disturb the dance,' Seraphiel shouted. ‘Don't resist, daemon.'

Pitch growled a curse as the woman tilted him back upright, her fuchsia gown tangling with the folds of his own, creating the look of sunrise fighting an oncoming storm. She drew him in close. So close, he smelled the stench of her breath. Pitch turned his head, gagging.

What a stench it was. Of rot, and last week's roast.

Gods, she might be human, after all. The woman cast him off to the next dancer. He was flung up against a burly man whose light brown beard brushed Pitch's cheek as the momentum brought them together. A swathe of unwanted thoughts emerged, of another man's beard, how it felt against his skin when they kissed.

Pitch clenched his eyes shut. But that only made it worse. He saw Silas as he'd left him; buried beneath the beauty of the fae circle.

‘Faster,' he hissed, stepping back, adjusting his position. ‘Get on with this.'

Of course, there was no word from the chap who led him about. His eyes were as bloodshot as the woman before. The dance dictated a raise of the man's arm, to spin Pitch around beneath. The fabric at his armpit was darkened by sweat, and the odour smacked Pitch in the face as he completed the turn. It made for a sickening companion to the already briny lacing of the air.

‘These people are alive?' he called out. ‘Or do you excel in your illusions?'

He swore he saw a flicker of the dancer's eyelids.

‘No illusion.' Seraphiel stepped back from his partner, leaning into a brief bow, before the pairings changed yet again.

‘You have trapped them here?' Pitch looked to the bearded man with fresh, horrified eyes.

‘When you seek to bind a Seal to the purebred world and strengthen it, then purebreds must be used in the Cultivation. I thought that much would be obvious, even to you.'

Arsehole. ‘And do they consent to being used this way?' Pitch was certain the bearded man's fingers tightened at his waist.

‘Theirs is a noble sacrifice.'

‘That's not a fucking answer to my question.'

‘It was a foolish question.'

‘You're right,' Pitch laughed, high and unhappy. ‘Of course you have not sought consent. You never do. I know that well.'

As Pitch was passed to the next dancer, he did so without fuss; not wishing to make life even more miserable for the unfortunates who held him. He was dancing through an appalling prison, a crowd whose abuse exceeded his own. At least he'd been allowed a life of sorts.

‘Complete this task, and these shall be the very last purebreds needed to anchor the Seal.'

‘Don't!' Pitch shouted. ‘Don't you dare burden me with their fate.'

‘Dance, Vassago. You shall find the Lady of the Lake soon.'

Pitch searched again for the angel, who, for a tall, glowing man, was remarkably adept at hiding in the blasted crowd.

‘Lady of the…you mean Satine?'

‘The djinn has gone by many names.'

The scent of the ocean–of the seaweed and carcasses within–grew stronger. Coming in waves, in an olfactory mimic of the sea's currents.

A young man embraced Pitch next, and the cello took over the symphony, its baser notes dominating. The man was barely out of boyhood.

Where had the unlucky bastard been plucked from, to end up here, in this cursed ballroom? He appeared to be of the upper classes; clean shaven, his shoulders held with that haughty air that the wealthy performed so well. Family would be searching, and worrying; perhaps already grieving.

Amidst the horror of an angel's disregard, Pitch allowed himself to think of the ankou, to be thankful Silas had not witnessed this. If he'd been here, they'd likely never have made it through to Blood Lake. Silas would have refused to turn his back on these miserable souls.

The tinkling of glass drew Pitch from his thoughts. A shudder ran through the floor, and overhead the chandeliers jiggled, their flames flickering.

‘Faster,' Seraphiel roared.

The dance moved from quick to manic, in the matter of a heartbeat. And the volume of the music rose until he could no longer hear the padding of feet on the floorboards. The rich smell of the sea rose over and above the sweaty odour of the human workhorses.

Pitch was hurled from the young man to a bare slip of a girl who held no hint of aristocracy beneath her fine evening clothes. Her lips were cracked, and there was a scar upon her chin. Dirt beneath her fingernails, too.

‘What is wrong?' Pitch shouted. ‘Are we close?'

Another shudder hit the ballroom. Another pungent wave of fetid water moved through the room.

Pitch struggled to find sign of the angel through the gathering, and then, with a suddenness that made Pitch recoil, Seraphiel was right alongside him. His dance partner was a wide-eyed, stiff-backed man with a monocle that had cut into his skin, blood trailing down his cheek.

‘The boundaries are tested,' Seraphiel spoke at a hiss. ‘Show me, now.'

For a moment, confusion gripped Pitch, thinking the angel spoke to him. His misinterpretation was quickly amended, with the emergence of a hand-mirror from the crowd; a yellow-gold frame with diamonds set in its back. It flew, unaided, at deft speed, and settled its long handle into Seraphiel's outstretched palm.

The glass panel held no reflection of the angel's golden hue, nor the sunny brightness of the ballroom. The glass was dark as tar. Obsidian, whose blackness swallowed all the light.

‘Show me,' Seraphiel shouted, whilst the dance continued unabated.

The blackened surface rippled and brought forth a reflection. Not one of this ballroom, but that of the loch that held the Sanctuary secret. Charlie's home was a blur in the distance.

But nearer, much clearer, something, or rather someone, travelled in a boat across the loch. Two figures were in the vessel; one seated, the other clad in a suit of armour that dazzled with the clearness of the day.

‘Is that your Ferryman?' Pitch asked. Only to be whirled away again before an answer came. He was shifted to the centre of the room to perform the dreaded dip beneath Samyaza's bone. ‘Damn it, Raph. What the fuck is happening? Who is with them?'

‘Michael has found the Sanctuary.'

It was the answer Pitch dreaded, but it came with little surprise.

‘But he cannot enter, surely? Wasn't that why you had to meddle with Edward to begin with? You alone can unlock this Sanctuary.'

His partner turned them at a maddened pace. Pitch's neck jarred with trying to keep his eyes on Seraphiel and the mirror, who moved in an opposing direction.

‘I don't need my Sanctuary explained to me,' Seraphiel bellowed. ‘Let me think, you damned daemon. Shut up.'

But the angel had not given Pitch the answer he needed. ‘Tell me this Sanctuary cannot be compromised, Seraphiel. Tell me Michael cannot enter.'

His pulse already beat faster for all the movement, but now it did so unsteadily. Silas and the others stood between Michael and this maniac angel.

‘He'd not dare.' Seraphiel's laughter was strained. ‘He'd not dare.'

‘That's no answer, you fool. He nearly killed a king of daemonkind to prevent us from entering here. He'd dare to knock on your godsforsaken golden door. Fucking gods, let go of me.' He shouted at the dancer who held him, but he might as well have shouted at a rock. ‘Stop this dance.'

‘Focus on your task, daemon.'

Pitch grunted as he was man-handled onto the next dancer. He tried to pull free, but the young man, with the merest of fuzz upon his chin and a startled look etched on his face, held a magickal strength, one that would require Pitch to use a brute force that would not serve the man well.

‘Seraphiel, let me stay until we have dealt with Michael. Lucifer cannot do it. I've left the ankou vulnerable.' Gods, what had he done? ‘You must protect –'

‘The Nephilim.' Seraphiel was suddenly, and violently, at Pitch's side again, his partner's shoulder jutting at an unseemly angle: a dislocation most likely. ‘The Nephilim is to blame for this. That must be how Michael found my Ferryman.'

A fresh horror took hold of Pitch. ‘No…no, don't…he had nothing to do with it…' He gave in to his panic. ‘Don't touch him. Do you hear me? You're wrong, you mad, fucking bastard! Leave him be. Promise me, you shall not harm Silas, nor any who are with me.' Pitch snatched his hand from the young man's hold, and there was definitely a grunt of pain. ‘Seraphiel, listen to me.'

‘Ready yourself. There are but two chords that remain.'

‘Fuck you, Seraphiel. I'll not go another step further.'

He punched at the man who sought to take hold of his hand once more and cursed himself for the dull whimper the blow brought.

‘You will go where you have been built to go.'

‘Tell me that Michael cannot enter this Sanctuary. My friends are innocent in this. You must protect them.' His tongue caught on the foreignness of naming others as friends.

‘I must do nothing you command, Dominion. You endanger them by lingering.' Seraphiel's glow lit the ballroom so intensely, Pitch could barely keep his eyes open. ‘It is my Cultivation Michael seeks to destroy. He was always jealous of my work. Of my favour with our lord.'

Pitch drew his flame forth before thinking through the danger of it. The young gent let out a scream, the first true sound from any in the room.

He stifled the flame at once, but the damage had been done.

‘Shit, I'm sorry…I'm so sorry.' Cruel red burns marked the man's hands, but his servitude to the angel did not allow him to release their hold. His expression remained blank and unreadable, but the tears that fell were horribly clear in the room's brightness. ‘Oh gods, forgive me.'

‘Inevitably, the innocent shall suffer when the mighty play their games,' Seraphiel said, in a sing-song delivery, like a priest reciting a well-worn prayer. ‘You know this, Vassago, you have been an instrument of their suffering yourself. Ready yourself. There is but one chord that remains.'

Pitch drew in a breath, the reek of the sea searing his nostrils, the glare stinging his eyes. ‘Seraphiel…please…tell me you will not harm the ankou.'

‘If you truly wish to free that creature, then see the Death Wish undone.'

‘His name is Silas, curse you –'

‘His name does not matter. '

Pitch knew himself back at the centre of the room, beneath the bone chandelier, but the glare lay like a haze his vision could barely penetrate. The simurgh slithered within, twisting about the knots he was made of now; his efforts to save Silas had only brought him certain harm. He sagged into the wounded dancer.

‘Give him your promise, Raph. All he seeks is reassurance.' Lucifer's voice moved through the brightness.

‘Luci, you should not be here. This is a dangerous place for you, after what you gave for the Cultivation.'

‘I was weak well before you used my blood, Seraphiel. But I did it willingly, to enable you to repair your work. I asked for nothing in return, but I do so now. Give him your word, Raph.'

Their voices floated from the brilliant haze, only slightly louder than the fading music, which was all but a faint few notes dissolving in the air. Pitch could barely open his eyes wide enough to look on the young man who still held him in a dancer's pose.

‘It is too late,' Seraphiel said. ‘He shall not hear us now. He is deep into the Seal.'

‘I can hear you!' Pitch bellowed. ‘I can fucking hear you.'

‘Gods, would it kill you to offer solace?' Lucifer said, anger lifting his voice. ‘To give reassurance at the end? You failed to do so for me. You will do so for him.'

‘Luci, you must leave this room. Do not take another step.'

Pitch coughed, choking against the stifling waft of brine and salt, and the loathsome sense of failure that consumed him. Could he not do a decent fucking thing in his miserable life? Now he'd only succeeded in laying Silas in his grave before time.

His partner drew him in, wrapping their arms to prepare for yet another spin. Pitch did not protest, nor struggle.

A single, far-off note penetrated the illumination. A violin, reaching high, its note hanging up in the radiance.

The young man spun Pitch out, holding his hand firm, until both their arms were outstretched. He let go.

The ground gave way beneath Pitch, and his skirts billowed with air as he descended in a tranquil fall.

‘I give you my word, in honour of your sacrifice.' The voice resonated all around him, as though he fell into a deep well and its curved surface held the sound. ‘So far as it is in my power, Vassago, no harm will come to those who carried you through your journey. I will do as you've done and keep Silas safe.'

Not Seraphiel, but Lucifer.

Pitch closed his eyes. Letting the king's vow flow over him. The sire he had never truly known, giving Pitch what he most desired.

‘Thank you,' he whispered, knowing himself too far gone for the words to reach any ears but his own.

Pitch pressed his hand to his belly, letting flames play there. The simurgh lifted from its domain, sending a surge of something vaguely uncomfortable, but immensely powerful, through his bones.

The fall was brief and gentle. He drifted down like an enormous grey leaf upon the wind. An icy breeze that plummeted as he moved further down.

His slippers touched on solid ground, his skirts whispering as they swept over the new surface. The brilliance of the angel and his ballroom was gone. The light here was a contrasting shade of grey to his dress.

A chilling breeze toyed with his hair, brushing icicle fingers against the back of his neck. Pitch surveyed his quiet place.

A vast, flat field of ice.

He was utterly alone.

The ice field stretched for miles, barren and flat. Emptiness, going on forever, in every direction.

‘Is this it?' he said loudly, for the silence was awful. Despite the simurgh's restless distraction, the dank beast of fear found a footing in Pitch's gut.

The tundra beneath his feet groaned, and from its depths there came a riotous crack. Pitch glanced down, gathering in the insensible lengths of his gown–the fineness so wildly out of place–to peer beneath his feet.

Something vast and restless slithered there beneath the ice.

‘Satine?'

But this was no form he'd ever seen the lady take.

Cracks sprawled out from beneath his feet. ‘Shit…shit.' The spiderweb of faults spread rapidly, etching themselves upon every inch of the surface. There again, the groaning and splintering of thicker ice. Far less pleasing a sound than when it came from the whisky glass.

Beneath him, a vast shadow beneath the ice moved. Shockingly fast. Growing frighteningly large before he could even think of moving an inch.

The ice shattered. Black peaks rose either side of him, the stench of fish and sea overwhelming.

Pitch cried out, flailing and falling. Down into the reaching, cavernous maw of a fathomless beast, to be swallowed whole.