Chapter Thirty-Seven

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

THE WISP seemed to forget that not everyone could fly. Scarlet set a cracking pace through the gardens, taking them in through a large paned-glass door that slid open, rather than swung. They were so far down the corridor by the time Silas and Edward reached the opening; they were barely more than a smudge of colour, the size of a dandelion head.

‘Scarlet wait,' Silas shouted, standing half in-half out of the doorway whilst waiting for Edward to catch up. The lieutenant reached him, puffing, discarding his burgundy vest into the shrubbery.

‘Bloody hell, they are fast.'

‘Are you alright?' Silas led him inside, into a stunning sitting room with its ever-present gold embellishments. This one was different for its highlights of onyx, and the assembly of colourful paintings on one of the wall panels.

‘Fine, fine. Clearly in need of more decent exercise.'

Silas urged Edward ahead, pleased to see the return of a glint in the man's grey eyes. His new freedom put pink in his cheeks.

Scarlet tittered at them from way down the hall, where a junction was evident, and circled about in mad whirls that made their impatience clear.

‘We're coming,' Edward called.

The palace shuddered. A deep vibration that had both Silas and the lieutenant bracing, ready for a movement that might knock them off their feet. In the rooms along the way, anything that was loosened rattled loudly, china and glasses and heavier sounds. Like the shift of furniture on wood.

Silas and Edward exchanged a glance. Neither of them saying what was vastly obvious; that was the worst of the tremors so far.

‘Go quickly,' Silas urged.

They broke into another run. Down the hall, a turn left, another long corridor laid out with a rug as white as the peaks of the Highlands they'd glimpsed from the boat. More shaking occurred, vehement enough to make Silas glance at the ceiling, half-expecting to see cracks formed. The pristine plasterwork was unblemished. For now.

Edward halted, a standstill so sudden Silas nearly ran him over.

They were at the base of an imposing imperial staircase. With two directions to choose from. Scarlet hovered at the top of the stairs on the right, jumping about like a colourful flea in irritation at their pause, chittering loudly enough to outdo the distant roll of thunder that menaced overhead.

‘What is it, Edward?'

‘Do you not hear it?'

He was staring up towards where Scarlet waited. Silas frowned. ‘The wisp? Or the thunder? Neither are very pleasant to listen to, if I'm honest.'

‘No, not either of those…the music.' He closed his eyes, and his head tilted back. ‘Oh, Silas. It is magnificent.'

‘Edward, are you sure you're alright?'

His eyes opened; their grey deepened to match the storm that gathered. ‘This way. I understand now.'

He raced off, taking the stairs two at a time, leaving Silas to catch up. Whatever Edward understood, Silas was still at a loss. But so long as it enabled him to reach Pitch, all the strangeness in the world could descend upon them.

Edward did not pause as he approached a pair of embellished white doors, very similar to a hundred others in this multi-roomed palace; gold lock sets and escutcheon, rounded crystal levers, and yet more gold in the detailed scrolling patterns, carved into the wood.

He stepped right up to the doors, planted his hands upon the knobs of gleaming crystal, and whispered something Silas did not catch.

The doors' latches clicked, and Edward pushed forward.

The doors swung inwards. Blinking light burst from within, bringing with it a wash of prickling air that raised the gooseflesh on Silas's arms. He shaded his eyes, searching for the source of the glare. A myriad of chandeliers hung from a high ceiling.

And the ballroom was full of silent dancers. Everyone stock still, in the pose of one beginning a dance. The colours of the gowns were brilliant, jewels sparkled on ladies necks', in their hair and upon their wrists. Gems there too, for some men, brooches pinned to dress coats, and earrings that dazzled at their lobes. Silas searched for Pitch; holding his breath as he looked for that fine figure amongst the crowd. The fashions worn were wide-ranging, all manner of clothing that Silas did not recognise; or did not remember. Gowns with skirts of varying widths, and waistlines that sat at all manner of location upon torsos.

But he searched for only one costumed body of note. Barely noting how the scythe tightened on his finger; how his chest was heavy with a discomfort he could not name.

Scarlet startled him by settling on his shoulder, crooning quietly, stroking at his hair.

‘Is he here?' Silas swallowed against the thickness of the air. The scythe held close, with a distant hum that spoke of caution.

The wisp flew off his shoulder, facing him head on. The emphatic shaking of that bulbous little head was answer enough. Scarlet poked a sea-green finger towards Edward.

The lieutenant moved through the dancers, humming to himself.

Silas scratched absently at his arm, where the room's strange atmosphere bothered his skin. It was there in his head too, scratching like a cat eager to let indoors.

‘Edward, where are you going?' he called.

The lieutenant stopped and looked up.

‘Here.'

He'd placed himself right beneath the strangest and simplest of all the chandeliers; the only one not made of crystal like all the others. White glass flowers formed the arms of the chandelier, Easter lilies with long curving stems, and blue flames where the yellow of their pollen should be. Silas stared harder, and knew he'd assessed the design wrongly.

‘That is bone, not glass,' he whispered.

Bones with no death note to tell him who hung here in the ballroom. But he suspected. And he was thankful he did not have to hear Samyaza's melody.

He hurried through the dancers, nose twitching at the heavy waft of bodily odour. He glanced at the assembly as he moved between them. No one looked to him, though eyes were wide, and chests heaved with recent effort. Sweat shone upon most faces, staining clothing, too.

Silas was almost with the lieutenant when he spied the first body. A woman of middle age, laid upon her back, hands still raised to embrace her partner. Her cheeks were hollow, blood trailed from her parted lips, and her eyes were already filmy with the creep of death. A death Silas could not hear, nor feel. He curled his fingers, feeling the reassuring firmness of the scythe.

This room was dreadful, in ways he could not fathom.

‘Keep going, Silas,' Edward said. ‘That is how you can best help them.'

The fallen woman's partner stood over her, arms raised as though she was with him still. A full-faced man, with a beard that touched his chest, his long grey hair held up in a ponytail, and his knuckles thick with gout. He too was sweat-soaked, but Silas thought the larger bead, rolling down his cheek, may be a tear.

Shudders moved through the palace, rocking the chandeliers, making their candles flutter.

‘What is this place?' He could barely speak for how raw the room made him.

‘The way in,' Edward said, a dreamy quality to his voice. He had one hand raised, swaying it back and forth, hearing some silent song. ‘You truly don't see it?'

‘I see a room of horrors.'

‘And of mastery.' His smile was grim as he surveyed the dancers, who held perfectly still. Waiting. ‘I see the lines we must follow. The angel is a true craftsman.'

‘Lines? Edward, speak plainly. Will this lead me to Pitch?'

He needed to escape the barbs of this room before it rubbed him raw. The wrongness of it, the unnatural construction, the defiance of death's laws, made his teeth grind. The thunder rolled, as though in dire alliance.

‘It will. There is a dance here. One I will lead.' Edward inhaled deeply. ‘And we must hope that what I see is the true path. That I'm prophet enough still to know the heart of the angel who claimed me.'

‘I need more than hope, Edward.' Silas shrugged his shoulder, trying to ease the itching there. This place was driving him out of his skin. The scythe swirled like a viper around his finger, straining to hear his call to arms. ‘Bloody hell, I cannot just leave these poor bastards this way.' He clutched at his head, the hammering of wrongful death agonising. No notes, no death cries. The silence was appalling; this was neither life nor death, but a monstrosity in between.

‘Silas, look at me.' Edward placed his hands against Silas's chest. ‘Even you, the wonderment that you are, cannot save them all. They must stay. We need them for this dance. Even if I do not understand how, I know their part must be played. There is no escape for those we stand with here. But you can prevent any more going the way of these people. Find Tobias. Find the halo. And it is all over. Do you hear me?'

Silas clenched his fist, the sharp point of a partly formed blade piercing his skin, as the scythe fought against his command. He inhaled, deep, taking in the scent of this deformed life, letting it filter down into his lungs, where it would be remembered. Each reasoned word of the lieutenant sobered him. And curtailed the sickened rage that bid him strike down every poor soul in the room; releasing them from this vile chamber.

‘Silas?'

‘I hear you.'

‘Then let's give this a try.' Edward raised his arms, and his calm demeanour was betrayed by the tremble at his fingertips. ‘Can I have this dance, Mr Mercer?'

Silas could not offer the smile Edward might have hoped for. There was too much loss here for that. And perhaps far more waiting ahead.

‘Hurry, Edward.'

He nodded, his own smile too weak to survive long. ‘Alright, follow my lead as best you can.' His left hand touched at Silas's hip, while his right arm raised and stretched to their side. Silas's large hand engulfed Edward's reasonably sized palm.

Scarlet, mostly silent till then, launched into a stream of urgent tweets, making a headlong path through the crowd, back towards the open doors of the ballroom.

They were a foot from the door when a figure stepped into the frame; right when a truly violent shudder gripped the palace.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?' Lucifer braced against the doorway with one hand, his other upon a walking stick. ‘Silas, good gods man, will you not stay down?'

‘Lucifer, stay back. I warn you.' The candles flickered madly, threatening to blink out, and some of the stony dancers shifted on their feet. ‘You should have stopped him.'

Lucifer's laugh was brittle beneath a growl of thunder. ‘I know you are no fool, ankou. Lord Enoch himself could hardly stop that blasted daemon when his mind was set. Vassago wanted you to stay behind, to be kept safe.'

‘Well, Pitch,' Silas bit down on the name, ‘does not always get what he wants from me.'

Two sharp tremors, each following the other quickly. From out in the halls, glass shattered, and wood behind the plaster groaned. Silas caught the look of horror that crossed the daemon's face. It looked so out of place on him. And gravely worrying.

‘Get away from the fucking seal,' Lucifer sounded little different to a wolf, growling at those who trespassed its territory. ‘Michael is determined to bring this entire place down upon us. Don't make it bloody easier for him.'

Edward tugged Silas back into the pose. ‘Don't listen to him. You must go.'

That took Silas aback; to hear the affable, very-human man so forthright. ‘Why are you so certain?' Silas asked.

Edward's frown was tugged with confusion. ‘I'm not sure I understand half of what I feel anymore…only that I'm certain of it. As I was with the Ferryman. The right thing to do was very apparent –'

‘And this is the right thing to do?' Silas had not lost his desperation to follow Pitch, but leaving both Edward and Charlie in a place that was rattling its foundations was hardly appealing.

‘You can't do it all, Silas.' Edward said, as though reading his mind.

‘Mercer,' Lucifer hissed, limping his way deeper into the ballroom, both hands braced to the head of his cane. ‘Seraphiel speaks with Jacquetta now on reinforcing the outer boundaries, but he will be on his way here soon. If he sees you, I cannot say where his madness will take him. Leave, now. He and I shall deal with this.'

‘I do not fear that angel.'

‘But he fears you, and that is far worse.' Lucifer glanced back at the doorway. ‘I'll not give you another chance. Leave.'

Silas bristled with protest, and knew his shadow crept larger, more threatening than before. But before a word left his mouth, Scarlet moved between them.

Their rainbow hues shone brighter, a spectacular prettiness that ate at the malformation in the room.

They brightened until Silas was blinking, and Lucifer was lost from view. Edward grunted, protesting the glare.

But it was over quickly.

The spectacular brilliance faded.

The daemon had not moved, but something in him had changed. The line-etching fear had softened. He was still troubled–still frail–but a weight had left him.

He looked to Silas. ‘Good luck, Mr Mercer. Be quick. You won't have long. Make sure you are not here when I return.' Lucifer turned, but paused, the move half-done. ‘If you reach him, if you should survive,…tell him…tell him I truly intended to do as he asked. I'd like to think his opinion of me goes no lower, when all is said and done, and I am not there to protest otherwise.'

The King of Daemonkind did not wait for an answer. He turned away, nodding at the wisp that fluttered in close, and chittered sweetly. Each step seemed pained, but he was soon out the doors.

They closed behind him, vanishing both the daemon and the wisp from view.

What the bloody hell had just happened? How did a tiny creature–sputtering nonsense–cajole a great daemon into walking away?

‘Silas…he's giving us time…don't waste it,' Edward said. ‘Put your hand on my shoulder, and let's begin.'

In something of a daze, Silas did as he was bid, and he assumed the position. Ready for the dance. He winced; thinking on the Crimson Bow when he'd last danced. Pitch had sought to teach him. The longing was near overwhelming.

Edward spoke one word. Strange, but with an elegance that made it float in the air. Angelic.

The quartet struck up. The harpist playing the first notes, the violins joining, the cellist last of all.

Edward lifted Silas's hands up and down, working into a rhythm. Then he took his first step. The first few were hesitant, and Silas had to work not to stand on his toes. But as the melody flowed, so too did their dance. Edward grew surer, the tension in his face lightening, and he lead Silas firmly. Once they had to step over a body, a jarring experience that roiled Silas's gut. The dance used all the floor, and after a time it became clear that it was a pattern repeating over and over; out to each of the corners, crossing at the centre, then out to the remaining corners. An hourglass.

Edward's grip on his hand tightened, painfully so for one who'd been so frail not so long ago. Silas breathed in sharply at the blood that ran from the lieutenant's nose and one of his eyes.

‘Christ, Edward.'

‘Never mind me,' he said through clenched teeth. ‘It is almost done.'

A dull reverberation ran beneath their feet, the angel's attack unrelenting. Silas could only hope that purebreds would escape his wrath; his ferocity focused on the daemons and angels alone.

Edward took his hand from Silas's hip and shifted in behind him with a grace and ease that Silas could only dream of. Wrapping about Silas's waist, the lieutenant whispered, ‘Good luck, friend.'

He cast Silas, a man easily double his size, into a spin, sending him out to arm's length. Letting him go.

The pace of the spin was whirlwind fast, the room blurred, the melody distorted, as though strings broke upon the players' instruments. Silas threw out his arms, seeking something to hold, right before the world fell away beneath his feet.

Silas plunged.

Into watery depths.

And he sank like the proverbial stone.

Into misery.

He kicked out, spreading his arms in wide strokes, fighting against the dragging down of his body.

He knew exactly where he was.

The utter chaos of deathnotes made it impossible not to know this for Blood Lake. The sullen drag of the Blight was formidable. The weight of centuries spent mourning loss and despising failure, made this an unpleasant place to be. But Silas had been to so many unpleasant places before, and survived them all.

And Blood Lake had his daemon. He'd never been so fucking happy to be in such a terrible place.

Silas laughed, the sound bubbling the water; he felt a little delirious, a little wild, with a raging hunger to reach his lover. He kicked out, challenging the waters to stop him, until he recalled the scythe's transformation in the cockaigne. The place where he'd taken on a goddess and won. He set about reshaping the ring, intending to create the kite that had lifted him out of the mud, and flown both him and Pitch out of the tower.

The current beneath him shifted. Turning from dragging anchor to forceful uplifting pressure in the blink of an eye. A great force was rising.

Silas abandoned the kite for the spear, as a movement from below displaced the water. A mammoth disturbance. Rushing up at him from the abyss.

His arm was drawn back, the tip of the spear pointed down, and all but ready to throw, when Lady Satine's melody drifted up from the darkness.

Leviathan. Lady of the Lake.

Impact came a moment later; a breathtaking slam into his midriff. His cry was engulfed by the waters, and he was rapidly ascending at a speed that gave him little option but to grip tightly; hold on to a great bulk that had him clasped between gentle, vast lips. He scrambled for a handhold, and found the roughness of barnacles, cutting his hands as he clung onto them. He'd take what he was given. It felt like he was being shipped along by an island. The force pressed him flat against smooth, cool skin.

‘You took your time, my Horseman.'

Satine's voice was more vibration than sound, coming through the beast that lifted him.

‘How does he fare?' Speaking underwater, when moving at a rate of knots, was like talking into a gale. Silas did not ask if Pitch lived. He knew that answer.

‘He is lost. The halo leads him astray, and he has forgotten himself. But you are here now, he will remember.'

‘I hope so.' Silas's cheek was pressed so hard against the Leviathan he could barely open his mouth to speak.

‘You shall need more than hope here, my Horseman. Now go. Show your sire Samyaza that he could not make monsters of all men.'