Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

THE GIFT-GIVING was almost complete when there was a knock at the door. Silas grabbed a pillow, shoving it over his face to stifle the cry of pleasure that could not be stopped; his cock driven deep into Pitch's mouth, every drop being taken with great enthusiasm.

The prince slowly drew his lips down Silas's length, a wet popping sound coming as he pulled off. He sat up, wiping at scandalously wet lips.

‘Who is there?' he called, his fingers teasing at sensitive folds of skin.

‘Stop it.' Silas gasped, swiping at Pitch with a boneless arm, his body still twitching.

‘Sorry to disturb you, gentlemen,' an unfamiliar voice called out. ‘My chap, Robert, said you were hoping for some sweet treats?'

Pitch's brows shot up. ‘A perfect compliment to my meal,' he whispered.

They shared a brief kiss, which did err on the salty side, and then Pitch was up, adjusting his shirt where it had slipped over his shoulder. He padded over to the door as Silas tried to rise; feeling every inch of his oversized body in the struggle to sit upright. The room reeled and tilted. And there again, in fuller force, was that nagging itch. The one that bade him visit the graveyard, wherever it might be in this village.

He pressed his lips, determined not to worry Pitch again. He'd seen the daemon's reaction when Silas admitted his fatigue was extreme, and he regretted being so honest. Pitch deserved at least a few hours with nothing to bother about. Besides, it was not an alarming sensation, per se. The niggling did not foretell of danger. At least, not one that endangered the prince, or any of those in their party. Whatever this was, it was Silas's concern alone.

Pitch opened the door, and ushered in a handsome, older gentleman and a younger person with short golden hair, carrying a large wicker basket. A woman perhaps, given the slenderness of limbs and neck; but as they were dressed in blue overalls with rolled-up shirt sleeves and a kerchief tied around their neck–all the trappings normally reserved for a lad–Silas would make no presumptions. Something of their demeanour, purposeful and unaffected, reminded him of Charlie. Good god, he missed the lad.

‘We come bringing hot water, and warm pie.' The gentleman was well turned out: greying hair swept back over his ears without a strand out of place, and his useful tweed jacket showing a hint of crisp white at the cuffs, while a pointed collar was held in place with clover leaf lapel pins. He held two generous-sized buckets: one in each hand, steam lifting from the water within. ‘Billy be careful with that pie, so the crust doesn't break. And make sure you don't spill any of the cream.'

‘I may ‘ave done this a time or two before.' Billy, the holder of the wicker basket, countered in good nature. ‘Don't you be worrying about these strangers disliking your food, Samuel. Never met a person who didn't think everything you make was divine.'

‘Robert tends to extol my virtues too highly, I fear, though,' Samuel, the well-presented man, said. ‘One day I shall meet my match, and fail to live up to the enormous reputation he builds for me.'

‘He's proud of you,' Billy countered, neither of the newcomers batting an eye at the dishevelled men occupying the room, as though strange guests were commonplace.

‘I wish he'd be quieter about it.' Samuel's laughter was quite lovely, but tinged with stress. ‘Now, I'm so sorry to bother you both…'

‘And evidently we are being a bother.' Billy set down his basket on the sole, small table in the room, and went to open a window. ‘That's better.'

Pitch made a beeline for the unattended basket. ‘What sort of pie is it?' But before he could pull back the gingham cloth covering it, Billy returned and slapped at his hand.

‘Now, I thank you to wait just a moment, Mr…?'

‘Mr Last Voice You'll Ever Hear, if you do that again.' Pitch returned.

Samuel chuckled where he stood pouring the water into the basins on the sideboard.

‘Tobias is fine,' Silas said. ‘And I'm Silas.'

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, glancing down to ensure he was decent. The world swum again, and he cursed quietly. He debated on how strange it would look for him not to get up at all, and decided that Pitch would spot it immediately and far too many questions would follow. He reached for the foot board, grateful for its exaggerated height, but Billy, who was not so food-focused as Pitch, had noticed something amiss. Silas gave them a look, and a small shake of the head, hoping they'd not ask if he was alright.

Billy frowned, but Silas was saved from any awkward conversation by an exclamation from Pitch.

‘Fuck me dead.'

The daemon held up a finger covered in a sticky golden and pink chunk of pie. He groaned, not altogether unlike earlier, when Silas had his cock in hand.

‘This is sinful, truly.' He stuck his finger deep into his mouth, earning a peculiar look from Billy, and a beaming one from Samuel.

‘They are last season's peaches, and a fine crop it was.' He set down the empty buckets. ‘But here, let me cut you a proper piece. There's clotted cream to go with it, if you'd like.'

‘My gods man, if you seek to seduce me, consider me yours.' Pitch made another sound best kept to the bedroom. ‘And I usually despise peaches. You are a god among men.'

Billy glanced at Silas. ‘He enjoys a pie then?'

‘Rather so.' Silas still held onto the end of the bed, unwilling to chance a step away.

‘Silas, you must taste this.' Pitch spun about, holding a fresh cut of pie in a cloth in his hand. He had a dab of cream on his top lip, and his eyes were luminous. Unnaturally so.

Billy gasped.

Silas stepped forward, fighting off the lingering dizziness. ‘Pitch, best you don't –'

‘Here, you must try this.' Pitch saved Silas from having to stagger across the room, rushing towards him, smiling his cream-speckled smile, with an air of delight and happiness that stung Silas's eyes to see. Tiredness made his tears far too ready.

Pitch lifted the pie and its accompanying dollop of cream, towards Silas's mouth.

‘Lean down, will you? You fucked me too tired to lift my arms any higher. I know you are not overly fond of sugar, but you'll try it for me, won't you?'

Silas obliged with parted lips and a stoop of his shoulders. The room shrunk till there seemed only the pair of them. Pitch licked his lips as he watched Silas eat.

‘Wonderful?' he whispered.

‘Wonderful.' In truth, he couldn't taste much at all, a hint of vanilla perhaps, but little more. It had been the same for some of the dried meat Tyvain had produced on the ride. Silas's sense of taste seemed as tired as he was.

There was movement around them: the slide of the pie tin as Samuel cut it into generous slices, the bustle of Billy as they gathered up Pitch's bright pink cloak and the dreary brown wool cape Isaac had passed to Silas.

Pitch was grinning, ready with another piece to share; their bodies touching, the daemon's heat strong enough that, if they weren't careful, the others in the room might notice.

‘Well then,' Samuel cleared his throat. ‘We shall leave you be. And you be sure to let me know if you'd like anything else from the kitchen. I've heard you are partial to a strawberry, and I'm certain I have preserves stashed in the cellar. I'll see if I can find them to make some tartlets.'

Silas grabbed at Pitch as he went into something of a swoon. ‘Did you hear that, Silas?'

‘I did,' he chuckled. ‘You are a saint among men, Samuel.'

‘Well, I don't know about that.' The man smiled, clearly pleased at the flattery. ‘The hot water is ready for you, there's some cloths just over there. A bar of soap if you're that way inclined.'

Silas dragged his gaze from Pitch's face just long enough to give the man a thankful nod. ‘Your hospitality is very much appreciated.'

‘Leave a spoon with the pie if you will.' Pitch brushed the remaining morsel he held against Silas's lips. He had his back to Samuel and showed no sign of altering that, nestled in against Silas as he was.

Samuel's gaze softened as he lingered by the doorway. ‘Seems you've been through some things, all of you. I hear tell the rest of your party is at the Golden Rule?'

‘Clearly these gentlemen have far better taste, staying with us,' Billy re-entered the room, arms laden with clothes. ‘But these were sent over from there about a half hour ago, I almost forgot.' They held a white shirt to their nose. ‘The most pleasing scent of jasmine is upon all of them. Must ask the laundress at the Rule if she'll share her secret with us. The messenger said to send apologies to Mr Mercer for the fit but it's the best they can do until tomorrow, when the tailor opens his store again.' They exchanged a glance with Samuel. ‘But I heard Roy was there for lunch today…settled in early…which doesn't bode well for him being up before noon tomorrow.'

‘We'll get you sorted, don't you worry.' Samuel picked up the empty basket and beckoned Billy. ‘Come on now, let's give them their space back. Good evening, gentlemen. Hope you enjoy your stay…' His gaze flicked to the discarded, mucky boots. ‘And find some rest from whatever troubles ail you.'

Silas swallowed his mouthful of pie. ‘Thank you. How is Herbert doing with both horses? They are not giving him any trouble, I hope?'

‘Our boy has a way with the animals.' Samuel's pride lifted his shoulders. ‘They couldn't be in better hands. He'll insist on staying with them all night now, and they so much as flick a tail in a manner he isn't happy with, he'll come running to get you. Don't you worry.'

The pair left them, Samuel closing the door with a quiet click.

Pitch had been unusually quiet during the exchange, and made no move to rustle through the clothes Billy had placed on the armchair.

‘Everything all right, my love?'

Pitch leaned into him, stifling a yawn. ‘Fine, fine.' He pressed a sticky finger against Silas's lips until he obliged and sucked it clean. ‘But now I've had a taste of pie and drunk you dry, I can hardly keep my bloody eyes open. Which is infuriating, because I wouldn't mind another round with you between my legs.'

‘Still famished then? I under-performed, it seems.' He led him to the dresser where one large washbasin sat alongside a smaller one: porcelains of white and delicate blue respectively, both a little chipped, clearly well used.

Another yawn came. ‘I told you I would have room for more dessert, did I not?'

Silas pulled out the stool that had been set beside the dresser. ‘Here, come and sit your arse down, please.'

‘I'd prefer to have my arse up, where you can do your worst to it.' But he obliged, sighing as he seated himself. ‘But my gods, I feel as though an elephant is draped over my shoulders.'

‘It's not been an easy time. You need to rest.'

Pitch reached for Silas's trousers. ‘I don't want to rest, I want you.'

No matter how tired, how dirty and dishevelled, and plagued by worries he was, Silas would never weary of hearing such a thing said.

‘And I you. Always.' Silas picked up the bar of soap, one that smelled faintly of bergamot, and was quite sure his hand trembled. ‘But I am appallingly filthy.' And, he had to say it but could not, he was too tired to undo his trousers, let alone use what lay beneath. The fatigue was leaden now. The clawing urge to wander among the graves almost unbearable.

‘Far more filthy than I've known you. It's delightful.' The glint in Pitch's eye said they were not speaking about mud and blood. He did not protest as the prince undressed him, his flame hinting just beneath his skin, heating the air as layers were removed. ‘Warm enough?' Pitch asked.

‘Yes, thank you.' Silas dipped a cloth into the warmth of the water. There was a swirl of oil on the surface, and a hint of mint as he wrung the cloth. If nothing else, they'd both smell a hell of a lot better after this. ‘Now your turn. Take off your clothes, Mr Astaroth.'

Pitch obliged in the blink of an eye, shrugging off the shirt and standing to wriggle out of his ruined trousers. His cock was at a lazy half-stand.

Silas set about cleaning him up, letting the water run from the cloth and chasing the droplets as they skirted down his body, slipping into the shallow v-shape that ran from his hip to his groin. He carefully steered clear of the royal prick, despite the huffs of protest from Pitch himself.

Silas took in the lingering bruises, the pink marks of scarring, upon Pitch's body. He did not realise he was frowning until Pitch cupped a hand to his face.

‘It is no easier to look on your injuries, Sickle. But we are healing, both of us, and all shall be well soon enough. This ridiculous quest of ours is almost done. We are nearly there. It is almost over.'

A heavy silence fell between them. Silas would have bet the scythe itself that Pitch wondered just as he did. What did delivering the simurgh to the Sanctuary mean for them?

He forced a smile. ‘It is almost over, indeed.'

He continued on, removing what remnants of the cockaigne he could with gentle swipes of the cloth, refreshing it with the warm water every few strokes. Pitch closed his eyes and was swaying into the press of Silas's hand as he worked his way around to Pitch's back.

‘Is there anything left of it?' the prince said quietly. ‘The pitchfork, I mean.'

Silas ran the cloth along the length of Pitch's spine. The daemon dropped his head, exhaling. If Silas narrowed his eyes, he could just make out a greater paleness on Pitch's skin, where the tattoo had made its mark.

‘Very little.' He followed the markings over one shoulder blade, then the other. ‘Just the ghost of it, I'm afraid.'

‘Afraid? Would you rather it had stayed? Was it not ugly?'

Silas shook his head. ‘It was not ugly. It delivered you from pain. Are you sure –'

‘I told you I'm not in pain, not with the simurgh gone now.'

Silas had barely stopped to think about the Cultivation; a testament to how delirious his fatigue made him. But with Tyvain, Jane and Sybilla–not to mention Scarlet, Phillipa and Isaac–watching over the creature, chances were high it was doing fine without he and Pitch. And he'd not deny, there was a part of him that held hope the blasted thing would simply fly on to where it was meant to be. And their quest would be truly done.

Silas kissed between Pitch's shoulder blades, where his skin was mint-scented and radiantly warm. ‘Just promise me, you will tell me if that changes.'

‘You have my word.'

He dragged the cloth low, over the crease in Pitch's arse, squeezing so the water ran down the inside of his thighs, eliciting a weighty moan from the daemon.

‘Gods, we need to get this clean up done with, or I shall simply need you to start all over again with that cloth.' He spun about, urging Silas onto the unoccupied stool, and straddled his legs, grabbing for the other cloth that waited by the small bowl of water, dousing it, and bringing it to Silas's chest in one, smoothly-executed manoeuvre.

The water that spilled through the curled licks of hair on Silas's chest was not so warm as that which he'd lavished on Pitch. He shuddered as the daemon worked him over. Pitch brightened as his fire pulsed hotter.

They interspersed the bathing with kisses, both their movements rather languid, both their pricks never quite reaching full attention, despite how Silas's heart thumped. Pitch even stifled another yawn at one point, whilst his hand moved between Silas's legs, ensuring no dirt dared linger on a deadman's taint.

When they were done, the basin water was a putrid murky brown. They stood face to face, entirely naked, and though his eyes were vibrant with want, Pitch was plagued by another yawn. He groaned and knocked his forehead against Silas's chest.

‘They've cursed me,' he declared. ‘Me and my cock both. That's all there is to it. The sorcerers have had the last laugh.'

‘What ever do you mean?' Silas rested his hand over the nape of Pitch's neck, caressing him.

‘I have you naked, two inches from me but do not have the energy to spread my legs for you. I'm too tired to fuck. This is truly the apocalypse.'

Silas burst out laughing. ‘You are a fool.'

‘A fool who cannot satisfy you. Go ahead, laugh at my predicament, I don't blame you. Nor shall I be surprised if you seek release elsewhere.' This time his yawn stretched his jaw so wide his eyes closed.

‘Will you stop talking nonsense. I'm not going anywhere.' Silas scooped him up, cradling him against his chest, enjoying the heat of his body as much as its loveliness.

‘You shall be most disappointed in claiming this prize, you savage, but use me if you must.' Pitch sighed dramatically. ‘Don't say I did not warn you when I fall asleep as you plunder me.'

The daemon was being ridiculous, and their shared, exhausted delirium made him seem fantastically funny. Silas's ribs ached, tears squeezing from his eyes.

‘Stop laughing, I am ashamed enough as it is. You are a nasty man, Mr Mercer. Mocking me so.' Pitch pulled at Silas's chest hair.

‘Bloody hell.' He spluttered through laughter he could not make subside. Silas had not touched a drop but felt punch drunk with tiredness, and contentment.

He managed to stay steady enough to use his foot to nudge back the covers, and laid Pitch out on the bed, before climbing in to join him beneath fantastically heavy covers and a sea of pillows.

‘I'm sorry,' Pitch mumbled. ‘I'll just close my eyes a moment and then I'll satisfy you, I promise.'

‘Hush, you know very well all I need is to have you close.' Silas patted at Pitch's hip, urging him to roll onto his side, and snuggled in against him. ‘My beautiful little eunuch.'

Pitch's giggle was adorable. He wriggled in closer, and Silas settled in behind him, moulding himself to the prince's shape, draping an arm over him once they were nestled like peas in a warm, soft pod. Pitch clutched at his arm.

‘Just a little snooze,' he slurred.

‘There is no rush. Sleep well, my love.'

Pitch's reply came in the form of a soft snore. Silas closed his eyes, and joined him soon after in longed-for slumber.