Chapter Forty-Two

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

PITCH WAS not in the mood for being woken. Least of all by a ceaseless, irritating slap against his earlobe.

‘Get away,' he mumbled. ‘Or I'll turn you to cinder.'

He dug himself further beneath the bedcovers, drawing Silas's arm over him more tightly, pressing back against the ankou who snored lightly behind him. ‘I told him he snores,' he muttered. ‘Never believed me.'

He knew the ankou was too deeply asleep to have heard. Silas only snored when he was utterly exhausted, or had had too many ales.

Pitch frowned into the feather pillow, eyes firmly closed. Had they drunk last night? If so, it might account for why he could not recall a single moment of the evening. But his head was groggy with sleep, not a hangover. Aside from being fully unprepared to open his eyes just yet, Pitch felt rather good. Not a single ache to be had. Actually, that wasn't so good.

His arsehole didn't ache, which meant he'd not been ridden into the mattress by the amply endowed ankou any time recently. A terrible shame, to be rectified at once.

He shifted, pressing his arse against Silas's groin, sighing contentedly to find a firm pillar of morning glory there. The ankou muttered, his hand drifting down Pitch's front until it found another upstanding greeter of the morning. His fingers played at Pitch's cock, teasing him for only a few moments before stilling. A short heartbeat later, Silas returned to snoring.

Pitch sighed, and something of the exhale gave him pause. His hand drifted up from beneath the bedclothes, a divine layering of satin and silk, to touch his fingers to the base of his throat.

He recalled a sense of breathlessness, a vague memory that refused to hold still long enough for him to grab onto.

Another pat, this time on the top of his head. One he tried to swipe at, only to find his hand plunged into a swathe of soft pillows.

He still hadn't found the impetus to open his eyes, and realised then just how fucking tired he was.

‘Scarlet, do you not wish to live any longer?' There was no reply. Which was odd for the wisp who always had far too much to say. ‘Frightened you off then, did I?'

Pitch resettled beneath the covers, deciding that perhaps he'd imagined the bloody thing after all.

Silas stirred at the sound of Pitch's voice and nuzzled into his neck. His hand took up its caress once more, and Pitch tilted his head back with a soft groan.

‘Do you have trouble sleeping?' Silas mumbled, leaving gentle kisses along the length of Pitch's neck. ‘Shall I make you tired?'

‘I can't imagine how you could do that.'

‘I'm fairly sure you can imagine, but I shall give you an example.' The tempo of his caress quickened, his broad hand engulfing Pitch's cock. There was the hush of satin as Silas moved himself about so that his own prick slid between Pitch's cheeks. Not seeking entrance, but rubbing between the flesh in a slow back and forth. His groan against the back of Pitch's neck made the hair on daemonic arms stand up, and ready balls lift. Pitch grabbed at the blanket, pulling it over their heads, hiding them away; capturing them in a world with a population of only two.

Pitch kept his eyes shut, and the darkness behind his eyelids deepened. He rocked with the ankou's rhythm, craving their intimacy with a ferocious lust. Pitch was not hungry. This was not incubus desire that drove him. Just a deep want of this man.

‘Silas.' Pitch arched his back, arse shifting as he sought to guide the ankou's prick into deeper territory. ‘I need you.'

‘And you shall have me.' Silas's chuckle was dark, sending vibrations through Pitch's body that made every nerve jangle harder. But the ankou didn't understand, not truly, for if he knew how frantic Pitch's desire was, he'd not move his hand so languidly, nor explore so patiently the tight curl of muscle so eager to bloom.

‘Now, quickly,' Pitch panted.

Silas moaned against him. ‘But I've not prepared you.'

‘I don't care. It doesn't matter.' Pitch cast back his hand, searching for Silas's hip under the covers. Digging his fingers in to skin, bare and warm. He urged the ankou in closer. His chest pained him, the urgency stifling. ‘Now, Silas. Fuck me.'

Before the chance was stolen away. Before whatever nirvana this was ended.

Pitch opened his eyes. It was not entirely dark. There was light finding its way through the bedclothes; bedclothes impossibly soft, a fabric that caressed the curves of his body. Familiarity niggled at him, but his growing panic dominated. Hi s frantic need for the ankou only growing.

‘Pitch.' Silas's voice found a way through the thunder of blood in Pitch's head. ‘My darling, calm yourself. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. We can take our time.' Silas slid his hand from Pitch's cock and drifted higher, a caress that brushed over nipples and went higher still. Silas ran his thumb over that spot upon Pitch's collarbone that never failed to make him shiver.

It did not fail now.

He moaned, slowing his manic attempts to force Silas inside him.

‘There we are, good boy.' The murmur at his ear made his blood heat, and his hips buck. ‘Let's get you ready.'

Having seduced his prey into compliance, Silas set about opening Pitch to greater things. He used Pitch's own readiness; the wetness at the head of his cock, slicking his fingers there. Silas eased his damp fingers between Pitch's cheeks. Considerate, as always; seeking to make things pleasant.

But Pitch didn't want pleasant.

‘No, this isn't right.'

He wriggled away.

‘What are you doing?'

‘I want to see you. I have to see you.'

Pitch rolled onto his back, and there was a great shifting of covers and blankets as the ankou found his new place between Pitch's spread legs.

They stared at one another. Stared, as though they had not seen each other in decades. Again Pitch was caught by breathlessness, by the tug at a corner of his mind. Silas licked his lips, his gaze shifting to Pitch's own mouth. Studying it intently.

Pitch knew he felt it, too. The world was off-kilter.

Silas traced a finger over Pitch's cheekbone, quiet and contemplative. He bore more grey threads in his dark hair, at his beard too, with new wrinkles there at the edge of his eyes.

‘Does it hurt you, my love?'

Pitch dragged his gaze from the ankou's changes. ‘You are not inside me yet. What could hurt?'

A wistful smile. ‘I speak of your face. There is some damage here.' His fingers went again to Pitch's cheekbone, and so he raised his hand to the same place. The skin was rough. As though burned.

Great weights pushed at the back of his mind.

But he repelled them. He didn't want to think. He wanted Silas.

‘No. No, it does not hurt at all.'

A tear slipped down Silas's cheek. ‘Pitch…what has –'

He pressed his finger against the ankou's lips. Attempting to hold back all that threatened to overwhelm them.

Pitch was not ready. ‘Don't speak of it, not yet.'

If this were fantasy, an illusion or dream, then let it stay so. If this were the delusion of a dying daemon, then so it should remain.

Silas leaned in to kiss him and enter him. The desperate urgency melted away as Pitch was opened wide; the ankou's thickness blissfully painful.

The fantasy held.

Thank the gods. What lay beyond this bed was large and terrifying, and no place Pitch wished to visit until he must.

Theirs was a slow union, a deliberate drive of body against body. The hurt was there; the ankou was large and Pitch not nearly readied enough. But the pain was exquisite and raw, and so very welcome. Bringing him to life.

Silas covered him, took him slowly, deeply and with his usual cascade of beautiful whispers.

Neither spoke of the differences to be found in one another; the bruises and marks and stains that had come from that world beyond the sheets.

All that mattered right now was the familiar.

The synchronicity of their bodies. The touch of tongues and fumble of fingers as they sought to know each other everywhere, all at once.

Pitch bit at Silas's lip, and his ankou obliged with a deeper thrust of his hips; a quickening of the pace.

They fucked in their own little world. Their haven of silk and satin, and each other. He pressed his hands to Silas's cheeks, holding his gaze as they moved in gasping unison towards that highest, most glorious place of all. Pitch tried hard not to close his eyes as his climax threatened. He wanted to watch Silas come, and the ankou was close.

They grunted and hissed, snarling into their pleasure; no less bestial than animals in the forest. Silas's steady thrusts broke Pitch apart in all the best ways. He was overwhelmed by his release; an avalanche of ecstasy that tore frantic cries from the bottom of his lungs.

Silas praised Pitch as he spilled, the ankou's voice strangled by the thundering approach of his own climax. Pitch blinked his eyes open, panting, his body jerking, his prick still spitting the remnants of his load.

‘Now, let me see you,' he gasped.

He tightened himself around Silas's cock, and watched as the ankou toppled over the precipice.

Silas came; his bellow primeval and covetous. His last thrust seemed sure to split Pitch in half. He grabbed Pitch's shoulders, using the leverage to bury himself deeper still, his body shuddering. His release was a torrent; filling his vessel to overflowing. His hips thrust one more time; driving his cock through the mess he'd made, the sounds of sopping flesh disgraceful.

Spent, Silas collapsed his weight upon Pitch. He growled as he ran his tongue over Pitch's collarbone, licking at the sweat there, one final delicious torment. They both twitched and shivered, and groaned curses. They reeked of spill and exertion. Silas's powerful thrusts had driven Pitch up the mattress; his head glanced at the headboard. At some point during the rut he was fairly certain he'd heard one of the mattress slats break.

The fuck was rough and vulgar; it was utter perfection.

‘Well, that was nice,' Pitch said.

‘Fucking hell, wasn't it?'

Silas drew Pitch with him as he rolled onto his side. He sought to keep them joined, but he was limp, and Pitch's arse cheeks too flooded to prevent his cock sliding free with a slick whisper.

‘Leaving me so soon?'

Silas burst out laughing. ‘Fear not, I shall return.' He ran his hand along Pitch's side, chuckling as the touch made him shiver. ‘Just give me a moment.'

Someone cleared their throat. Someone not in their haven. ‘I'm afraid you don't have a moment, my lords.'

Gods, Pitch knew that voice. But it was impossible.

He pushed back the covers, blinking into the sudden brightness. ‘Fuck. You?'

‘Yes, I, your highness.'

Silas sat up, hair every which way, throwing his arm in front of Pitch. ‘Stay back. Good god…what are you?'

The hydra inclined each of his three heads, his smoothed foreheads speckled with yellow spots. ‘My Lord, I am Forneus. His Royal Highness, Prince Vassago's valet.' He smoothed at the matching yellow cords on his coat.

Silas was a comical delight, struck dumb with astonishment, his mouth open wide enough to catch flies. Sweat framed his widened eyes.

‘What the fuck are you doing here, Forneus?' Pitch pressed Silas's arm down.

The hydra shifted in obvious discomfort, his multitude of spindly legs tapping at the floor. He continued to preen himself, a habit Pitch knew hid his irritation; he'd always been preening when in Vassago's presence. But he seemed to have another master now. The tassels of his uniform, the chest plate emblem, were those of Lucifer.

‘Oh dear, I thought you'd already been informed.' Forneus spoke from his central head, his favourite. ‘The explanation is not for me to give. I am sent here to attend to your needs. Should I have the linen changed? And will you and his lordship be requiring any sustenance? What does a purebred prefer to eat? I'll have cook arrange something immediately. I suspect you are both quite famished after all of that.'

Silas gaped, a tiny sound of mortification.

‘How long have you been standing there?' Pitch growled.

‘Well…a little while.' Forneus bobbed his bald heads in succession. ‘Apologies, but I'm unfamiliar with the extent of humankind's' breeding behaviours, so I was unsure when was an appropriate time to enter.'

‘Never. Never is an appropriate time, you silly bastard.' Pitch took in the room. It was rounded, like the blasted tower in the cockaigne, the stonework unpainted, and the exposed beams overhead the rich hue of mahogany. ‘Oh, gods…'

‘What?' Silas touched his shoulder. ‘What is it?'

He slipped from the ankou's touch and drew his legs from beneath the covers. ‘Fuck, fuck. This cannot be.'

Pitch left the bed, rather wet between the legs, and very naked, but he didn't give a damn. He strode across the room; past a chest of draws, with a water pitcher and wash basin atop, past a wing-back chair with carved trim and silk upholstery, past a side-table with a stack of books and a small ceramic clock. His pace moved a tapestry that hung upon the wall; an embroidery of an English summer garden. But this was not England. And that sun had never shone into this room.

‘Pitch, tell me what is going on,' Silas said.

Something in his tenor, something fragile, had Pitch glancing back. Silas sat with his fingers pressed to his temples, wincing. The euphoria of fucking was gone, and their unified decision to ignore reality now crashed down around them.

Pitch stared harder at the ankou.

Or rather, the purebred.

Silas's aura was the barely there grey of humankind; none of the silver ribbons and movement the ankou's had held.

‘Well?' Silas pulled a blanket to cover himself and stood up.

‘I don't know yet.' Pitch moved to the window, covered over by a velvet blue curtain.

‘Your Highness, is something not to your liking? I can have it changed. I'm sure his majesty would have wanted you to be comfortable here in the tower. May the Celestials bless his divine soul.' Forneus was solemn and pious, just as he usually was. ‘Strange furnishings here though, I'll give you that.'

Pitch took hold of the curtain, the hydra's words like the toll of an unwanted bell. His stomach was tight with nerves. And nothing else.

No stirrings. No wildness.

But then, he'd known that from the moment he awoke. The simurgh was gone.

‘Whose room is this?' Silas said. ‘Will someone bloody well tell me where we are?'

Pitch pulled back the curtain, revealing clear glass filling an arched and narrow window behind. The view was breathtaking. And it was certainly not Scotland.

‘Oh fuck,' he breathed. ‘We did not die.'

The bleeding godsdamned obvious was finally said.

Silas came to stand at his side, and he too took in the view; a land of colours and contours he would find utterly foreign. He was the palest Pitch had ever known him. ‘Perhaps…this is the afterlife?' Silas clearly didn't believe his own shaky words.

‘No, my dearest. Not even close.'

Silas opened the blanket and drew Pitch into its fold. ‘You know this place.' Wisely, he did not make it a question.

‘I do. Those are the Siltron Ranges.'

‘I see. And where do those ranges lie?'

Silas guessed it, Pitch knew from the waver in his voice, but he was waiting for Pitch to say it aloud. To speak more impossible truths.

But a new and altogether too cheery voice interrupted their stunned reverie.

‘They lie in Arcadia, my fine fellow. Welcome to Arcadia.'