Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

SILAS STIRRED , eyes fluttering open to find that darkness had claimed the room. They both still lay in the exact same positions, and judging by the numbness of Silas's arm, and the tingle in his hip, neither had moved at all. The bed was sublimely warm with Pitch's natural heat. A welcome return of the strength of his flame.

Silas knew what it was that had woken him. That infernal niggle. The one that had him sitting up now, very carefully extricating himself from the warm, perfectly, perfect way he lay with Pitch.

The daemon mumbled, interrupting the gentle lilt of snoring he was prone to when he slept deeply.

‘It's all right, back to sleep now.' Silas stopped short of saying he was heading off to relieve himself. Memory of the last time such words left him were still acrid and unpleasant. ‘I'm right here.'

He'd not say again he was leaving. But this incessant scratching at the back of his head–the certainty of knowing he needed to see the graveyard– was too powerful to overcome. Even when it meant doing the very last thing he wished.

He considered having Pitch come with him, but he'd seen the exhaustion writ large upon his beautiful, still-bruised, face. The daemon deserved to rest.

And so did Silas, but he'd not find true quietude here. Sleep, lovely as it was, would not revive him fully.

He waited till Pitch resettled, and was relieved when he did so with very little protest. Silas slid from the bed, and sucked in his breath at the contrast in temperature. Though it was entirely unnecessary, he tucked the blankets in around Pitch until only a few glimpses of his gold-flecked hair were visible. The gold-blonde was all but dominating his head now, the softer browns near lost.

Silas searched around for his clothes, biting his lip at the merciless cold against his bare skin. The search was clumsy in the dim light. A kneecap was thumped against the dresser, and it took a few tries before he found anything to fit, clearly having grabbed hold of clothes intended for the slender, shorter daemon at first; but finally Silas was clad in trousers, which were fall-fronts, he realised, after a pointless search for a single button. Pitch would be most pleased at that. The shirt's thick material felt best suited to a lumberman working in the woods, and fit Silas as though sewn for him.

A coat would have been preferable in the midnight cold, but Silas was tired of searching. He drew on the seven-league boots. Well, the plain old boots now, for the cockaigne had taken a toll on them in all manner of ways. The magic imbued in the footwear had fled. What he wore now were plain old, sturdy, mud-encrusted boots. But at least they fit him just as readily as they had before, and their thick soles were useful against the cold.

Silas made his way out of the inn as quietly as he could. Pitch's was not the only–and certainly not the loudest–snore to be heard, as he crept downstairs and out of the building. The loudest came from a high-backed armchair in the bar, where the hearth held a few glowing embers still. The sleeper was evident only by their feet, crossed at the ankles, darned socks visible as Silas passed.

He drew in a breath as he stepped outside into a perfectly still evening and the powerful, enticing scent of grave dirt found him. He pressed a hand to the doorframe, the intoxicating smell leaving him dizzy, his heart thumping with anticipation. Once he was sure he wouldn't stumble, Silas made his way onto the street.

It was late, he surmised, by way of the utter stillness of the village. The niggling tugged him to the right, and he hurried on. Hints of the approach of Christmas time were evident. Aside from the weather, he spied several wreaths of holly upon doorways, and on passing the grocers, could make out the peaked silhouette of a Christmas tree deeper in the store. The sight of it struck at Silas with a pang of great melancholy but a fluttering of subdued happiness was there too. He'd enjoyed Christmastime in the past. He was quite sure of it.

If only he could remember such times. He suspected much happiness to be found.

The waft of dank earth and loam, gentler now after its first powerful burst, teased at his senses, luring him onwards. He passed by the store where the woman had sat with her basket, weaving. There was an oil lamp still flickering despite the emptiness of the shop. Another tree, much smaller than the last, sat on a small table just to the right of the window. The light was glorious against all the trinkets that hung upon the boughs of the tree, causing them to shine; candy canes, stars of silver tinsel, and astonishing blown glass baubles. Some were simple balls, others were distinct shapes: a dog there, a train engine, even a tennis racquet, of all things, but most superb of all, a parrot with gold and green foil that shone rich and lovely in the weak light.

Silas paused at the window, despite the irritating drag at his senses. The tree with its embellishments was so terribly pretty. Pitch would have adored it.

He carried on, wrapping his arms about himself as he went, regretting his decision not to find his coat, but distracted by thoughts of Arcadia. Did they have such celebrations as Christmas, he wondered? From what he knew, it did not seem such a place, but then, he knew so very little about Pitch's home. Maybe Pitch had experienced a Christmastime here…with Edward perhaps? Had it had been Christmas Eve when the lieutenant gifted Pitch the pendant watch? An exchange between lovers.

Silas's mood soured at the thought. Which was ridiculous. He should be pleased that Pitch had known pleasanter times, happiness in a different skin, with a different man. But Silas had never been able to banish from his mind that day at the Moon Inn, when he'd been an appalling voyeur, and watched Edward and Pitch in their most private moment.

There was a small part of Silas that resented Edward for having laid with Pitch, he'd not deny it. But such jealousy was astoundingly stupid, and the poor lieutenant did not deserve it. Considering all that had gone on since, Edward probably wished he'd never met Tobias Astaroth. And there was the fact that Pitch had likely bedded three quarters of the British Isles, perhaps the continent too, not to mention Arcadia. Silas would wear himself out if he chose to be jealous of all who'd shared the prince's bed. He knew all that. He knew his sense of possessiveness, when it came to the daemon, was terribly juvenile and ill-mannered. Silas was a sensible man. For the most part.

Just not the part where Pitch was involved.

So he'd enjoy the distraction of his own petty jealousies. They helped him to ignore the enormous, greater picture that faced them both.

The Sanctuary. The lake. The coming of an end.

Silas carried on, breathing deeper, letting the heady waft of the graves tickle at his senses, while he pictured Pitch as he'd been a few hours previously. Lost to pleasure. A pleasure that Silas bestowed, and no one else. A smile found his lips as he enjoyed the distraction of his own silliness, which in turn helped him ignore the biting cold, and the tiredness that was bone deep, despite hours spent sleeping. Lifting his feet was a chore, and his mind was foggy with the need to close his eyes.

The lure of the graveyard took him down a narrow alleyway between two thatched-roof cottages, and out to where a small church was now a visible hulking shadow further across the way.

The whispering began then.

The prickle at his skin that announced the presence of a soul. The very first sense he'd had of any deathly stirrings. The scythe remained ever silent though, unbothered by the ghost who watched them.

They watched from a distance, hidden in shadow, but not in the least threatening. Their excitement was palpable. He strode on, the gates of the cemetery now in sight, and the single whisper was joined by another. Then another.

Until Silas was walking along with a pack of lost souls in tow. They kept to the shadows, slinking alongside him, making the darkness stretch and slide with their movement.

He sighed. ‘You really are not so well hidden as you think.'

That drew an excited murmur from his little crowd, some of delight, others sounding not so sure.

It's him. Definitely him, look at that beard.

The beard huh? Nothing to do with the way he's glowing like a bloody full moon, and sounds like a choir from heaven.

Oh lordy, what I wouldn't do to be able to touch things again. Namely his lovely beard.

Will you leave off about the beard, Matthew?

It's lovely.

I'm scared.

Me too, Claudia. Do you think it will hurt?

The chatter was incessant now. There were at least five souls that he could sense.

My word, he's handsome, isn't he? The tales don't do him justice.

Hush, you fool man. If that daemon hears you, you'll be tasting his fire.

And why the heck would I be worried about fire then? How would the daemon harm me? We're dead, he's very much not.

We're dead?

Very funny, Georgina. That joke got old about fifty years ago.

‘Excuse me,' Silas rubbed at his arms. He swore the temperature had plummeted further. His breath was a ghostly plume, and the tip of his nose was numb. ‘There seem an awful lot of you here.'

He spoke to us!

Did that already. Told you your hearing wasn't so good, Peter.

He talking to us?

‘Yes, I'm talking to you. I've not seen a town with so many souls about…' It was not unease, not exactly, which was bothering him. The scythe was too quiet for that, but the situation was strange nonetheless. ‘How have so many of you in this town avoided the goddess?'

He knew teratisms could move freely about, another misfortune of the Blight, but it should not be so for those who were simply lost. Their place of death anchored them, kept them within certain confines.

The low gate of the cemetery came into view, crooked on its hinges.

We are not all from here, Mr Death. The speaker was feminine, light of breath.

‘Call me Silas, please.'

There were squeals and coughs of delight.

First name basis, you ‘ear that?

Power in that name, don't you think?

I am Claudia.

The one who professed to being frightened.

‘You said you were scared, Claudia. You should not fear me.'

I don't.

Not you we are shitting our britches over, Mr Death, sir.

‘Silas.'

Lovely name for a lovely looking fellow. Doesn't he sound sweeter than honey?

‘You hear my melody?' It was the first time he'd been told such a thing.

Right nice tune it is, too.

You can hear it, Peter? Thought you claimed to be deaf as a post.

Clear as day to me, when all you lot seem to have mouths full of marbles.

‘What are you frightened of?' Silas would have liked to enquire as to what his naming melody sounded like, but that was indulgent and unnecessary.

The Gloaming, sir, Claudia said, in her airy way.

That's what them old ghosts call it…old-fashioned as they are.

Claudia's been haunting her child's last resting place for near on three hundred years, ain't you love?

But it was another who spoke up , the one Silas thought they had called Matthew. The Blight, that's what we younger sprogs call it.

Either name, it is the same. Claudia found her voice once more. It has been dreadfully fierce around these parts of the country. I was frightened I'd succumb to it, but then a new melody started to play, not yours, though you are louder now than it ever was. It was just as comforting as you, though. And drew us towards this place…this haven.

A murmur of agreement ran through the shadowy crowd. He was yet to see a single one of them, but he felt them all as surely as he did the cold, which was only becoming more intense.

‘A haven?'

Somewhere the Blight wouldn't touch us. The melody promises us safety.

Like the Pied Piper, looking after them kids.

Christ, Matthew, that's a terrible comparison. That weren't no happy tale.

Well at least there are no rats about. Silas recognised Georgina's cheery voice.

Maybe it won't end well for us neither. Not like we've been good little dead people. Should have moved on ages ago, we all know it. Perhaps we deserve it, if this is all a ploy to lure us to our doom.

The Pale Horseman won't hurt us. His melody is wonderful. And I've heard he's kind.

Those folks that were made teratisms would disagree with that.

And there's that daemon, remember? Might burn us into the next life.

Hush! Don't rile the ankou, what the blazes is wrong with you Matthew?

‘I'm not going to hurt anyone. Neither is Pitch,' Silas scowled. ‘But I would appreciate it if you gave me a moment to think.'

He observed the churchyard.

For all intents and purposes, it was regular. Headstones in mostly straight rows, more so than many others he'd seen, with the usual weight of age causing some to tilt or lean. There were no mausoleums; nothing fancy at all. The church itself was stone, with a tiled, steepled roof and a circular stained-glass window over the dark wood doors. Silas swallowed, shoving his thoughts from where they strayed to the Dullahan. Caught in his glass prison.

Memory of those turbulent events buoyed his resolve, and stirred his ire.

The graveyard was his domain.

The fate of these ghosts was his responsibility.

He'd not be made anxious by the stillness here. He'd not question his desire to settle his feet into that damp earth.

The heavy scent of the grave ripened, coating his nostrils as he dragged it in.

What do we do, Silas? Claudia's fear stirred him. ‘Should we be afraid?'

‘No. There is nothing to fear here.' He slipped loose the latch of the gate. ‘We go on.'