Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

IT WAS a churn in Pitch's belly that had awoken him. The shift of something in the emptiness within, the space the simurgh had left. He had sat up, gasping for breath, his heart pounding.

To find a three-legged ferret at the end of their bed.

A bed empty of the wide spread of the ankou.

‘Where is he?'

He'd pulled on his trousers and his cloak, and followed the creature.

To the graveyard. Of course. For where else would Silas prefer to be, when not in Pitch's bed?

But he'd not expected to find his ankou naked in a grave. Curled up on his side, like a child in the womb. Pitch's heart had stopped. He was sure of it. All the pulses in his body held still. He'd imagined, for a moment, that it was over. That all was lost, for everything lay in that grave.

He had no idea how bright his flame was burning until the boy told him to stifle it.

‘Calm yourself. He is not gone.'

Herbert though, looked like he was on his way to being so. The boy was shivering so hard it was a wonder he could stay on his feet. The shirt he wore was clearly not his, trailing near his knees, dwarfing his shoulders. Silas's shirt. Any fool would know it. Especially this fool.

Pitch reshaped his fire, making it less injurious, and more useful to a child possessed.

‘He is freezing. You are too much for that boy.' Pitch had little time for the goddess who had held him back in that gods-forsaken cave in the cockaigne.

‘I am too much for everyone. That is entirely my point.'

‘What is happening here?'

‘What he needs. Your task takes much from my ankou. It will take more yet, should all things come to pass.'

Pitch resisted the urge to singe the boy's cheek. He'd only punish a child if he did so: not the goddess for her cruel reminder. ‘He told me he was just tired.'

‘As the winter is just cool.'

He shook off his irritation. Gods were cryptic, there was no changing that. ‘He has been keeping something from me, I'm sure. Is it your doing?'

‘The end is always my doing.'

‘Fuck, will you just speak plainly?'

The glow of silver brightened. Herbert blinked slowly, and no longer shivered with Pitch's flame so close. ‘I grow tired of that being demanded of me.'

‘Then perhaps you should learn from it.'

‘Careful, daemon. It is not you I favour.'

‘I do not need your favour. You are not my goddess.' Other Celestials held greater sway over the children of Arcadia. ‘What is happening to Silas?'

Pitch's flame crackled between them, burning in the quiet that held.

‘You busy yourselves too much with one another. There will come a time when you must let him go. That time has always been forthcoming. It is the fate of all who live and die.'

‘I know.' The ache that came with saying it reached into his bones, twisted around every vein. ‘But this is not his time. You said yourself, he is not gone.'

He had a dreadful moment of imagining the goddess a trickster. A tormentor. Letting him stand over Silas's grave with false promise.

‘He is not gone this day, but his days have always had a number upon them.'

Pitch nodded. ‘And he knows that number, doesn't he? That is what he keeps from me.'

‘You've grown wiser, daemon.'

If it was so, it did not bring any solace. Pitch went to his knees beside the great pile of soil dug from the grave. His cloak fluttered wide, shifting dirt, causing it to trickle down where Silas lay. ‘Why did you summon me? What am I to do here?'

Pitch knew how to fight, to lash out at his enemies, to bring destruction. But there was not a flame, nor vestige, nor halo in all the known worlds that could help him here.

‘It was he who summoned you. What you do here is no concern of mine. What you shall do, matters far more, Prince of Arcadia.'

Pitch studied Silas's lifeless form, hearing the goddess speak but caring little to return a reply. Silas lay like a great stone effigy of himself. Unmoving. Not breathing. Silas had summoned him here, but Pitch was clueless as to how to help him. ‘How long will this last?'

‘As long as it must.'

‘What am I to do then? I don't know what he needs.'

‘He summoned all that he needed.'

‘I didn't bring anything…what is that supposed to mean?'

Pitch turned, and found himself alone, save for the ferret who had scampered up the length of the shovel and now balanced on its handle. A light frost had settled upon the graveyard; a dusting of white everywhere, except for the circle around Pitch, where his warmth had made it impossible.

Was that it then? A fire daemon was what Silas needed?

He shifted off his knees, unclasping the cloak and letting it fall away. He stepped down into the grave. Treading carefully, moving thoughtfully as he lay the cloak over Silas's body; the man he knew would be unhappy with such nakedness, no matter how magnificent a body he had. Silas was mighty, but he was also a prude. Satisfied with the tuck of the cloak, the hue of pink pleasing against the darkness of Silas's beard, Pitch settled behind the ankou and drew the remainder of the cloak over himself. He was just as cold as Pitch had imagined.

He settled his arm over Silas, just as the ankou did so often for him.

Pitch brought his flame forth, a heat beneath his skin that made the air beneath the cloak warm, the soil beneath them heated as a warming pan.

‘Better?' He knew no answer would come. He did not need one. The heat was already there against Silas's skin.

Pitch nuzzled against Silas's hair, and breathed in all that made this man what he was. Perhaps there was a chance the ankou knew him here.

Pitch did not intend to sleep again. But then, he'd not intended to spend his night in an open grave. Nor to find it the only place in the world he could imagine being.

At some point, however unlikely, he slept.

Coughing woke him. He struggled to recall where he was; a hard surface beneath his hip, the scent of loam, the warmth of his flame, still bright beneath his skin.

The embrace reminded him.

‘Silas?'

But the ankou remained deathly still.

‘Sorry, did I wake you, Tobias?'

He moved swiftly, but with care not to disturb the immovable ankou, tucking in the cloak about his shoulders so the heat remained caught beneath. He rose, on his knees, to peer over the edge of their shallow pit.

‘Sybilla? What are you doing here?'

The Valkyrie, clad in a thick, black coat with fur at the neck and cuffs, sat upon the ledger of the grave nearest to Silas's open plot. She rested her back against the headstone: eyes closed, and stroking the white ferret that was curled in her lap.

‘The grim was very insistent I come here. It seemed it was in my best interest not to ignore the furry fellow.' Her voice was studiously flat, her true feelings about her predicament well hidden. ‘Evidently Silas is not the only one who will benefit from time spent amongst all these dead. So here I am, at the behest of a church grim.'

‘You know it a grim?'

‘I do.'

‘But Silas could not have told you.'

‘He did not need to. I see it for what it is. I see all these souls, for what they are.'

Pitch peered around the yard. A mist hung about some of the headstones, the end of a row hidden in its pallor. ‘I see an empty space.'

‘It is very far from empty, though it does grow quieter as they leave us. You do not feel how they make the air spark?'

He turned back. Sybilla had opened one eye but closed it quickly now.

‘No.'

Her reply was an indecipherable hum.

Pitch took in the terrible scarring left by the halo, and could not shake the guilt that came. If he'd not been so pathetic, if Seraphiel had not muzzled his flame so extensively, the angel need not have suffered so.

Suffered…and died? She'd gifted him her magick, but he'd not thought that possible without a Death Wish.

Pitch glanced down at Silas. The ankou had been furtive when pressed for details of the Valkyrie's miraculous survival. And it was indeed that. Miraculous. She had defied death.

It struck him then, with a firm hard blow to his senses.

‘You died. Silas brought you back.' There was no question in Pitch's mind. He did not need to see the angel nod her head. But she did so.

‘I was there upon death's threshold, but Silas would not let me cross over.' Sybilla's hand stilled over the snow white pelt. ‘Is this my fault, Tobias? Did my return cost him too much?'

Pitch fingered the material of Silas's discarded trousers. ‘So far as this fool is concerned, there's no cost too high for such things. And if anyone can be accused of taxing him beyond his limits, it is me. This fucking quest.'

‘Don't let your mind darken so, Tobias. I see where your thoughts try to take you.'

‘Then I truly pity you, for it is a fucking awful place to go.'

‘You cannot leave him. If you go without him, he will find you. But he will suffer all the while until he does.'

Pitch ran his thumb over the dirty fabric. ‘He does not suffer now though, does he? I doubt I'd have to ask the goddess twice to keep him. She could hold him here, as he is.'

If Silas's days were numbered, then let them be spent wandering aimlessly in a pretty garden, or foraging for wild mushrooms; whatever the hell he wanted, so long as it was peaceful.

‘Tobias?' The firmness suggested it was not the first time the angel had called his name. ‘Are you alright?'

Not in the slightest. The idea of leaving Silas behind might be noble, but what a pity Pitch was so far from being a nobleman. He folded the trousers and set them aside.

He was too selfish to let Silas go as easily.

‘I'm fine.'

Sybilla urged the ferret from her lap, and pushed away from the headstone. Despite the silvery shadows Pitch saw her wince. ‘Silas defied his goddess for me. I cannot imagine what greater lengths he would go to for you.' Sybilla glanced skyward, the whites of her eyes vibrant in the dim light. ‘Nor you for him. I feel a trace of your affections in my returned magick.'

That was perhaps the most appalling thing Pitch had heard of late. And, not knowing how a decent fellow would handle the situation, he stayed true to his miserable self. ‘Oh, please tell me you know we fucked about in that dream? I see now your magick was likely the reason we found each other at all. Were you aroused by what you saw? Could I perhaps entice you to dabble in a pillar or two?'

‘Gods, you are a fool.'

‘But a desirous one, no?'

‘No.' A genuine smile found her punished lips. ‘You have no idea how desperately my magick raced to me, when it knew I had survived. Anything to escape the tawdry existence it shared with you.'

Laughter drifted between them, here in the middle of a graveyard, surrounded by ghosts and grim and monsters.

‘I'm glad you didn't die.' Pitch laid his smouldering hand on Silas's shoulder. The shimmer of heat made the drying strands of the ankou's hair shift.

The angel did not reply, her gaze fixed towards the centre of the yard, where the tallest of the headstones stood. An angel, of all things.

‘But I did. My wings did not survive, nor my halo. I am grateful for this chance to make amends, of course, but I am not as I was, before.'

‘Amends?'

The Valkyrie levelled her gaze at him. ‘I should have been able to protect you, and I could not.'

Pitch found it too hard to hold her gaze. He looked away. ‘Before you spend another moment flagellating yourself, may I suggest you redirect your whip towards another angel. If Seraphiel had not had Edward turn me into a useless suit of bones in this devastatingly gorgeous skin, I'd have been able to protect myself. Hastings would not have had to sacrifice themselves, you would still have your wings, I would not have spilled secrets like a fucking fountain, and Silas would not have become a carcass for Morrigan to pick to the bone.' He laid a hand to his belly, the movement out of Sybilla's line of sight. The angel waited. ‘You could all be back at Holly Village by now. Or down at The Atlas perhaps. Silas would be stuffing his face with that awful Indian dish he adores.'

‘Kedgeree? It's rather wonderful, actually. Despite the British dampening it down, and insisting it a breakfast dish.' Sybilla got to her feet with a grunt, using the headstone as a prop. ‘He has very decent taste, for the most part.' She made a point of eyeing Pitch up and down. ‘But on occasion Silas does go quite off the rails.'

Pitch's gesture was not polite at all. ‘You must be feeling better. You have returned to imagining yourself remotely funny, but your humour is as dire as that bloody dish.'

‘I thought her rather amusing.' The croaky, rough sound had Pitch's blood lighting up.

‘Silas?'

‘Welcome back, Mr Mercer.' Sybilla's chuckle was warm. ‘You've been missed.'

Pitch stared down at the ankou, who was moving slowly, eyes fluttering. ‘You bloody sod, how long have you been awake?'

‘It is good to see you too, my heart.' Silas grunted, trying to push himself to his elbow but having no luck with it until Pitch set a hand beneath his shoulder.

‘Here, be careful. Take your time.' He eased Silas to sitting, the cloak falling away to rest in the ankou's lap. Pitch clucked his tongue. ‘Keep it on, you'll freeze out here, damn you.'

‘Are you fussing over me?' Silas still had that rumble. And it still did odd things to the pit of Pitch's stomach.

‘I am simply trying to speed up the process of getting back indoors. Where the civilised people are.'

‘I think you are coddling.'

‘I think you shall get a clout on your ear if you don't shut up.'

‘I think it is time for me to leave,' Sybilla announced.

The ankou laughed. A choked, rather chesty sound, with an inhale that clearly took in more dirt than intended. Silas coughed and spluttered.

‘You idiot.' Pitch banged at his back, in what he presumed to be a helpful move. He'd seen it done once or twice in various pubs. ‘Stop making such a fuss.'

‘Great gods, you are the worst nursemaid I've ever known.' Sybilla stood beside the grave, arms folded, looks disapproving. ‘Stop hitting him.'

‘I'm all right.' Silas coughed, though not as badly as before. The force of his fit though had made tears run. ‘It's passed now. All is well.'

A sharp squeak came from the edge of the pit, the ferret peeking from beneath the length of Sybilla's dark coat.

‘Hello there, pretty one. Thank you for bringing him to me.' The ankou brushed a thick-fingered hand down the animal's back. The scythe on Silas's finger was altered, changed from its duller pewter tone to a shining silver that was difficult to miss.

‘Excuse me?' Pitch feigned indignation. ‘I have been lying in the dirt for you, yet your thanks and attention goes to an elongated rat?' The ferret bared tiny fangs.

‘Oh, Pitch? You're here?' Silas put on a show of his own, squeezing the bridge of his nose, and blinking groggily. ‘I didn't notice you.'

‘Utter bastard. Fine, I will leave.'

Silas moved much faster now, grabbing at Pitch's arm. ‘Not a chance. Why are you barely undressed?'

Pitch made a weak play at trying to remove himself from the ankou's hold. He'd forgotten entirely he wore only trousers. ‘I've been making my way through all the men of the village, whilst you snoozed with the dead.'

‘Really?' Silas moved him easily, and though Pitch could have bested him with some effort, there was no mistaking the easy strength that came from him. Nor how Silas's brown eyes held specks of brightness in their depths now. ‘Will you show me what they taught you?'

Sybilla heaved a loud sigh, and even the grim ferret made a noise of discontentment and jumped from the grave. ‘Right, well that is my signal to leave, then. I'll let the others know you're up and about, and all is well.' She paused. ‘All is well, I'm assuming, Silas? You seem…you look brighter, glowing more readily.'

Pitch frowned. He could not even make out Silas's usual dull aura, and the angel seemed too far away in the dim light to notice the change in Silas's eyes.

‘I feel much better, thank you, Sybilla. All is definitely well.' Silas propped himself on his elbow, staring up at the angel. ‘Bloody hell, you are…well, you have a decent glow yourself. I'm glad this has helped you too.'

‘As am I. But I had best return before the others wake to find me gone. Mind you, I doubt Tyvain and Isaac shall rise before noon. They enjoyed the hospitality at the Rule last night a bit too much.'

Pitch's head snapped up at that. ‘Who is looking after the simurgh?'

‘I've covered much of the Golden Rule in runes, and my room is saturated with them. Little wonder I felt so bloody rotten. Jane is there, and Phillipa and Scarlet too, of course.' She picked at some leaf litter that had snagged in the fur cuff at her wrist. ‘And the Cultivation is not without its own protection. The divine magick it contains is remarkable.' She looked to Pitch. ‘As is anyone who could hold the likes of it, for so long.'

Silas's hand found the small of his back, but that only made the intolerably sweetness of the moment worse, and Pitch edged away.

‘Not as though I've had much choice,' he muttered. ‘I thought you were leaving?'

‘And so I am.' The Valkyrie leaned down and offered her arm to the ferret. ‘Come, leave them be, before you see a sight that shall scar you for all the afterlife you live.' The ferret scampered up the angel's arm, wriggling into place upon her shoulder. She turned away, but then reconsidered, and glanced over her shoulder. ‘There is something else I must tell you both. Now seems as good a time as any.'

Silas pressed a kiss to Pitch's shoulder. ‘Go on.'

‘I've had word from the Lady Satine.' She touched her temple, as though that explained the messaging well enough, which in truth, it did. ‘Though it is not with her usual aplomb. The message is most basic. But in short, many of our party have come to the end of their road. Ambleside shall be where we part ways.'

Pitch stared at her, caught off-guard by how her words quickened his pulse.

‘I understand.' Silas said, though he did so very quietly. ‘Very well then. Do they know?'

‘No.' Sybilla pressed her lips. ‘It only came to me when I sat here in long silence. And the message was so faint, if I'd not been surrounded by the quiet of the dead, I doubt I'd have heard at all.' She glanced at Silas. ‘Perhaps the journey's end approaches for all involved.'

‘You will leave us too?' Pitch worked very hard at sounding careless.

Did he sound too needy? Silas was watching him. Concerned again. Damn it.

‘There was nothing said of me.' Sybilla shook her head. ‘So I assume I continue on with you. But all the others shall remain.'

‘Well, good luck getting that damned wisp away from the simurgh.' Pitch scoffed. ‘You'll likely have to trap Scarlet in a witch bottle and hurl it out to sea to keep them from following us.'

Not in a thousand years would he admit he could not imagine saying goodbye to that infernal creature.

‘I'll take my leave now gentlemen, and leave you to…well, whatever it is one does after one steps out of their grave.'

They bid their farewells, with vague promises to meet for a late breakfast. Sybilla strode away with firm posture and an easy gait; Silas was not the only one revitalised in this graveyard.

The ankou took up his caresses the moment he back was turned. ‘It pains you to imagine leaving Scarlet behind.'

‘I hardly care what they do, Silas.' Blast this man, could he read bloody minds now?

‘Don't hide from me, my love.'

And curse all the taints of the Celestial, that drippy endearment was becoming less painful to hear, and Pitch found his tongue too easy to use around Silas. Ready to blurt the mortifying truth. So Pitch did the only reasonable thing he could do.

He punched at the ankou's shoulder. ‘Stop with your syrupy nonsense. I'm just saying, they are a stubborn creature.'

‘And they are not the only one I know.' Silas fended off Pitch's distracting attempts to fasten the cloak and wrapped him in an embrace so tight it really wasn't comfortable at all, but Pitch didn't go so far as to protest. ‘Perhaps Scarlet shall just do what they please, and stay with us. Now, shall we get out of this grave? I had you brought here so you wouldn't worry, but I didn't expect you to lie here with me. I'm grateful for it though.' He traced the line of Pitch's jaw. ‘And I thank you for your flame, I felt its warmth where I was.'

‘What happened there?' Pitch tried to keep his expression smooth, though really he wanted to melt into the ankou, perhaps bring down more dirt upon them so they could hide away here.

‘I was nourished…regained what was lost in the cockaigne. More perhaps.' Silas was thoughtful. ‘The goddess returned my strength to me.' His glance took in the graveyard. ‘But it came at the expense of others.'

‘What others?'

‘Those who had not yet chosen to let go.'

‘Lost souls?'

The pained expression on his face was equally painful to see. ‘Yes.'

Pitch took Silas's face between his palms, warming his skin, letting the fire dance against the new flecks of amber in his eyes. ‘But they at rest now, are they not?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you are well.' He knew the answer already; it was plain to see. No more dark circles. The ankou was vigorous, grand and imposing in a way Pitch had not known before. He brushed his lips against Silas's, enjoying the shiver that came. ‘You are very well.'

The ankou touched him, as he so loved to do, and the lines of concern fell away from his face. ‘I feel wonderfully well. Shall I show you how much so? Let me take you back to our room, and I shall make you moan for me until you beg me to stop. Would you like that?'

If ever a pointless question had been asked.

‘I suppose I might be agreeable.'

Silas's deliciously deep chuckle sounded again. He ankou shifted onto his knees, and the cloak fell away, leaving nothing to the imagination; for which Pitch was eternally grateful. ‘My trousers and boots should be here somewhere.'

Silas barely leaned on Pitch as they both stepped up and out of the grave. In fact, he was nimble; swift and graceful, despite his hefty size.

‘Why bother with them?' Pitch was eager to see what else the ankou was newly swift and graceful with. ‘I'm just going to remove them.'

Silas tugged him in close, and delivered a fast and breathless kiss. His tongue demanding entrance, his body seeking to melt into Pitch's. ‘I warn you,' he mumbled. ‘I am quite invigorated. I may wear you out.'

Pitch blinked, the blood thundering in his ears. ‘Oh my dear, that is a challenge I was born to accept.'

The ankou handed Pitch the cloak as he took up his trousers. He nodded towards the shed.

‘Do you remember the last time we visited a shed like that?' Silas's grin was positively evil as he bent over, taking a preposterous amount of time to cover the thick pillar that dangled between his legs.

Pitch could hardly forget the ramshackle place at the bottom of the garden where Silas had used his tongue in all manner of ways, in all manner of sublime places. But it was also the place where the ankou had first blurted out his deep affections. To think of that moment–of how dreadfully Pitch had handled the occasion– made his empty belly twist in unfamiliar ways.

‘I do,' he said, with a sniff. ‘But I've just slept in the dirt for you, I shall not be fucked in a dusty, spider-ridden old shack, amongst spades and rakes and smelly hessian sacks. I am a prince, I'll have you know.'

Silas bowed, deeply. ‘Of course, your highness. Forgive me, I am simply overwhelmed by your breathtaking beauty. Best you cover up, before I can no longer contain my passion for your enchanting self, and seek to ravish you, right here upon this pile of dirt.'

‘You would not dare.'

‘I would dare anything for you.'

‘Idiot.'

The ankou righted, and Pitch sucked in his breath. Silas shone. Not with any discernible light, save for that in his eyes, but he was luminous nonetheless. Pitch had not realised how downtrodden the ankou had become, until he was no longer weighted down. He was beautiful; with how alive he truly was.

‘What? Do I have dirt on my face?' Silas buttoned up his trousers, then dragged on his boots, not bothering to tie the laces. ‘My hair is likely a bird's nest.'

‘You look dreadful.' And if they did not get to their room, there was every chance the pile of dirt would suffer for it after all. Pitch threw the cloak over his shoulders, busying himself with the clasp. ‘You shall have to blindfold me before you stick your cock in me, otherwise I shall spend the whole time screaming in terror.'

Silas smiled; a sun breaking over the horizon. ‘I do love you.'

Pitch could hardly blurt out an insipid I rather like you too, or a pitiful , I won't survive if you are told to leave me, too, s o he had no option but to point out the obvious. ‘Your laces are undone.'

He turned, throwing up the hood of his cloak, and moving as briskly out of the graveyard as his feet would allow without breaking into a run. He had to maintain some level of decorum, after all.

‘Wait, I want to check the shed for a coat. I'm half bloody naked.'

‘I don't see the problem,' Pitch called back but did not wait.

There was a delay before he heard Silas following, at a run. His footfalls heavy and steady; their tempo somehow threatening and thrilling at the same time. Pitch threw glances over his shoulder, and nearly squealed at the blatant hunger in Silas's gaze. The ankou looked awful in the stained smock he'd found, the sooner he was rid of it the better.

Pitch jogged along, feeling as though he were being hunted down by an enormous wolf; and entirely approved of being eaten alive.

Day-break had barely done its breaking, but already the village folk were stirring. A woman stepped from her house, an overflowing basket of laundry at her hip, her eyes widening as she looked up the road behind him. ‘Are you in some kind of trouble, sir?'

‘I truly hope so.'

No sooner had he said it than the pounding of footsteps ceased.

‘Oh, Pitch, wait! Do stop and look at this Christmas tree here in the dressmakers. I think you will adore all the glitter upon it.'

Pitch stopped dead, thinking himself caught in some kind of poor prank. ‘A tree? You wish me to look at a godsdamned tree, right now, Silas?'

He was very aware his stern reprimand gathered many glances. But was the ankou mad?

‘Sorry. No, we can return later.'

There he was, beneath all that brimming, sterling manhood and vigour; the dolt who apologised too much. Pitch smiled, but made sure Silas did not see it.

‘Exactly. Come along.'

Pitch was close, so very close, to the Churchill Inn, when a figure stepped from the alleyway that led to the stables.

‘Hello, Pitch.'

The heat in his veins cooled, and it was no small feat to offer up a smile.

‘Hello, Charlie.'