Page 1 of The Death Wish

CHAPTER ONE

PENDLE HILL, with all its history and horror, lay a day, and one infuriating night, behind them. Pitch adjusted his seat on Lalassu’s broad back, scowling over at Silas whose dull brown wool cape matched his equally dull, brown gelding. The horse was a stolen addition to their party, thanks to Tyvain who had willingly gone along with the ankou’s ridiculous decision that it was safer for Pitch to ride alone upon Lalassu. Silas claimed some nonsense about being better able to notice an oncoming threat; though Pitch suspected part of the issue was more to do with how his arse rubbed against the ankou as they rode. Still, Silas would not hear a word of daemonic insistence that Pitch was capable of looking after himself. Silas insisted on playing sombre bodyguard.

So yesterday some poor bastard would have gone to set out for his afternoon ride only to himself without a mount, and a small pouch of coins in exchange for his troubles.

‘I can definitely see a greater sway in that poor horse’s back, with all the weight it carries, Silas.’

The ankou pulled from his thoughts with a smile. ‘Is that so? I think he is doing most admirably.’

‘Well you would, because you can’t see how much shorter its legs have become since you mounted it.’

Silas laughed, but it was a heavy sound, as though he did not have the strength to shift his ribs. The cape that Isaac had given him certainly didn’t do the ankou’s complexion any favours, but its unflattering colour could not be entirely blamed for making him appear so drained. In the weakness of the morning light Silas was pale, and looked altogether as exhausted as Pitch himself felt. The night in a gods-forsaken barn had done neither of them any favours at all.

According to Jane, it had not been a barn, thank you very much, but a very simple country house with beds enough for all. Pitch was told to appreciate the fact no owners were about, so none of their tired party had to bother with any enchantments or sweet talk to secure accommodations. True, no one had the energy for such things, but that was not to say Pitch had forgone hope of a lazy tumble between silk sheets with Silas. No matter how badly his body ached–and gods it fucking ached with unpleasant pains–he was hungry for at least a minute alone with the ankou.

Evidently, one minute was far too much to ask.

The residence had been made for a family of Gilmore-esque dwellers, apparently. The beds were single and tiny, barely able to accommodate Silas by himself, let alone with company. They indulged in some heavy petting, a decent rub to tide them over, but Silas had not done well with knowing the rest of the group was just a paper-thin wall away. He’d preferred to keep to kisses, which Pitch agreed to endure. But, besides all that, Pitch had admitted to himself with great ire, that they were both too fucking exhausted for fucking.

From behind, a snort came from one of the black geldings pulling the carriage. Silas’s attention darted there, that pained expression appearing on his face again.

‘Jane will inform us if Sybilla needs anything,’ Pitch said. ‘We can’t go much slower or we shall be at a halt.’

‘I know…but she is being most stubborn in continuing on with us. I fear it is far too taxing on her.’

‘And I fear you shall end up with a black eye, if you keep fussing over her as you do. Not everyone is as tolerant of your coddling as I am, you know.’

As Pitch had hoped, that shifted Silas’s concerns from the angel, and delivered a more enthusiastic smile. ‘You are indeed so very patient with me, my dearest.’

‘Don’t you forget it.’

The journey away from the cockaigne appeared meandering, taking a westward turn at first, then they kept north. Tyvain, Jane, Sybilla and the simurgh, with Scarlet playing attentive nursemaid as per Lucifer’s instructions, all travelled in the carriage. Jane refused to allow much of a pace; citing Sybilla too poorly to manage a lot of jolting about. The journey was slow, but an hour ago Isaac informed them, in his grumpy way, that they had reached the outskirts of the Yorkshire Dales.

‘Bloody rollin’ hills. Enough to make a man seasick,’ he’d mumbled into his scarves.

But of course, the ankou had a very different opinion.

‘Isn’t this countryside astounding, Pitch?’ Silas said, his voice deep and growling. ‘How I would love to see these hills in the springtime. I dare say they would challenge your eyes for beauty, with their hue of green.’

‘Well, they could try, I suppose.’ Pitch was trying very hard to be astonished at the lay of the land, at how breathtaking it all was, but in truth he was more enamoured by the new and stirring timbre of Silas’s voice. Depths that made it rumble in his chest, and caused Pitch’s nerves to thrill; and other parts of him to protest at how neglected they felt. ‘I could do with some springtime right now. The temperature has plummeted, don’t you think? Or perhaps I am simply noticing it more, now that I’ve been abandoned alone on horseback.’

Silas cast him an indulgent grin. ‘I imagine that cloak is as warm and cosy as it looks, not to mention you are a fire daemon, my darling. And I know for certain your flames are warming you nicely. You were like a stovepipe to hold onto.’

Pitch touched at the rather sublime fuchsia cloak that Tyvain had won in a bet at the town they had stopped in to take some lunch the previous day. Well, she insisted it had been won, but Pitch suspected it too was the result of sticky fingers. Along with the soothsayer being sick and tired of hearing Pitch complain about his borrowed attire from Isaac. ‘Is that why you are punishing that poor horse and not riding with me? If I was too hot for you, I can remedy that.’

Silas chuckled. ‘It was not your flame’s heat I found difficult to bear.’

Was he a little rosier in the cheeks? ‘My good fellow, were you having trouble keeping your thoughts pure, as you rode up against me?’

Definitely rosier in the cheeks now. Pitch’s suspicions about the motive behind separate horses had been spot on. ‘You know I was. And it was inordinately uncomfortable for me. For you as well, I dare say. What with all the…with all the….’

Pitch grinned. ‘With all the what, sweet Silas?’

‘Stop it.’

‘But I don’t understand. With all the what?’

Silas’s glare was only mildly threatening. ‘Stiffness,’ he hissed. ‘The ruddy great pillar I had because you insisted on twisting about so.’