Page 10 of The Death Wish

Pitch scowled. ‘What is wrong with your thumb?’

There came that irresistible deep chortle again. ‘Nothing, merely a turn of phrase. I’m just saying, it hardly seems surprising to be a little tired. We both need rest, I know you are the same.’

Pitch’s lips parted with a denial, which was simply stupid. He was fucking exhausted.

‘That’s the front door there,’ the boy called, pointing out the bleeding obvious before Pitch could press Silas further. ‘Tell Pa that Herbert sent you, I’ll take your horses around to the stables in the back.’

Pitch huffed. ‘Half the world shall know we’ve arrived, with all that shouting.’

‘Come on with me, pretty mare.’ The boy patted at Lalassu’s shoulder, then gave the brown horse an equal share of attention. ‘And Mr Chocolate, you shall love our stables, plenty of fresh hay, and a dandy brush with your names on it. What do you think of that?’ He turned suddenly. ‘Whataretheir names, sirs?’

‘Lalassu is the pale horse,’ Silas returned. ‘And…well, you were right, that is Mr Chocolate, the brown.’

Herman’s poorly directed eyes widened. ‘Lalassu. That’s the most wonderful name I’ve ever heard.’

Lalassu snorted and tossed her head, and with no more to-do the mare and gelding trotted off to follow the strange, slowyoung fellow whose laughter was every bit as childish as he. Childish but, Pitch must admit, endearing.

He turned his attention back to Silas. The ankou was not quick enough to cover the pinch of discomfort that lined his face, but he plastered a rather wolfish grin over whatever ailed him.

‘Shall we?’ He swept his hand towards the door: a simple entrance of smoothed brown wood, framed by the winter-slumbering trails of a climbing rose. Wood smoke scented the air, a thick trail coming from the bulky chimney at the far right of the building.

‘We shall.’ Pitch led the way inside.

‘Welcome to the Churchill Inn, gentlemen. I see you’ve made my son’s acquaintance.’

Hector’s pa was a stocky man whose belly sought to escape his vest, making pearl buttons strain. His wide smile showed hint of a singular blackened tooth towards the side of his mouth, and his neck was impressively thick. There was an affable air about the man, a sense that he was every bit as jovial as he appeared. Stepping across the threshold into the warmth and murmur of afternoon drinking, Pitch found his knots undoing.

‘Herbert is a credit to you, sir,’ Silas said.

‘He said your cook makes tarts.’ Pitch knew himself blunt, but truly felt the past few days earned him every right to be.

The publican appeared taken aback for a moment before his expression cleared. ‘Ah, you mean my partner Samuel? He is a master of the pastry, I have to say. A sight to behold in the kitchen.’

‘I don’t know about all that but does he have any strawberry tarts about?’ He earned a displeased nudge from Silas.

‘Excuse my companion, Mr…’

‘Churchill.’

‘Of course, Mr Churchill,’ Silas said. ‘We wondered if you might have any rooms available?’

‘Just one, that’s all we need.’ Pitch was in no mood for the prejudices of humankind. He was not going to sneak about simply to pander to their bigotry. He wanted Silas in his bed, and he would have him there. ‘Your boy told us this was a welcoming place for all types. We are all types, I assure you.’

The innkeeper gave him a look, and it was best described as appraising. There were all manner of calculations going on behind his plain brown eyes. Gentle considerations though, not conniving.

Silas inhaled, no doubt about to smooth over daemonic bad manners, and Pitch was readying to use some enchantment on the human man to hurry things along, when the innkeeper nodded. ‘We pride ourselves on an open door here at the Churchill, my dear fellow. Let me show you to your room right away.’

‘You didn’t say about the tarts?’ Pitch raised a brow, aware he was being quite the demanding tosser, but a little too tired of tight boots and appalling clothing to care.

The innkeeper’s laughter made his jowls wobble. Far more pleasant jowls than those Iblis had designed for his Dr Severs. These were made for humour. ‘I’m sure you know that strawberries are no friends of winter, but my Samuel is a master of creation. I have no doubt he can whip up something to suit your tastes. The sweeter the better, then?’

‘Saccharine like you would not believe.’ Silas too seemed to have shed some of his angst. Likely it was the clutter of potted plants in the small foyer that pleased him, enough of them to have Pitch thinking of the Crimson Bow, with its crowded but pleasant interior. His fingers went, unbidden, to where the puncture in his earlobe was a reminder of Tilly. Another blasted creature to worry over. ‘He has the sweetest tooth I’ve ever known. It would be truly wonderful if something could be done by your fellow.’

Mr Churchill led them towards a narrow flight of carpeted stairs. ‘He’s the best with pastry this side of the Scottish border, so far as I’m concerned. You’ll not wish to leave Ambleside again, once you’ve had a taste of his wares, I can promise you that.’

‘I do hope you are not simply talking the talk because he has your balls in the palm of his hand.’

The innkeeper nearly missed a step, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Pardon?’