Page 108 of The Death Wish

Silas kicked at the door, caring little if he cracked panes or broke latches. He was not about to let go long enough to twist a handle. The door gave way easily, as though it had already been opening when he raised his leg.

Two stone steps weren’t easy to negotiate blind. Silas stumbled, and their teeth clacked. He was light-headed from the lengthy press of mouths, but neither moved to surrender. Pitch’s moan hummed against Silas’s lips.

A narrow stone landing gave way to a pathway of moss–shining moss–that seemed oddly familiar, but Silas was too preoccupied to place it. His arms brushed against the curtains of delicate wildflowers and ferns that surrounded him. Orchids, of all the colours imaginable, bobbed as he carried the prince down the path.

It was a short distance to where the path opened wide, and the wildflowers gave way to a spread of moss; a deep natural cradle as round as Silas was high. The perfect place to lay theprince down. Beneath the verdant, vibrant layers, tiny fronds shimmered with gold like morning dew. There must have been larger things buried at the edges of the circle, for the moss jutted higher at regular intervals around the circumference; affording privacy, if such a thing were possible in a place like this.

But Silas could not have cared less if the entire population of Scotland watched on. He wanted Pitch, with a potency that choked him. A desire that carved him hollow.

Silas went to his knees, lowering the prince carefully, when he was suddenly overcome with dizziness.

He gasped, touching one hand to the moss.

‘Sickle?’

‘It is nothing…I’m fine.’ As though to prove him wrong, the world tilted. ‘Oh, my.’ Silas sat back on his heels, but that too had him reeling. His hand went wide, searching for a hold, landing on one of the peaks beneath the moss: a tree stump perhaps, a stone, overridden by the wild growth of the garden.

‘Here, lie down, quickly.’

Pitch guided him softly, gently, but with purpose. Too calmly. The first stirrings of alarm gripped Silas. He ran his tongue over his lips; lips still heated from their kiss. ‘Pitch…’

‘Hush now, you don’t seem well. Lay your head down, Silas.’

‘But I want to –’

‘And you will. I am yours to take however you please. But perhaps just a brief rest first?’

The shrills of alarm rang louder. Silas knew things were amiss, but he could find no strength to protest. And the world was losing its substance. The colours about him seemed to drip. The vision of loveliness that was the daemon would not quite be drawn into focus.

Silas clenched his eyes shut, laying back with a grunt. ‘Just give me a moment.’ Of all the confounded moments to become unwell.

Softness brushed over his legs, covering them with a pleasant heat, at his waist too, a soft slithering, but he couldn’t open his eyes just yet. He just needed another moment.

The faint crackling of moss came as Pitch shifted closer, taking up Silas’s hand and wrapping both of his around it. His warmth was sublime.

‘You will be fine,’ he said. ‘This shall pass. Just rest.’

Those alarm bells were clanging now. Since when was Pitch so ready to forgo intimacy? Silas opened his eyes, and his heart seemed to freeze mid-beat.

Pitch was ethereal, utterly exquisite with the frame of golden light about his head. His hair was all but spun gold now, not far removed from that of the Seraph. And his eyes glistened. Not with any mirth or devilry, not with a hint of flame or vibrancy, but with unshed tears.

Silas’s world seemed to fall from beneath him, leaving him in a terrible abyss of realisation.

‘Pitch…what have you done?’ He fought to keep his eyes open, to keep them fixed upon the daemon, who should have been indignant with denial just then; protesting against the accusation.

Pitch raised Silas’s hand to his mouth and pressed his lips near the ring. He whispered, ‘I renege on my deal made. I return thee to the fae who made claim upon thee.’

Silas rolled his head. He was hearing things, surely? Those words must be part of a fever, its suddenness felling him. He tried to pull away, but he’d lost control of his limbs, and nothing at all happened, despite his best efforts.

He moaned, though he’d intended to call Pitch by name.

The prince bowed his head, the glare of him nearly too much for Silas to gaze upon. ‘I will not give you up, Sickle.’

Silas fought to keep his eyes open, cursing every fae he’d ever known for the magick that was rendering him so utterly useless.Pixie dust perhaps, though this was far crueller, for he was not asleep at once. He just lay there, his body insensible as the moss covered him over.

Silas could do nothing but watch, whilst Pitch made a terrible mistake.

‘No…no.’ Silas’s lips tingled. ‘Pitch…’