Page 11 of The Death Wish

‘What?’ Pitch shrugged. ‘He’s your lover, is he not?’

Silas hissed something low and urgent but Pitch waved him off. Mr Churchill’s look of alarm slid away, replaced with wide-grinned amusement. ‘You’re a forward one, aren’t you?’

‘Also, like you would not believe.’ Silas sighed, gesturing for Pitch to head up first. But the innkeeper had not yet moved on.

‘You’re not entirely correct.’ The innkeeper pulled back his shoulders, his eyes bright. ‘He’s not just my lover, he is the love of my life.’ He glanced between Silas and Pitch. ‘Perhaps you already know that feeling, perhaps you’ll come to know it, all I can say is there’s nothing like it.’ He nodded at some inner thought. ‘There we are then, that’s said, and to hell with worrying about it.’

Pitch glanced at Silas. The ankou watched the fellow with a wistful smile. ‘Good for you, Mr Churchill. I think it perhaps the only feeling truly worth its salt. I’m glad you’ve known it.’

‘And you?’ The man said, gently, keeping his gaze very fixed on the ankou.

Pitch cleared his throat. He could not stand another moment of this discussion.

‘Mr Mercer has had many lives, and no doubt many loves,’ he said. ‘And tells them all, I’m sure, that he’s terribly in love. He falls very easily and unwisely.’ He regretted the snide words the moment they spilled from his tongue. Silas was holding onto thebanister like it were a ship’s rail in a storm-tossed sea, the weight of his exhaustion tangible. ‘Mr Churchill, would you please show us to our room, I think my man here is in need of a decent lie down.’

‘Of course, of course.’

Ignoring Silas’s mutterings about needless fussing, Pitch insisted the ankou go first. He did not trust that Silas wouldn’t collapse there and then. He’d have offered his shoulder, but Silas’s breadth took up most of the width of the stairs. Once they reached the corridor though, Pitch lifted Silas’s arm and draped it over his shoulder.

‘Here we are, make yourselves at home.’ Mr Churchill opened the door to the very last room along the corridor. ‘I’ll have some hot water sent so you can wash, and then I’ll get to the kitchen and have a word with Samuel.’

Pitch’s pulse jumped. Gods he was hungry. ‘If there are no strawberries, perhaps cherry?’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Pear if there really is no other option.’

Pitch knew he was being unreasonable with his requests considering the time of year, but if one did not ask, one certainly did not receive.

‘Will do my very best. I hope you are very comfortable, gentlemen. Is there any luggage you need brought up?’

‘No,’ Silas replied. ‘We are travelling light.’

Churchill nodded, and left them alone, closing the door softly.

A generous lead-paned window drew Pitch’s attention from the busy botanical wallpaper. Their second-floor level afforded a view over the tops of slate-roofed cottages and out towards the rolling green hills beyond. Despite it being early afternoon, the winter sun was waning, the light dulled with hint of evening’s approach, but it made for a gorgeous landscape in the failing light.

‘Quite attractive, this place,’ Pitch said.

Silas groaned, and Pitch abandoned the view at once.

‘What is it?’

But there was no need for the ankou to explain.

‘Oh fuck,’ Pitch breathed.

The mahogany bed, with its half-tester canopy and lace drapes, was set into a recess in the far wall. The flame mahogany footboard was so high Pitch could have hidden behind it; and the creme, buttoned headboard was barely visible behind an astonishing array of pillows.

Silas stepped up to one side of the bed; where a bedspread with dominating yellow florals lay without a crease out of place. He spread his arms wide, and declared, ‘Thank bloody Christ.’

Silas toppled forward, a mighty oak falling, and landed face down. He groaned into the thick eiderdown, and patted at the empty space beside him.

‘Come and join me, it is heaven.’

‘Then don’t dirty it with those blasted boots. Here…’ Pitch lifted Silas’s right foot and set about undoing the laces, tugging forcefully until he almost went arse-over-tit when the boot slipped loose. ‘Curse these infernal ugly things.’

Silas merely laughed into his soft haven, his sound muffled. ‘Oh bloody hell, I’m never moving again.’

‘That had best be a lie.’ Pitch grunted, bracing as the other boot came free. He tossed it towards its pair, over by an elegant, mirrored armoire dresser. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at his reflection.

‘You might want to close your eyes while you fuck me, Silas. I’m as pretty as the arse end of a manticore at the moment.’ He tried in vain to rearrange his hair into some semblance of order. ‘Something reeks, too, and I’m not sure if it’s me, or your feet.’