Page 111 of The Death Wish

This one brimmed with a crowd that seemed poised to begin the next dance.

Jacquetta stepped aside, bowing low, muttering about tending to things. Perhaps wishing him good luck, it did not matter. Pitch was already moving on.

Crossing the threshold into the ballroom. The door clicking shut behind him.

Crowded as it was the grand room was perfectly silent.

All stood as though ready for the orchestra to strike at any moment.

The costuming was an astonishing mis-match of attire. Evening wear from every era of humankind that Pitch could recall: hose and bloomers were plentiful, as were high waistlines on sleeveless, flowing gowns, which contrasted those withenormous puffed sleeves and skirts wide enough to cause a black eye or two. Some men wore stockings; while others wore trousers, others still combined both, with shortened trousers to the knees, and stockings for the lower legs. Doublets and jerkins abounded, and intensely beautiful embroidered coats, with lace spilling at the cuffs. Cleavages were on display, pale white bosoms bursting the banks of square-cut necklines on rigid corsets, while others covered their tits entirely in lace, up to high necklines where frilled collars brushed beneath the chin. Pitch eyed them all with ill-placed jealousy. The assortment, hotchpotch as it may be, was utterly divine.

He glanced down at his own simple clothing, a loose shirt, looser trousers and slippers now stained from the moss.

He deserved no finery.

‘So what is this, then?’ He called into the silence. ‘A dance before destruction?’

No one answered, much less moved.

Men and women were paired for the most part, but the gathering was not restricted to such partnerships: there were women together, and men in couples. Each pair stood ready to begin, arms lifted and hands clasped, frozen in a silent moment.

At the far end of the considerable room, a balcony housed a quartet: two violin players, a cellist and a harpist. Only the tops of their heads and the necks of their instruments were visible to Pitch, but they were as still and silent as the rest of the crowd. There was no conversation to be had, not a hint of life at all.

A panel along the far wall opened, and the colours of dusk and dawn emerged. The simurgh bobbed through the crowd, its elegant neck craned, peering over the heads of the parting dancers. Pitch frowned, trying to fathom how it moved so without its wings extended in flight.

‘Dominion, it is done,’ Seraphiel spoke from amongst the throng.

The crowd parted, and the angel walked the length of the dancefloor.

The simurgh rode upon his shoulder, its colours contrasting the singular hue that the angel wore. Seraphiel was ludicrously resplendent in gold, head to toe; even his knee-high boots shone as though cut from the precious metal. His waistcoat relied on the purity of the fabric for splendour, rather than embellishment, with only the snow white lace at the cuffs breaking the dominance of gold satin. His hair was loose, like a veil of sunlight moving with him.

The simurgh’s eyes of topaz were all of the creature that even came close to matching the angel for golden glow. And one of those eyes did not leave Pitch as they drew nearer. The bird’s head tilted to watch him, its turquoise crown of feathers raised. One claw was still curled and useless, talons charred black.

‘It is not fully recovered?’ Pitch said.

‘What could be done has been done. Lucifer could give no more.’

‘Lucifer?’ Pitch studied the creature, frowning. Noting that the colourlessness at the neck was filled in now, returned to the spectrum of violet. ‘What has he to do with this?’

‘Everything.’ Seraphiel raised his arm outstretched, and the simurgh stretched its wings just enough to jump its way along his arm, and settle near the flow of lace at his wrist. The blemish of grey at its wings was gone now too. ‘But I can take no more of his blood without killing him now. And though he told me to do what I must, I could not do it.’

He sounded so very surprised at himself.

‘What could his blood do for the Cultivation?’

‘Fix it, as you can see.’ Seraphiel cocked his head, as the simurgh had done. ‘He is poisoned with many a vile thing, not least of which was divine magick. Now, brace yourself. I will make the return brief.’

‘Return?’

The simurgh alighted from its master’s shoulder and swept down at him, coming in like the mist rolling in from a restless sea.

Instinct pushed Pitch back a step, his pulse quickening. Wings spread wide; casting the bruised purples of evening across the room.

A gleaming beak widened, a forked tongue darting forth, its length obscene. And mesmerising. He watched the odd dance of the tongue, felt his body loosening. His eyelids growing heavy.

‘Wait.’

Pitch was allowed that single word before he was struck.