Page 112 of The Death Wish

His world went black. There was nothingness, and then the hardness of the floor at his back. The subtle stirring of the simurgh within his belly.

The Cultivation was returned, and he’d not felt so much as a pinch.

He blinked, staring up at an enormous chandelier, one with a forest of candles gleaming over its complicated array of crystal teardrop prisms.

‘Get up, Vassago.’ Seraphiel moved nearer, an upside down vision as he stood at Pitch’s head. ‘We do not have time for you to lie about.’

‘I feel fine. Thank you for your concern.’

‘Get up.’

He took Seraphiel’s proffered hand, noting the golden colour of the angel’s nails: painted or perhaps even gold itself. There was no give in the Seraph’s flesh. He was hard, his skin tepid.

‘Follow my lead,’ he said. As though Pitch had any other choice. ‘I will unlock the Seal, and you shall move to Blood Lake.’

He spoke with a child’s enthusiasm, as though they were about to step into a parlour full of sweets and lollies. Pitch had never desired sweet things less.

Seraphiel led Pitch through the throng of waiting dancers. None turned their heads, nor flickered a glance. It was as though they were truly frozen. The angel did not lead him far, and stopped where the parquetry circled an intensely beautiful crest formed by differing shades of wood. Seraphiel’s own crest; carved above his door in White Mountain, and in his throne which now sat vacant alongside Lord Enoch’s in Gimli Hall. The design replicated the eternal wheels of guardianship that circled the Creation Flame. A thousand eyes watched from those wheels, and all were of the same size, same hue: red as cherries. But on Seraphiel’s crest one eye was made much larger, and clear as a diamond; declaring him more watchful, more focused than all those who claimed to protect Arcadia.

Pitch moved with dull co-operation as the angel positioned him, edging him this way and that, urging his feet apart, raising his arm, like a too-studious dance partner seeking to ensure perfection. Pitch was distant to all the man-handling, with the simurgh a pressure on his bowels; making it feel as though he’d left it too late to relieve himself.

They stood beneath another chandelier, far simpler than all the rest, with only one tier. An assembly of white glass flowers, shaped with the wide petals of Easter lilies, on long curving stems of chalk white. The flames at the flowers’ centres were the only hint of colour; rebelling against the golden standard with a blue flame.

‘Pay the bones no mind. Concentrate, Vassago.’

Pitch stared at Seraphiel. ‘Bones?’

‘Of the Watcher King, of course.’ Seraphiel urged Pitch’s elbow higher, frowning when he did not follow the instruction at once.

‘Stop that. Those are Samyaza’s bones?’

‘Not all of them, great gods. You know the legend well enough. His body was cut up, and each Seraph has their piece.Mine anchors my Seal. I think Ariel has his embedded in his throne in Gimli Hall, so he might be seated on the traitor’s face. Now, just tilt your chin higher.’

‘Touch me again, and I’ll bite off your finger.’

But if Pitch had hoped to truly threaten the angel, he failed. Seraphiel’s face was split by a rare and unwelcome smile. ‘You have fire in you yet. Good. Now, fix your hair.’

The angel tucked a finger beneath the strands near Pitch’s ear.

‘Piss off, Seraphiel.’ He jerked his head away. ‘I swear to you, you will lose that finger.’

But that only amused the moonstruck angel ever more. ‘Then I shall match Luci. Do you think he would like that? It seems the least I could do. I’ve rather made things difficult for him, don’t you think?’

How did one answer such lunacy? Pitch grunted, the only reply he’d offer. His chest was tight. His fledgling hope that this journey into the lake might be a success was fading.

Pitch turned away from the glaring divinity that held him like a master with their string puppet.

Instead, he looked to the beauty of the woman’s gown on his right. Magnificent folds of lemon silk, with creme ribbons dangling from her wrists and wound through her brunette hair. Her corset was cinched tight, an hourglass with the narrowest of waists. His thoughts insisted on returning to when he’d last been clad in rustling layers and tightened stays. The Crimson Bow remained a tiny island of paradise within his memories, his own sanctuary in which to hide from the horrors of his world.

‘You might have at least given me decent clothes to wear to my doom,’ Pitch said.

‘What nonsense.’ Seraphiel stopped nudging at Pitch’s slipper, fussing still with position. ‘It hardly matters what you wear. You were always too preoccupied with such trivial things.’

‘How would you know? It seems you had me rendered mindless whenever I was here.’

The angel scowled. ‘Set your feet wider. This is a dance, not a presenting of arms.’

‘I might feel more like dancing if I were dressed for such things.’ Pitch decided on churlish for his mood. ‘I am all but covered in rags.’