Page 115 of The Death Wish

Pitch ground his teeth, but was not surprised by the vagueness of the answer. He was just grateful Seraphiel knew what lake he spoke of at all.

‘But are there no hints of what to expect?’

Seraphiel released his hold on Pitch’s waist and spun him out to arm’s length. Taffeta formed a cloud of soft grey about Pitch’s legs, before Seraphiel drew him back in, right up close, so they stood body to body. The angel was tall, not so tall as the ankou, but that did not stop a painful comparison.

‘I expect that your way will be clear,’ Seraphiel said. ‘And what is needed to be obvious. Listen to the instinct that guides you, follow the Cultivation’s desire, for it shall crave nothing else but to serve my will.’

Pitch opened his mouth, a torrent of questions ready, and Seraphiel threw him into another spin. This time, the angel let him go.

Pitch floundered only briefly, before his hand was taken by another. A fellow in a dapper black tailcoat and velvet collar, with shoes that tapped out every step he took. The fellow was adept. Moving Pitch in three clockwise turns this way, then four in the other. A dip had Pitch bent backwards before he was raised with a firm hand between his shoulder blades. The man did not look at Pitch as he held him, staring over his shoulder all the while. Never blinking, not speaking a word.

Every dancer was the same. This was a crowd of automatons, everyone an able mover but rigid in their approach, like soldiers tasked with simply getting the job done. The air grew heavy with strenuous movement, and the pungent scent of the ocean was dampened somewhat.

Pitch was handed over to another, a woman in garb not unlike Jacquetta’s, though this tunic was scarlet in collar. Pitch glanced about the room. On the fanciful chance he might see the absent wisp returned. Waving its chubby hands to farewell him.

Pitch sighed. Was he any less mad than the angel?

After a few more turns, and three more partners, Pitch saw a pattern emerge. His exchange moved in something of an hourglass shape, taking in a corner, moving into the middle, then back out to the adjacent corner and across the top of the floor, or bottom, depending on the stage of the dance.

The longest pause was beneath the floral chandelier of bone, where the irritating dips occurred, and Pitch was bent back, grateful for the corset which braced him.

With each replay of the pattern, the music quickened.

Pitch searched for Seraphiel amongst the dull-eyed crowd. He was not far, one pair over, performing all the steps required but with his eyes never leaving Pitch.

‘How long shall this go on?’ Pitch called, already a little breathless.

‘Until it is done.’

Gods, he despised the evasive nature of the Higher Angels. All their holier-than-thou espouses were so fucking patronising.

‘Am I to enter the lake with bleeding feet and exhaustion?’ He gasped as the woman who led him pushed him into another back-bending movement. ‘Fuck…must you be so rough?’ She said nothing, her eyes fixed beyond him, their whites a little bloodshot. Her ringlets barely shifted, despite the increasingly frantic pace.

‘Do not disturb the dance,’ Seraphiel shouted. ‘Don’t resist, daemon.’

Pitch growled a curse as the woman tilted him back upright, her fuchsia gown tangling with the folds of his own, creating the look of sunrise fighting an oncoming storm. She drew him in close. So close, he smelled the stench of her breath. Pitch turned his head, gagging.

What a stench it was. Of rot, and last week’s roast.

Gods, she might be human, after all. The woman cast him off to the next dancer. He was flung up against a burly man whose light brown beard brushed Pitch’s cheek as the momentum brought them together. A swathe of unwanted thoughts emerged, of another man’s beard, how it felt against his skin when they kissed.

Pitch clenched his eyes shut. But that only made it worse. He saw Silas as he’d left him; buried beneath the beauty of the fae circle.

‘Faster,’ he hissed, stepping back, adjusting his position. ‘Get on with this.’

Of course, there was no word from the chap who led him about. His eyes were as bloodshot as the woman before. The dance dictated a raise of the man’s arm, to spin Pitch aroundbeneath. The fabric at his armpit was darkened by sweat, and the odour smacked Pitch in the face as he completed the turn. It made for a sickening companion to the already briny lacing of the air.

‘These people are alive?’ he called out. ‘Or do you excel in your illusions?’

He swore he saw a flicker of the dancer’s eyelids.

‘No illusion.’ Seraphiel stepped back from his partner, leaning into a brief bow, before the pairings changed yet again.

‘You have trapped them here?’ Pitch looked to the bearded man with fresh, horrified eyes.

‘When you seek to bind a Seal to the purebred world and strengthen it, then purebreds must be used in the Cultivation. I thought that much would be obvious, even to you.’

Arsehole. ‘And do they consent to being used this way?’ Pitch was certain the bearded man’s fingers tightened at his waist.