Page 118 of The Death Wish

‘I was weak well before you used my blood, Seraphiel. But I did it willingly, to enable you to repair your work. I asked for nothing in return, but I do so now. Give him your word, Raph.’

Their voices floated from the brilliant haze, only slightly louder than the fading music, which was all but a faint few notes dissolving in the air. Pitch could barely open his eyes wide enough to look on the young man who still held him in a dancer’s pose.

‘It is too late,’ Seraphiel said. ‘He shall not hear us now. He is deep into the Seal.’

‘I can hear you!’ Pitch bellowed. ‘I can fucking hear you.’

‘Gods, would it kill you to offer solace?’ Lucifer said, anger lifting his voice. ‘To give reassurance at the end? You failed to do so for me. You will do so for him.’

‘Luci, you must leave this room. Do not take another step.’

Pitch coughed, choking against the stifling waft of brine and salt, and the loathsome sense of failure that consumed him. Could he not do a decent fucking thing in his miserable life? Now he’d only succeeded in laying Silas in his grave before time.

His partner drew him in, wrapping their arms to prepare for yet another spin. Pitch did not protest, nor struggle.

A single, far-off note penetrated the illumination. A violin, reaching high, its note hanging up in the radiance.

The young man spun Pitch out, holding his hand firm, until both their arms were outstretched. He let go.

The ground gave way beneath Pitch, and his skirts billowed with air as he descended in a tranquil fall.

‘I give you my word, in honour of your sacrifice.’ The voice resonated all around him, as though he fell into a deep well and its curved surface held the sound. ‘So far as it is in my power, Vassago, no harm will come to those who carried you through your journey. I will do as you’ve done and keep Silas safe.’

Not Seraphiel, but Lucifer.

Pitch closed his eyes. Letting the king’s vow flow over him. The sire he had never truly known, giving Pitch what he most desired.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered, knowing himself too far gone for the words to reach any ears but his own.

Pitch pressed his hand to his belly, letting flames play there. The simurgh lifted from its domain, sending a surge of something vaguely uncomfortable, but immensely powerful, through his bones.

The fall was brief and gentle. He drifted down like an enormous grey leaf upon the wind. An icy breeze that plummeted as he moved further down.

His slippers touched on solid ground, his skirts whispering as they swept over the new surface. The brilliance of the angel and his ballroom was gone. The light here was a contrasting shade of grey to his dress.

A chilling breeze toyed with his hair, brushing icicle fingers against the back of his neck. Pitch surveyed his quiet place.

A vast, flat field of ice.

He was utterly alone.

The ice field stretched for miles, barren and flat. Emptiness, going on forever, in every direction.

‘Is this it?’ he said loudly, for the silence was awful. Despite the simurgh’s restless distraction, the dank beast of fear found a footing in Pitch’s gut.

The tundra beneath his feet groaned, and from its depths there came a riotous crack. Pitch glanced down, gathering in the insensible lengths of his gown–the fineness so wildly out of place–to peer beneath his feet.

Something vast and restless slithered there beneath the ice.

‘Satine?’

But this was no form he’d ever seen the lady take.

Cracks sprawled out from beneath his feet. ‘Shit…shit.’ The spiderweb of faults spread rapidly, etching themselves upon every inch of the surface. There again, the groaning and splintering of thicker ice. Far less pleasing a sound than when it came from the whisky glass.

Beneath him, a vast shadow beneath the ice moved. Shockingly fast. Growing frighteningly large before he could even think of moving an inch.

The ice shattered. Black peaks rose either side of him, the stench of fish and sea overwhelming.