Page 127 of The Death Wish

The tremor shook one shutter free of its clasp, swinging it open; flooding the room with light. Lucifer waited, barely feeling the rumble at his feet, for he was unshakeable now. ‘Vassago needs time, and you and I have used all but the last minute the gods have granted us. I am sure, Raph.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

SILAS LAYon his back, in sunshine that beat down with a perfectly lovely heat. The air was dank with the waft of honeysuckle and roses, utterly charming and rich enough to make him a little light-headed. His hands rested beneath his head, his chin tilted to take in the warmth, his eyes closed against the glare. There was grass beneath him, he smelled its pungent, spring-fed scent, felt its soft padding beneath his back. His bare back.

That caused the flicker of a frown. Why did he not wear a shirt? But almost at once he had the answer, and his smile could not be wider. He chuckled to himself and touched at his lips. There was still the hint of the daemon upon them, that bitter-sweetness that was such a part of Pitch: kisses like lemon pie, when the chef had been too heavy-handed with the lemon and cinnamon.

Pie. Is that where Pitch had gone? To get them something to indulge in, now they had finished indulging in one another.

Silas smiled, blinking into the brightness of the day, stretching his arm to play at the grass there. Pitch was definitely not with him. A tiny whisper of discontent came with that, but then the waft of honeysuckle and roses rushed in, and Silas decided it was not discontentment after all, but hunger.

Pie. Tarts. That was where the daemon was, rustling up a picnic, to fuel them so they could indulge in intimacy with returned vigour.

Silas exhaled, imagining what he would next do to Pitch, how he would make him whimper in that blissful way of his, watch as he threw back his head and moaned, spreading his legs wider for Silas.

With such thoughts, Silas’s concerns slipped away.

He was content.

Insects moved about him, the buzz of a bee there, the click of a cricket to his right. At his arm, an ant tickled his skin as it made its way over the mountainous range of his limb.

Silas breathed in, letting his eyes flutter open, and exhaled once more. He rolled his head, taking in his surrounds. Grass, as he’d suspected, verdant, short-cropped. A greensward.

The thought snagged, and the pitter-patter of the ant grew more ticklish. More irritating. Silas shifted his arms from beneath his head, shaking the tiny critter free. The wash of honeysuckle came in stronger, almost to the point of sickening. Almost. The roses tempered the strength of the scent perfectly, and Silas abandoned the thought of sitting up.

It was perfectly lovely here. An exquisite greensward.

A pain bothered at the back of his eyes, and he rubbed at them.

Another sweep of floral magnificence came, and the pain slipped away.

He glimpsed a stone. A block of granite peaking through the grass. Another stood not far away, and something in their rough cut and tilted stance caused his thoughts to snag yet again. A butterfly appeared, a pretty thing of speckled blue and black, which decided his nose was a proper landing place. Silas waved it off, and it danced in the air above him. The movements were mesmerising, the fluttering hard to look away from as itrepeated the same pattern over and over and over. Perhaps he’d doze a while longer, whilst he waited.

His eyelids grew leaden, eager to close.

Silas rolled his head in the opposite direction, all but ready to give in to the urge to sleep, when his gaze fell upon more stones. Just like the others, they were half consumed by the grass.

He was surrounded. In a circle of stones.

And all at once, he was afraid. The butterfly sought his nose once more.

‘No.’ Silas sat up, swiping more vigorously at the insect. His hand swept through its flimsy mass and the butterfly burst, small blue petals fluttering. ‘Where am I?’

His contentment was slipping, like a blanket falling free when one woke from a nightmare.

Silas squeezed his eyes shut, his thoughts snagging once more. They dangled, half-shaped, refusing to form. He touched his hand to his bare chest, suddenly awash with confusion. He could not recall undressing, and was certain he’d remember if Pitch had undone his buttons. Where was his coat? And his boots?

Damn it, this was not right. A thought tingled, like the blasted ant returned, then wriggled down more like a worm, deep into his mind to hide.

‘Pitch, where are you?’ His voice had no reverberation, no hint of echo. ‘Are you there?’

‘Hush now, Lord Death, is this not a wonderful enough haven for you?’

Silas jumped at the figure, a man, lying right beside him on the grass. Silas’s first thought;it is not Pitch.

‘Byleist?’ Silas’s thoughts were pickled with confusion. ‘This is an illusion. You cannot be.’

‘And yet I am.’