Page 128 of The Death Wish

The ants crawled through Silas’s mind and their tickle drew his thoughts away from where he sought to lead them. ‘But you died…when you aided us in escaping the cockaigne. I saw you entombed in the glass.’

Some forgotten gleam of information dangled itself just out of reach. Something he should recall.

Perhaps this was the crazed landscape of a dream, Silas reasoned with himself. And he’d wake, yelping like a fool, Pitch dozing at his side, ready to make a right mockery of him for it.

‘Did you hear my death notes, my lovely fellow?’ The Dullahan, or rather the fae he’d once been, lay with his elbow crooked, resting his head upon one raised hand, working a fine sliver of grass between his lips. His bone hand. A skeletal remnant of Silas and his scythe, freeing a headless horseman from servitude. Byleist grinned. ‘If you say I am dead, then it must be so, Lord Death.’

‘I…well, I suppose I didn’t…’ Silas pressed at his forehead, wishing the damned ants would stop buggering about. ‘No…I heard no death note…but you were entombed in the glass.’

‘Entombed, yes. Dead, not quite so.’ The fae grinned, his teeth too sharp to be called pleasant. Even in York, as Byleist showed more evidence of his true self, there could be no doubt he’d been a striking elf in life. He was glorious here, the array of gold earrings on his pointed ears catching the sunlight on crystal prisms, the purple hues of his long hair distinct and bright, and his eyes like black cherries in syrup, glistening and inviting. And distractedly alluring. ‘Though I did wonder, when that angel was so rough about it, whether I’d end up dead at his hands.’

‘Michael.’ Silas said, for no particular reason, with no particular emotion behind it. Just a name. Just an angel. No bother.

The butterfly settled upon Byleist’s shoulder, upon a shirt of the finest, thinnest silken silver, his nipples like tight rose budsbeneath. Silas stared at the blue wings on the insect, their slow sweep back and forth was soothing.

‘That is the one, yes. He searched for you, but I gave him nothing.’

‘Thank you,’ Silas sighed, contentment warming him once more. ‘You are brave. And I am much relieved to know for certain you are well. It pained me to leave you that way, especially without a chance to tell you of my deep gratitude for all you did for us.’

Byleist’s sultry grin vanished, replaced with something much more sombre. ‘You could tell me now, my lord. It shall help us pass the time.’

Silas smiled and settled onto his back. ‘Very well, then. I thank you, Byleist. For your Duty-bind, and your persistence in honouring it. Without you, my friend…’ he shook his head. ‘I don’t like to imagine how bad things might have gone.’

‘My friend,’ Byleist whispered. ‘Do you truly see me as such, my lord?’

‘I do. But I’d see it more clearly if you’d stop addressing me that way.’

He wondered how long it would take for Pitch to return. Silas wished to see how delighted he’d be to find Byleist well. The daemon and fae were firm friends. Were they not?

The ants were getting bothersome again.

‘You are not fond of a title, are you?’ Byleist’s smile returned, along with his pointed teeth and his stare. ‘I think titles are quite fetching. I certainly shall command no one to cease addressing me as Regent.’

Silas scratched in behind his ear, searching for what tickled at his thoughts there. ‘Regent?’ The grass was warm as a rug lying before the fire. He ran his hand out over it, eager for it to be covered once more by Pitch’s body. ‘That is quite a grand title, indeed.’

‘Isn’t it just?’ Byleist mirrored Silas’s move onto his back, tucking his bone hand behind his head. ‘But fortune favours those who survive long enough. The Erlking is no longer, and, it turns out, was a dreadful king, with barely a subject who could stand him. Myself included, of course. The UnSeelie Throne sits empty, and I have been chosen to keep it warm for now. I suppose they assume I despised Lokke most of all, with being his Dullahan so long as I was, so I am least likely to follow in his tradition of making appalling alliances with angels and sorcerers.’

‘Angels and sorcerers?’ The butterfly’s wings were not so brilliant blue as Silas recalled. ‘I don’t think I like either of those…’ But he really wasn’t sure. All that was certain was that ants were making a maze of his mind.

He brushed at his hair, trying to shake them free.

‘There, there. Don’t fuss with those superb curls.’ Byleist took him by the wrist, urging his hand down. ‘All is well now. You are very safe now. That is what we both wanted. At least he and I have that in common.’

Silas lowered his hand, letting the fae entwine their fingers. ‘The Erlking wished to see me safe?’ He may be addled, but that made no sense whatsoever.

‘No, no, my charming ankou.’ Byleist settled their hands upon Silas’s bare chest. ‘The daemon. He reneged on his promise, and as Regent I was in the fortunate position of being able to accept your bequeathing to the fae, and claim you as my own. You are perfectly safe now. He knew there was really only one place for you.’ Byleist sighed and laid his head against Silas’s shoulder. ‘And that is with me.’

Silas frowned up at the pretty sky, with its perfect clouds and sublime temperature. He’d not noticed any clouds before. ‘The daemon? You speak of Pitch?’ Why did that simple questionseem weighed down and difficult to put into words? ‘He reneged on a promise?’

Thoughts were forming amongst the ants, and Silas resisted the urge to brush them aside, get rid of their prickly pieces.

‘Yes, yes. He promised himself to the bluecaps queen, in exchange for your freedom. Even though that queen is dead, the promise is not. Clever boy, that daemon, to discover the clause of reneging. It is long buried in the annals of the Courts’ histories. Of course, as soon as I knew you were being returned, I claimed you for the UnSeelie Court. So here we are, just two chaps enjoying the illusion of a fine summer’s day. Though I’m pleased, that the daemon cannot see I’ve made you shirtless. He’s a far more affable fellow than I’d imagined, but he gets rather heated over you.’ Byleist squeezed Silas’s hand. ‘But perhaps I worry too much, and he’ll just be pleased to know you are admired and desired.’

Suddenly the warmth was cloying, the grass like hedgehog quills against Silas’s back. And the ants, the blasted, bloody ants, were still insistent. Silas shook off Byleist’s hold and sat up.

The fae made a noise of irritated surprise.

‘He is not here.’ A pickaxe of certainty drove itself into Silas’s thoughts. ‘He is not here. What have you done to him?’