Page 136 of The Death Wish

‘Bleed, little prince.’ The voice emerged from the cacophony of forlorn regret. Or, rather, the voicewasthat cacophony. ‘Feed the lake. You are in the good company, amongst those whose only greatness lies in the magnitude of their failures.’

‘Failure…’ Pitch coughed, spraying yet more blood into the water. Crying more tears he did not fully own. ‘No, I’m not a fail–’

The suffering crashed down upon him, an enormous wave, invisible to the eye but all too well-known to the soul.

Pitch was lifted first, cast upon his back, and then thrown down. He struck a reef of destitution, impaled on the lost armies of the Day of Ruination. Fingers of bone pierced him, striking through between the ribs, at his collarbone and his groin, there too, upon his thigh. Another spear of stark white pushed through his belly, emerging drenched in specks of flesh, blood cascading.

A terrible, dislocating ache began.

‘No,’ he gasped, understanding, despite all else, the devastation of that blow.

Another wave crashed upon him, driving him down into the crevices. The bone reef reddened with the terrible flow of his blood.

A coral born of corpses.

The regretful choir struck up again. Blood Lake drank of him. Took its fill of his sorrows and regrets, and grew fat-bellied upon them.

The fire in his belly waned. The buffeting of the simurgh grew weaker. They slipped from him, those wilder parts of himself, draining away in bright red rivulets: Vassago, the Berserker Prince, the Dominion daemon, and the wildness, flowed from his veins and into the lake.

The inferno that Satine had stoked was all but dying embers now.

The waters lapped at him, caressing his emptying body. His tears added to the flow; failure was salty and hot and stinging. He struggled still, worked his ruined body against the bones, but only sunk himself deeper into their pinching clutches. The halo lay within arms’ reach, but his guise of skin and bone was too fragile to reach that far.

Pitch had hesitated to shed his skin, to destroy Tobias Astaroth, and return to the wild prince Seraphiel had chosen him for. Now, at the worst possible time, he learned the cost of being human.

To be ruled by more than mindless rage or lust for battle.

To be crippled by a power that went unseen. That of self-doubt and lost chances, laments and, most destructive of all, grief.

Now, the dead armies of Blood Lake claimed him. And the halo lay hauntingly out of reach.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

THE WISPseemed to forget that not everyone could fly. Scarlet set a cracking pace through the gardens, taking them in through a large paned-glass door that slid open, rather than swung. They were so far down the corridor by the time Silas and Edward reached the opening; they were barely more than a smudge of colour, the size of a dandelion head.

‘Scarlet wait,’ Silas shouted, standing half in-half out of the doorway whilst waiting for Edward to catch up. The lieutenant reached him, puffing, discarding his burgundy vest into the shrubbery.

‘Bloody hell, they are fast.’

‘Are you alright?’ Silas led him inside, into a stunning sitting room with its ever-present gold embellishments. This one was different for its highlights of onyx, and the assembly of colourful paintings on one of the wall panels.

‘Fine, fine. Clearly in need of more decent exercise.’

Silas urged Edward ahead, pleased to see the return of a glint in the man’s grey eyes. His new freedom put pink in his cheeks.

Scarlet tittered at them from way down the hall, where a junction was evident, and circled about in mad whirls that made their impatience clear.

‘We’re coming,’ Edward called.

The palace shuddered. A deep vibration that had both Silas and the lieutenant bracing, ready for a movement that might knock them off their feet. In the rooms along the way, anything that was loosened rattled loudly, china and glasses and heavier sounds. Like the shift of furniture on wood.

Silas and Edward exchanged a glance. Neither of them saying what was vastly obvious; that was the worst of the tremors so far.

‘Go quickly,’ Silas urged.

They broke into another run. Down the hall, a turn left, another long corridor laid out with a rug as white as the peaks of the Highlands they’d glimpsed from the boat. More shaking occurred, vehement enough to make Silas glance at the ceiling, half-expecting to see cracks formed. The pristine plasterwork was unblemished. For now.

Edward halted, a standstill so sudden Silas nearly ran him over.