Page 14 of The Death Wish

THE GIFT-GIVINGwas almost complete when there was a knock at the door. Silas grabbed a pillow, shoving it over his face to stifle the cry of pleasure that could not be stopped; his cock driven deep into Pitch’s mouth, every drop being taken with great enthusiasm.

The prince slowly drew his lips down Silas’s length, a wet popping sound coming as he pulled off. He sat up, wiping at scandalously wet lips.

‘Who is there?’ he called, his fingers teasing at sensitive folds of skin.

‘Stop it.’ Silas gasped, swiping at Pitch with a boneless arm, his body still twitching.

‘Sorry to disturb you, gentlemen,’ an unfamiliar voice called out. ‘My chap, Robert, said you were hoping for some sweet treats?’

Pitch’s brows shot up. ‘A perfect compliment to my meal,’ he whispered.

They shared a brief kiss, which did err on the salty side, and then Pitch was up, adjusting his shirt where it had slipped over his shoulder. He padded over to the door as Silas tried to rise; feeling every inch of his oversized body in the struggle to sit upright. The room reeled and tilted. And there again, in fullerforce, was that nagging itch. The one that bade him visit the graveyard, wherever it might be in this village.

He pressed his lips, determined not to worry Pitch again. He’d seen the daemon’s reaction when Silas admitted his fatigue was extreme, and he regretted being so honest. Pitch deserved at least a few hours with nothing to bother about. Besides, it was not an alarming sensation, per se. The niggling did not foretell of danger. At least, not one that endangered the prince, or any of those in their party. Whatever this was, it was Silas’s concern alone.

Pitch opened the door, and ushered in a handsome, older gentleman and a younger person with short golden hair, carrying a large wicker basket. A woman perhaps, given the slenderness of limbs and neck; but as they were dressed in blue overalls with rolled-up shirt sleeves and a kerchief tied around their neck–all the trappings normally reserved for a lad–Silas would make no presumptions. Something of their demeanour, purposeful and unaffected, reminded him of Charlie. Good god, he missed the lad.

‘We come bringing hot water, and warm pie.’ The gentleman was well turned out: greying hair swept back over his ears without a strand out of place, and his useful tweed jacket showing a hint of crisp white at the cuffs, while a pointed collar was held in place with clover leaf lapel pins. He held two generous-sized buckets: one in each hand, steam lifting from the water within. ‘Billy be careful with that pie, so the crust doesn’t break. And make sure you don’t spill any of the cream.’

‘I may ‘ave done this a time or two before.’ Billy, the holder of the wicker basket, countered in good nature. ‘Don’t you be worrying about these strangers disliking your food, Samuel. Never met a person who didn’t think everything you make was divine.’

‘Robert tends to extol my virtues too highly, I fear, though,’ Samuel, the well-presented man, said. ‘One day I shall meet my match, and fail to live up to the enormous reputation he builds for me.’

‘He’s proud of you,’ Billy countered, neither of the newcomers batting an eye at the dishevelled men occupying the room, as though strange guests were commonplace.

‘I wish he’d be quieter about it.’ Samuel’s laughter was quite lovely, but tinged with stress. ‘Now, I’m so sorry to bother you both…’

‘And evidently we are being a bother.’ Billy set down his basket on the sole, small table in the room, and went to open a window. ‘That’s better.’

Pitch made a beeline for the unattended basket. ‘What sort of pie is it?’ But before he could pull back the gingham cloth covering it, Billy returned and slapped at his hand.

‘Now, I thank you to wait just a moment, Mr…?’

‘Mr Last Voice You’ll Ever Hear, if you do that again.’ Pitch returned.

Samuel chuckled where he stood pouring the water into the basins on the sideboard.

‘Tobias is fine,’ Silas said. ‘And I’m Silas.’

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, glancing down to ensure he was decent. The world swum again, and he cursed quietly. He debated on how strange it would look for him not to get up at all, and decided that Pitch would spot it immediately and far too many questions would follow. He reached for the foot board, grateful for its exaggerated height, but Billy, who was not so food-focused as Pitch, had noticed something amiss. Silas gave them a look, and a small shake of the head, hoping they’d not ask if he was alright.

Billy frowned, but Silas was saved from any awkward conversation by an exclamation from Pitch.

‘Fuck me dead.’

The daemon held up a finger covered in a sticky golden and pink chunk of pie. He groaned, not altogether unlike earlier, when Silas had his cock in hand.

‘This is sinful, truly.’ He stuck his finger deep into his mouth, earning a peculiar look from Billy, and a beaming one from Samuel.

‘They are last season’s peaches, and a fine crop it was.’ He set down the empty buckets. ‘But here, let me cut you a proper piece. There’s clotted cream to go with it, if you’d like.’

‘My gods man, if you seek to seduce me, consider me yours.’ Pitch made another sound best kept to the bedroom. ‘And I usually despise peaches. You are a god among men.’

Billy glanced at Silas. ‘He enjoys a pie then?’

‘Rather so.’ Silas still held onto the end of the bed, unwilling to chance a step away.

‘Silas, you must taste this.’ Pitch spun about, holding a fresh cut of pie in a cloth in his hand. He had a dab of cream on his top lip, and his eyes were luminous. Unnaturally so.