Page 17 of The Death Wish
‘A fool who cannot satisfy you. Go ahead, laugh at my predicament, I don’t blame you. Nor shall I be surprised if you seek release elsewhere.’ This time his yawn stretched his jaw so wide his eyes closed.
‘Will you stop talking nonsense. I’m not going anywhere.’ Silas scooped him up, cradling him against his chest, enjoying the heat of his body as much as its loveliness.
‘You shall be most disappointed in claiming this prize, you savage, but use me if you must.’ Pitch sighed dramatically. ‘Don’t say I did not warn you when I fall asleep as you plunder me.’
The daemon was being ridiculous, and their shared, exhausted delirium made him seem fantastically funny. Silas’s ribs ached, tears squeezing from his eyes.
‘Stop laughing, I am ashamed enough as it is. You are a nasty man, Mr Mercer. Mocking me so.’ Pitch pulled at Silas’s chest hair.
‘Bloody hell.’ He spluttered through laughter he could not make subside. Silas had not touched a drop but felt punch drunk with tiredness, and contentment.
He managed to stay steady enough to use his foot to nudge back the covers, and laid Pitch out on the bed, before climbing in to join him beneath fantastically heavy covers and a sea of pillows.
‘I’m sorry,’ Pitch mumbled. ‘I’ll just close my eyes a moment and then I’ll satisfy you, I promise.’
‘Hush, you know very well all I need is to have you close.’ Silas patted at Pitch’s hip, urging him to roll onto his side, and snuggled in against him. ‘My beautiful little eunuch.’
Pitch’s giggle was adorable. He wriggled in closer, and Silas settled in behind him, moulding himself to the prince’s shape, draping an arm over him once they were nestled like peas in a warm, soft pod. Pitch clutched at his arm.
‘Just a little snooze,’ he slurred.
‘There is no rush. Sleep well, my love.’
Pitch’s reply came in the form of a soft snore. Silas closed his eyes, and joined him soon after in longed-for slumber.
CHAPTER FIVE
SILAS STIRRED, eyes fluttering open to find that darkness had claimed the room. They both still lay in the exact same positions, and judging by the numbness of Silas’s arm, and the tingle in his hip, neither had moved at all. The bed was sublimely warm with Pitch’s natural heat. A welcome return of the strength of his flame.
Silas knew what it was that had woken him. That infernal niggle. The one that had him sitting up now, very carefully extricating himself from the warm, perfectly, perfect way he lay with Pitch.
The daemon mumbled, interrupting the gentle lilt of snoring he was prone to when he slept deeply.
‘It’s all right, back to sleep now.’ Silas stopped short of saying he was heading off to relieve himself. Memory of the last time such words left him were still acrid and unpleasant. ‘I’m right here.’
He’d not say again he was leaving. But this incessant scratching at the back of his head–the certainty of knowing he needed to see the graveyard– was too powerful to overcome. Even when it meant doing the very last thing he wished.
He considered having Pitch come with him, but he’d seen the exhaustion writ large upon his beautiful, still-bruised, face. The daemon deserved to rest.
And so did Silas, but he’d not find true quietude here. Sleep, lovely as it was, would not revive him fully.
He waited till Pitch resettled, and was relieved when he did so with very little protest. Silas slid from the bed, and sucked in his breath at the contrast in temperature. Though it was entirely unnecessary, he tucked the blankets in around Pitch until only a few glimpses of his gold-flecked hair were visible. The gold-blonde was all but dominating his head now, the softer browns near lost.
Silas searched around for his clothes, biting his lip at the merciless cold against his bare skin. The search was clumsy in the dim light. A kneecap was thumped against the dresser, and it took a few tries before he found anything to fit, clearly having grabbed hold of clothes intended for the slender, shorter daemon at first; but finally Silas was clad in trousers, which were fall-fronts, he realised, after a pointless search for a single button. Pitch would be most pleased at that. The shirt’s thick material felt best suited to a lumberman working in the woods, and fit Silas as though sewn for him.
A coat would have been preferable in the midnight cold, but Silas was tired of searching. He drew on the seven-league boots. Well, the plain old boots now, for the cockaigne had taken a toll on them in all manner of ways. The magic imbued in the footwear had fled. What he wore now were plain old, sturdy, mud-encrusted boots. But at least they fit him just as readily as they had before, and their thick soles were useful against the cold.
Silas made his way out of the inn as quietly as he could. Pitch’s was not the only–and certainly not the loudest–snore to be heard, as he crept downstairs and out of the building. The loudest came from a high-backed armchair in the bar, where the hearth held a few glowing embers still. The sleeper was evidentonly by their feet, crossed at the ankles, darned socks visible as Silas passed.
He drew in a breath as he stepped outside into a perfectly still evening and the powerful, enticing scent of grave dirt found him. He pressed a hand to the doorframe, the intoxicating smell leaving him dizzy, his heart thumping with anticipation. Once he was sure he wouldn’t stumble, Silas made his way onto the street.
It was late, he surmised, by way of the utter stillness of the village. The niggling tugged him to the right, and he hurried on. Hints of the approach of Christmas time were evident. Aside from the weather, he spied several wreaths of holly upon doorways, and on passing the grocers, could make out the peaked silhouette of a Christmas tree deeper in the store. The sight of it struck at Silas with a pang of great melancholy but a fluttering of subdued happiness was there too. He’d enjoyed Christmastime in the past. He was quite sure of it.
If only he could remember such times. He suspected much happiness to be found.
The waft of dank earth and loam, gentler now after its first powerful burst, teased at his senses, luring him onwards. He passed by the store where the woman had sat with her basket, weaving. There was an oil lamp still flickering despite the emptiness of the shop. Another tree, much smaller than the last, sat on a small table just to the right of the window. The light was glorious against all the trinkets that hung upon the boughs of the tree, causing them to shine; candy canes, stars of silver tinsel, and astonishing blown glass baubles. Some were simple balls, others were distinct shapes: a dog there, a train engine, even a tennis racquet, of all things, but most superb of all, a parrot with gold and green foil that shone rich and lovely in the weak light.
Silas paused at the window, despite the irritating drag at his senses. The tree with its embellishments was so terribly pretty. Pitch would have adored it.