Page 43 of The Death Wish

‘Sybilla,’ he called. ‘Wait. What are you saying?’

The Valkyrie did not slow down, and walked with a purposeful gait down the corridor. Which would have pleased him any other time, but now it was irksome. They passed through the main public area, much busier now as the clock ticked closer to midday. Silas dodged the customers who were in a far more relaxed mood than he.

‘Wait, Sybilla. Stop, please.’

It was not until she was outside, standing on the pavement, that Sybilla halted. The late morning was filled with weak winter sunlight, but the frost still persisted on windowpanes untouched by the brightness. Silas shivered at the sudden decline in temperature, Pitch’s daemonic-stoked fire had been far warmer than he’d realised.

‘Let’s not make a fuss over this, shall we?’ Sybilla folded her arms, doing her best to look stern, and there it was again, the slight shimmer at her outline. ‘Plans have changed.’

A strangled teasing began at the back of his mind, a far distant hint of melody.

‘You aren’t coming with us.’

‘No. My journey alters from yours now. There is much else for me to do.’

Threads, tiny silver threads, wove out of the shimmer around her. Silas took a step back.

‘No…it cannot be.’

‘I am happy for it, Silas. Don’t look so saddened.’

The glinting threads were fine as spiderweb, but there was no mistaking them.

Silas had only ever been able to see the aura of a natural once before. In Balthazar Crane.

‘The goddess has made you ankou.’ The words were sharp as they moved up his throat. ‘But you are not dead, I saved you.’

Sybilla’s gaze softened, and her notes were so whisper-thin that even the slightest sound upon the street vanished them. ‘You delayed what is inevitable. Did Izanami not tell you that already?’

Of course she had. The goddess had made it patently clear when Silas had dug in his scythe and refused to let the angel go, that he was not overriding death, merely stalling its arrival.

‘Yes, but I sought to keep you in the land of the living. Not that of the dead.’

Sybilla stepped closer, away from the ears of curious passersby. ‘You kept me somewhere between them both. For which I am eternally grateful. But there is much strife in the realm of the dead, and you know it, Silas. The Blight touches far too many, but that is not your burden to bear, now. It is mine. I will do what I can, whilst you and Pitch do the rest. You removedone of the goddess’s ankou in Sherwood Forest. There was a place among the guardians of the dead where Balthazar Crane once stood. A place that is now mine.’

‘Oh, Christ…Sybilla, I’m so sorry –’

‘For what?’ He startled when the Valkyrie suddenly pressed her hand to his face. ‘You foolish, lovely man. This is a blessing. My time was up, and then it was not, because of you. Every breath I take since that day, I owe to you. Every chance I have to see an end to the machinations of the Blight and the lake which feeds it, is a chance I have because of you. Before this…before you and Tobias, the Order was simply filling in the cracks. Patching up holes that could never be truly covered over. They would break open again–it was always just a matter of when–because Blood Lake still brought its pressures to bear. At least now we have a genuine chance to bring this saga to an end. If I do so not as a Valkyrie with her blade, but as a messenger of death with her poor imitation of your magnificent bandalore…then so be it.’ Sybilla reached into her coat pocket, pulling forth a short length of stark, white bone. ‘A witch’s bone. My bandalore. My scythe. Their power helped me open the entranceway to the cockaigne –’

‘That white staff you held.’

She nodded. ‘Yes. The witches I wronged helped me save you. And now they shall be with me as I make recompense for the wrongs I did to them.’ She stepped away. ‘Do not be sad for me, Silas. Be glad. I see an end to this, to all this pain and bloodshed. Because of you and Tobias. Because of the strength you inspire in each other. And I am glad of it. And proud to walk in your footsteps, Pale Horseman.’

Silas stared after her, long after she’d left his sight, headed for the stables. The angel might see an end to this, and be glad of it, but he could not say the same.

Silas feared the price yet to be paid, when all was said and done.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IT WASnot simply the desire to avoid goodbyes that had Pitch hurrying from the dining room. There was necessity too.

The simurgh, or at least some part of the Cultivation, called to him. No, call was too gentle a word; the bastard thing was demanding Pitch pay heed. Leading him on.

He made his way quickly to the back entrance of the Churchill, stepping out into a narrow courtyard where an unlocked gate gave him access to the alleyway behind. He moved unhindered, passing by only two other living beings, one of which was a black cat that hissed and slunk back through a hole in the fence. The other was a chap carrying a barrel on his shoulder, which hid Pitch from his view for the most part, and spared the need for any enchantments. At one point there was no choice but to cross the main road, and then follow the North Road along a while, before he reached the rough white stucco and dark beams of the Golden Rule public house.

He stepped inside, struck at once by the staleness of hops, the rich scents of cooked meat and the low hum of the clientele. Pitch found his way upstairs, keeping his gaze fixed, showing pompous disregard for all who sought to catch his attention. His head was fuzzy with the drink. The only clarity was there in the ceaseless guiding whine of the simurgh.

Ignoring the bobbing housemaid in the hallway, her cheeks cherry red with a blush, and breathless with offer of assistance, Pitch stepped into Sybilla’s room. His temper had swayed far to the nasty side of reasonable.