Page 62 of The Death Wish

‘Let us in, Edward. What is wrong?’

Pitch peered at the sky. ‘Where is the angel? Do you see him, Silas?’ There was a deep silvery-grey as day and night exchanged ownership of the light. The first of the stars were hinted at. An angel would have been the brightest among them, magnificent where the night lights were mediocre.

The sky held no magnificence, so far as he could see. Save perhaps for the half-moon that waited for its time to take charge of the night.

‘Nothing of note.’ Silas replied. ‘Do you think Lucifer might have chased him off?’

‘Chased off a Seraph?’ Pitch nearly choked on bitter laughter. ‘There is optimism, and there is stupidity, my dear. Especially considering Lucifer barely seems able to keep his saddle.’

Scarlet tugged at one of the layers on Pitch’s carrick coat, hauling at him so he might go deeper into the cave. ‘Stop it. Do you not see the stone? Am I to walk through it?’

The wisp made a despondent sound, which to Pitch’s ear was recognition of the fact that they were now holed up in little more than an indent in the rock. No more a cave than a decent wardrobe. If they had been sitting ducks before, now they were fish in a barrel.

Silas touched Pitch’s arm. ‘Stay low, I’ll see if I can assist Charlie.’

‘By what? Punching a hole in the rock? We are clearly in the wrong Priest’s Hole.’

‘We are not,’ Charlie snapped. ‘He’s here. Sanu, too.’

‘Then they wish to see us roasted alive by angelfire. I told you, Sanu despises me.’

He threw flippancy and vile humour up like a shield, sheltering behind his tactlessness, while sickened by the notion that after all this, after coming so far, there was a very real chance he’d see Silas and Charlie, Scarlet and Lalassu die at the hands of a raging angel.

The notion both sickened, and fuelled him. Lucifer may seem like a drunkard in the saddle, but Pitch was anything but. And even Michael’s performance left much to be desired.

In contrast, Pitch was revived. Strong as he’d ever felt. And he had a far better understanding of the power he carried. A power that lay quiet, still, watchful and ready.

He’d not see his friends and lover incinerated, because he’d simply sat here.

If Lucifer was fighting, so too would he.

With Silas’s back turned, his attention upon Charlie, Pitch straddled the wall. And stepped out of its shelter.

He knew it a mistake, the moment the cool air ruffled his hair, and a shadow flittered above.

‘Vassago, no!’

Lucifer’s cry filled the valley, bounced from the hillsides and roared into the cave behind him.

The world lit brilliant white.

Lalassu’s scream joined that of Lucifer’s. The entire world sounded like the wail of a banshee.

Pitch turned, his flames pouring from his hands. Catching a meagre glimpse of the descending angel, a falling star with hint of Michael’s human silhouette at its core. The Seraph unleashed a torrent of angelfire, cutting open the earth like a hot knife through butter. A great force ploughed into Pitch’s side, pushing him from the path of Michael’s downpour.

The waft of charred flesh was sickening, the agony of the mare forever scorched onto his psyche.

Silas screamed his name, the ankou’s desperation terrifying.

Pitch hit the ground at a horrendous velocity, and tumbled. His head glanced against sharp rock, his clothes shredding, his coat slapping at his face as his fall gained momentum.

The terrain jabbed at his lungs, stealing his breath, his own flames licked at his skin as he struggled to gain some semblance of control.

‘You fucking moron,’ he roared, at himself.

His terror, his fury, braced him, he threw out his hands and grabbed. At anything. Something. Whatever would end this sickening arse-over-tit descent.

But in return something reached forhim.