Page 72 of The Death Wish

Distracting, actually. Pitch gave himself a private pat on the back for a job well done. Silas was still chuckling, and now laying kisses upon Pitch’s hand. Breathing; the ankou had remembered how to breath.

‘Is everything all right back there?’ Charlie twisted in his seat. ‘What has come over you?’

‘Nothing has come!’ Pitch raised Silas’s hand, like evidence in a courtroom. ‘That is precisely the issue, dear boy. This hand is going to waste, despite my pleas.’

Even Edward managed a soft smile. The ferryman of course ignored it all.

‘Stop it,’ Silas pleaded. ‘Charlie pay him no attention. I beg you.’

‘No need to beg.’ Charlie shook his head, and turned back to where the way ahead lay.

Pitch would obviously say nothing to Silas, not now he was calmer, but he’d noticed that for all this time moving forward the boat had not drawn any closer to the far side of the chamber. He glanced back the way they had come. Ground had definitely been covered, for there was no sign of the shore or the rock where Edward had been sitting. There was only water. With its dome of quartz above. Spreading out in all directions.

‘Ferryman,’ he called. ‘How long shall this journey take?’

‘As long it needs to.’

‘Arsehole,’ he muttered. ‘Those of an overly philosophical nature should be burned at the stake.’

‘Perhaps a bit harsh,’ Silas smiled. ‘But I am not in full disagreement.’

They fell to silence. Pitch ran his thumb over Silas’s fingers, thinking of Lucifer’s injury. He didn’t realise he was being too rough, too vigorous, until Silas stayed his hand.

‘Are you trying to take off some skin?’

‘What? Oh, no. I was just thinking about Lucifer.’

‘Rather enthusiastically.’ Silas wriggled his fingers. ‘Where was your head?’

And because he was getting much better at telling Silas what was on his mind–for the most part–he said, ‘Michael took hisvestige. It was hidden beneath his fingernail, and that cretin angel decided to simply remove the entire digit. I have no idea how Lucifer managed to put on such a show back there, but I’m not surprised he’s been unconscious this long.’

‘Christ.’ Silas surveyed the king where he slept. ‘That must be terribly painful.’

‘It is, though it will dull. And losing his vestige won’t kill him, but he shall feel like dog shit for quite some time.’ Pitch tried to withdraw his hand, but Silas halted the retreat.

‘You don’t still feel that way though, do you? You don’t have your vestige.’

‘Thank you for stating the bloody obvious.’

‘That came out all wrong –’

‘You don’t say.’ This was not quite as fun as making lewd comments to keep Silas’s mind off the boat situation, but Pitch would roll it. The waters beneath them were notably deeper, the edges of the chamber stretching farther away as they journeyed, seemingly, to nowhere.

‘Forgive me.’ Silas tried to back himself out of his corner. It was delightful to watch. ‘But you are not forthcoming when it comes to what ails you. Has it pained you all this time?’

Pitch shrugged. ‘I can’t really tell, on account of my plethora of pains. To begin with, I am in the worst type of pudding club.’ He slapped at his stomach, making much theatre of it; rewarded with the sight of Silas fighting a grin.

‘A pudding club?’

‘That’s what those of us in this delicate condition call it. I’m expecting a bouncing baby bird, any day now.’ He twisted his arm to jab at his back. ‘And let us not forget that I also had an angel turn me into a daemonic target, and his aim was horrid. That strike rather hurt, too.’

Silas might have only seen the true wound once, but that was evidently too much for him. His unhappiness madehis shoulders slouch. ‘I cannot imagine what pains you have tolerated.’ He lifted his arms, intending another of his plentiful hugs, probably.

Pitch waved him off, frightening Scarlet who evidently thought themselves about to be smote, and zipped off the ankou’s shoulder to dart over to the slumbering Lucifer.

‘Honestly, Sickle. You must not…Ah!’ The blistering pain struck hard and fast. Pitch buckled forward, his hands landing on Silas’s thigh, gripping hard. ‘Blast it.’

‘Does the simurgh hurt you? Pitch, answer me.’