Page 80 of The Death Wish

Pitch had not stopped to think of the builder of this Sanctuary. Which of the Children of Melusine held such an enormous secret? Their coffers must be overloaded; if the angel had not killed them the moment the last stone was laid. He vaguely recalled Bess speaking of a missing sibling, on a night when he’d paid more attention to his whisky and winning hand than to idle chatter. Pitch had little interest in the Children, save for when they built places like the Fulbourn, or the Crystal Palace. Then he would quite happily murder them himself.

Pitch adjusted his hold on Edward, shook off some of the gritty sand clinging to his own boots like burrs to trousers, and moved deeper into the woodlands.

Scarlet led the way, quick to discern where the gaps lay. Something of a marvel, really, for Pitch’s own eye was fooled every time, disbelieving there could possibly be a way through a tangle of trunks.

He kept his eye on Silas, mostly to discern if the scythe told the ankou anything of concern, and partly because there was comfort to be found in watching someone who took up so much space in the world. Silas’s bulk filled the pathways. He had to turn side on to manage some of the smaller sections, whilst Pitch had no such issue; Charlie even less so, despite having Lucifer to carry.

Pitch knew the Nephilim upon the Hellfield, he knew how their size had terrified so many of the daemons in his legions. He could only hope that whatever Angelic power awaited in the palace up ahead, held even just a touch of that fearfulness; at the very least, a caution. One that would keep Silas safe.

‘We are here,’ Silas declared.

Scarlet emitted a sound that was undeniably one of awe.

Charlie breathed in. ‘I thought it astonishing before…but…oh, my word.’

The last to arrive, Pitch nearly ran into the back of the lad who had stopped to stare.

Certainly, it was a sight.

Now they were much closer it was evident that the walls of the palace were not simply white. They were the same milky hue as the water, but with an opalescence that hinted at pastel hues as the light reflected the golden leaves of the woods, and gilded spires. The gold on the spires was polished to a shine, making pointed suns up high, reaching towards a sky that was low and close and white as a bride’s veil.

The air was crisp, clean, generous on the lungs, as it would be if they actually stood in the Scottish Highlands.

How was it possible this place could be forgotten? Pitch winced, searching for something–anything–that might strike him as familiar.

The lay of the garden certainly wasn’t. It could have been plucked from Versailles itself. In fact, he’d wager the architect had either stolen ideas, or built both places. The hedges were topiary of the highest and strictest order, the pebble pathways cut in circular patterns, the marble fountain at the centre–a burly man in a chariot with two wild-eyed stallions leading him forth–was worthy of any monarch’s palace. White rose trees pinpointed each corner of the rectangular yard, their blooms far too large, and nonseasonal, to be natural design. Scarlet landed upon one, and disappeared into the petals, the flower was so large. Everything was immaculate, not a white pebble out of place on the pathways, not an errant leaf fallen. It felt almost a travesty to walk upon the path.

There was something to the white and gold theme that was unsurprising, but nothing else of the place gave him a sense of familiarity.

They gathered in front of the statue, facing the front entrance. A green-gold doorway, the electrum metal a productof silver and gold mixed together, marked the entrance into the palace. It was, of course, imposing; the height of one and a half Silas’s, with a massive ornamental door-knocker at its centre. The design was of a pheasant, with the lengthy tail exaggerated here, so that it almost swept the ground. Gold, of course, the entire thing, though it was not so polished as everything else around it.

‘That’s a pheasant,’ Silas said, as though none of them could know that. ‘Quite remarkable workmanship, don’t you think?’

Charlie and Pitch hummed in vague agreement. And they all just stood there. Pitch and Charlie with arms laden, Silas with arms folded, and Scarlet squealing with delight as they jumped from bloom to bloom. Someone really ought to move. Pitch considered it, and decided it was really quite pleasant just where they were. He hefted Edward, shifting the man’s weight, which was far too paltry.

‘Knock on the damned door,’ Lucifer coughed.

Charlie screamed, nearly dropping the daemon who had been utterly motionless until that moment. Silas only just managed to step forward in time, preventing an unfortunate fall upon the pebbled ground.

The king groaned at the sudden movement, coughing again, and expelling a rather foul substance, red mostly but with hint of black combined. Silas cast him a look, oozing with his confounding concerns.

‘We must get him inside.’

Pitch was very aware of that. But this threshold felt enormous. He nodded, but could not bring himself to take a step. Charlie was watching him, as was Silas, and both waited.

‘Too late for pause now,’ Lucifer spluttered, his lips stained with the vile fluid that he’d coughed up. He truly was more pleasant company when he was more dead. But most disagreeable was the fact that he was quite right.

He glanced at Silas. There was no judgement to be seen there, no impatience, or worse, disappointment that he found Pitch lacking. A little of his terror subsided, giving his thoughts time to resettle. Of course he knew why he was here. This world, Silas’s world, Charlie’s and Edward’s too, might be free of the scourge of the Blight, if Pitch just stepped across that threshold.

Still, it was not until Edward whimpered, his face scrunched with silent pain, that Pitch finally nodded.

‘Let’s go.’

The ankou’s gaze lingered another heartbeat. Pitch sent a silent prayer to worthless gods that Silas would not ask him if he was alright. The answer was no. Very much no. The catastrophic incident with Lalassu had caused something to slip inside Pitch. Like the earth splitting after a tremble from its core. Doubt had slunk in when the Pale Horse fell. Festering in the cracks that formed inside him.

He’d been a fool to think he could slip free of the yoke of the Berserker Prince. Pitch acted on violent impulses still. He remained a selfish prick whose chaotic nature brought terrible harm, and yet here he was.

Letting Silas give him a grim but understanding smile.