Page 83 of The Death Wish

And Pitch would not see another of those who had followed him, fall because he’d made a wrong move.

‘You shall be free of this, Edward.’ Pitch hissed beneath his breath. ‘Let it be done.’

He walked up the stairs, crossing the threshold with Silas and Charlie and Scarlet at his back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

JACQUETTA MAGICKEDan invalid chair out of thin air. Or rather, from one of the rooms that lined the corridor. A wooden chair–with large iron wheels, a sturdy cane back and made from polished wood without a hint of gold or embellishment–rolled of its own accord at her whispered word, and came to a stop before Pitch.

The Child insisted that Edward be placed there. She insisted too, on wheeling him along, but one glare from Pitch, a protest from Charlie, and the scowl of Scarlet seemed to put paid to that notion.

Pitch took hold of the handles and pushed the barely conscious Edward along. They travelled down a long, wide corridor, one with all the embellishments and grand dimensions of a palace. The glamour and richness of this place could not be understated, its beauty very evident, but Silas found it impossible to be awed by a location that had been such a prison for Pitch.

A prison that, if the prince recognised it, he gave no sign. But that the Sanctuary had an effect on him, was indisputable. Since they had walked into that courtyard with its flourishing garden and ostentatious water fountain, a change had come over Pitch, one that bothered Silas greatly. His sharp tongue had dulled, his propensity to lean into Silas had not been evident. Subtle things.But Silas knew far more of Pitch than the curves of his body, and the devastating beauty of his face. He knew when his lover’s thoughts darkened.

Silas blinked. The Sanctuary was the antithesis of darkness. His eyes pained with adjusting to the rather dazzling glow of the building’s interior. Silas took a more studied look at his surrounds, needing to distract himself from his concerns.

Of where this walk would lead them.

There were mirrors set into the walls, floor to ceiling, one upon every second panel, adding to the vastness of the space, and accentuating the illumination coming from elaborate sconces on the mirror-less wall panels. The sconces were gold, of course; that hue dominated the decor. Each had four arms, in the form of swans, with long sinewy necks and exaggerated beaks. Four fat white candles sat upon each arm; candles that gave off a far brighter, and indeed, far more golden light than any Silas had seen before.

His gaze did not stray long from Pitch, though. Silas took in the sway of the black cape he wore as the daemon pushed Edward along. Beneath that layer of borrowed clothing was an undeniably beautiful body, but one that had been strained by the trials put upon it. They needed a dozen more meals like the last one shared, to fill Pitch out and put some extra meat upon sharp bones. Silas bit at his lip. To think of such a time, both the past meal done, and those he had yet hoped to share, was to torture himself.

He started at a sudden thump.

Lucifer had stumbled again, his hip contacting the wall. He was ahead of Pitch, and behind the Child, who kept on, and did not look back. Scarlet was the only one who dared react. And their reward was to be taken aim at by the cantankerous, wounded, daemon.

‘Piss off.’

The wisp’s sigh preceded a retreat. Back to the safety of Charlie’s shoulder.

The king of daemons walked, or rather stumbled, along the bare floorboards at the edge of the cream and honey-gold runner that dominated the walkway, propping himself against the walls. He dragged one hand along the pristine panels and left more than a few smudges upon the stark white plasterwork with its gold edging.

When Jacquetta had suggested a wheelchair for him as well, Silas feared the Child about to be turned to stone by the look Lucifer gave her. But there was no doubt he would have benefited.

Lucifer looked wretched. His face was bruised, his moustache scorched clean off at the right side, his cheeks were notably hollow, and the careful styling of his hair long since ruined. More horrid bruising peeked from the parting of his shirt; awful marks of russet and grey at his collarbones. Some other evident marks might have been healing burns, and there was a tear in the king’s trousers that revealed an appalling wound beneath, a gouging of flesh causing a shocking hole in his thigh. Worst of all was the damage the king tried hardest to conceal. He kept his hand close to his chest, his fingers curled, but he was already like a drunkard on his feet, and once or twice he’d used both hands to brace himself. Silas had seen the space between thumb and middle finger; the festering cut upon his palm too, red and weeping. A nasty infection, he surmised, whilst wondering how his majesty could be vulnerable to such simple things. But most of all he wondered, and worried, about what the downing of the other Seraph meant for them. Was Michael strong enough to enter the Sanctuary? Or, perhaps worse, did he return to Arcadia to spread word of a prince who had escaped the abaddon? How many legions would be sent to reclaim Pitch?

‘Silas? Is everything all right?’ Charlie said softly.

Pitch had turned, frowning. ‘Do you hear something?’

Silas had not yet opened his mouth to answer them when Jacquetta called out, ‘Do try to leave my candles burning, if you will. It shall make it far easier to find our way.’

Silas was utterly lost until he realised how dim it was where they had all come to a sudden halt.

‘The candles all went out.’ Charlie pointed to the nearest sconce, but no sooner had he done so than unlit wicks burst back to life. Dazzling and causing the lad to shade his eyes.

‘Did I do that?’ Silas said, glancing behind, where all else seemed fine. Save for the fact that the corridor seemed to stretch in perpetuity; he could see no evidence of the substantial green-gold entrance. The place stirred reminders of The Atlas and its endless staircase, and, less pleasant a thought, the Fulbourn with its labyrinthine passageways.

‘You did, twice now,’ Pitch answered. ‘Silas, tell me, are you hearing something that we should be worried about?’

‘No…no, I was just wondering…’ Silas stopped himself. Idiot. He would not add to the prince’s load even more by talking of vengeful angels. He’d save his thoughts until he spoke with Lucifer, alone. ‘Just wondering how much further.’

‘If you kept walking, it would be less far for you than it is now.’ Jacquetta had not slowed at all and had moved a considerable distance away from them. She stood at a pair of double doors, white with gleaming gold handles. ‘Come on. There are three more doors to pass through, three more corridors after this. I am not known for the simplicity of my designs. Don’t dally.’

Jacquetta raised her hand, fluttered her fingers, and the doors swung open. A sitting room lay beyond, an ostentatious design with bulging lounge chairs and settees in satins of the deepest gold hue.

Lucifer made a quiet sound of unhappiness, his shoulders hunched, most of his body pressed against the wall.