Page 85 of The Death Wish

‘So, this is truly Seraphiel?’ Silas stared anew at the artwork. Finally, a face to put to all the misery. A face for him to despise. A pity it was not uglier.

‘Of course not.’ Lucifer’s indignation caused him pain, and there was a pause before he continued. ‘You are not fit to behold his true form. It would blind you, send you mad, for you are, at your core, a purebred. The Seraph are but one step away from the Celestials themselves.’

‘And don’t they like to remind us of it?’ Pitch muttered.

Silas itched to reach for him, but Pitch had put himself out of reach.

He turned back to the painting, taking in the powerful shoulders, the ripple of muscles along the arm, veins raised where the angel clenched the sword. His face was diamond shaped, his features bold. He was imposing, and fierce, not far removed from how Silas had imagined Seraphiel.

‘This is merely one reiteration he chose among many,’ Jacquetta said. ‘I believe the scene is from one of your favoured mythologies of humankind. Is that right, my lord?’

The king elbowed Silas’s side in his restlessness. ‘No time for all this nonsense.’ He coughed, seeming in danger of another fit.

There absolutely wasn’t time, but Silas noted a welcome gleam in Pitch’s eye, a sly twist of his lips as he spoke. ‘By Enoch’s filthy balls, this monstrosity was commissioned for you. A lover’s token.’ He stared at Lucifer, the delight doing much to thwart the glumness. ‘He worked an artist into his grave to bring to life one of your fucking fairy tales.’

The king’s anger fed his fever, and the heat stung Silas’s hand where it pressed to Lucifer’s back. At a great muffled distance, the daemon’s contorted melody played out, causing a shiver to run down Silas’s spine.

‘St George and the dragon is not a fairy tale, you cretin,’ he returned, ignoring the snider remarks. ‘It is an old legend, from the faith of Christianity –’

Pitch snorted with derisive laughter. ‘I could not give a basilisk’s cock what old damned book you read of it in.’

‘It was not in a book,’ Lucifer snapped. ‘There was artwork in one of the Bodleian libraries at the University of Oxford. I commented on its beauty when we visited. I did not know he’d worked upon so many versions.’ Now a shiver replaced the tremble of rage. ‘Superb place, the University. You heathens have no doubt never heard of one.’

There was a strange silence. Perhaps they were all doing as Silas was; trying to absorb the picture of the King of Daemonkind strolling about a library.

‘Actually,’ Charlie said, cautiously. ‘My uncle read history at Oxford, and we visited once. The libraries were marvellous.’

Lucifer’s scowl was not entirely mean-spirited. There was some satisfaction there, pleasure in being deemed right. He gave Charlie a sharp nod.

But now Pitch utterly lost his mind. His laughter was strained and high, but anything that was bringing him to life was fine by Silas. ‘You took a Seraph to a library? Wait, you demeanedyourselfso low as to step foot in a purebred library, amongst the stench of old paper and sniffling academics?’

Only Silas heard the stifled groan from Lucifer before he shot back a reply. ‘They are the only places of merit in this world. Will you wipe that ridiculous smirk off your face, Vassago, and get on?’

‘I’m quite done with being ordered about.’ The prince spoiled for a fight, which was encouraging, but not useful here.

If Silas stepped away, Lucifer would fall. The king was desperately weak. Any fool could see it, and Silasfeltit, beneath his skin, and ringing in his ears.

He caught Pitch’s eye, sending a glance down at the king before looking back. Hoping fervently Pitch would not take what was about to be said to be a command or order, ever mindful of pushing the prince anywhere he did not wish to go. ‘We are all in need of a place to sit down, to rest. I think it best we move on quickly now.’

The prince’s verdant eyes narrowed, never leaving Silas’s face. ‘Very well, but only because it is you asking. And you shall have to make it up to me later, for losing me my chance at mockery.’

‘A chore, but one I shall endure,’ Silas returned, relief sweeping through him at hearing the prince so very like himself. Scarlet giggled, the tittering like a mouse’s squeak.

‘You are quite changed from the creature I recall, your highness.’ Jacquetta fussed at the embellished lines of her burnt-orange hose, a defiant hue amongst the golds and white. ‘A true lover at your side, and friends, to boot. It is a fine thing to see, but let us hope the Beserker Prince is not the creature needed for this task.’ Seeing the angry twist of Pitch’s mouth, she held up her hand. ‘Do not misunderstand me, your highness. Your changes are admirable, and your happiness deserved. Yours was a greatly pained spirit. Many feared you, but I did not. You always seemed so very lost to me, and lonely. Now I see that you are neither of these things anymore.’ Silas felt her eyes upon him. ‘Please, if you don’t mind, follow me this way.’

She turned on her heels, slippers of the same hue as her clothing, and left them in her wake.

Pitch was first to follow, pushing Edward along as the man slouched in the chair, eyes closed, chin bobbing against his chest. Silas mostly carried the ailing daemon king, and kept close behind the prince, Charlie and Scarlet, in turn, were right on his heels. They moved into the next room; past huge decorative pots with healthy palms spreading their fronds, past magnificent sideboards, and a remarkable dining table of gleaming marble, set for at least twenty places with crystal glasses and golden cutlery, past a chess board as large as the card table it sat upon. Excess and extravagance were everywhere; candles with long tapered flames lighting each room as brightly as though it were upon the stage.

As they entered the next room, the last, Jacquetta declared, Silas gazed absently at the elaborate tapestries that hung from the walls. Still mulling over what the Child had said about the Berserker Prince. Wishing he understood it fully.

Let us hope he is not the creature needed for this task.

Her meaning tormented Silas, but burned a tiny spark of hope. If she did not know if the wildness of the Hellfield prince was needed, then perhaps this truly was the very last step. Perhaps, and the thought had his pulse thumping hard, they could simply hand over the simurgh after all.

And walk away.

Edward let out a cry, banishing Silas’s sombre musings. The lieutenant’s body stiffened, wracked by another harsh spasm. His fingers bent to claws as muscles contracted. Charlie dashed past Silas, bumping into him in his rush.