Page 88 of The Death Wish

The moment that contact was made, Pitch could see the tension drain from Edward’s beleaguered body, his muscles relaxing, his head settling straight upon his shoulders. Edward was free now, to look over, and find Pitch.

Something passed between them, in that pause between now and what was to come. And Pitch feared it was regret, there upon his friend’s face. Edward Charters understood it was he who must strike the flint to start this fire, that it was he who would bring a daemon prince to the altar of his fate. And it pained him.

Pitch smiled, and poured all his regard for the man into the gesture. ‘It’s all right,’ he mouthed.

Perhaps he spoke the words aloud, he could hear nothing to tell him it was so. His blood ran too fast, made too much noise beneath his skull.

Silas’s hand engulfed his, and their fingers found place among one another, as readily as petals closing over at night. The scythe was a resolute firmness in the tangle, and Pitch swore a tiny pulse came from the ring where it rested against his skin.

Edward drew back his shoulders, and nodded. He said something to Charlie, who shook his head, ever the resistant spirit. Jacquetta took hold of the lad and pulled him back, down off the platform, whispering in his ear.

Taking him out of harm’s way.

Out of Seraphiel’s way.

As Jacquetta continued to whisper, Charlie’s fight left him. He was grim faced but compliant. He stood by. Waiting, as all the rest.

Edward leaned down, and opened his mouth. Light spilled from him. A haze as yellow as the down on a newborn chick.

Silas held on tighter, but asked nothing of Pitch. Simply reminded him it was as Silas had always promised. He was not alone.

Edward drew closer, the light spilling over the slumbering stranger’s face. Another inch closer.

He brought their lips together.

The powder keg was lit.

The explosion was brilliance; sheer and blinding brilliance.

Silas’s cry tore through Pitch’s muffled existence, ripping away the shroud that had kept him strangely distant from the world in this room. The simurgh fluttered deeper, seeking refuge.

Silas shielded Pitch with his body, as though fearing the light had arrow tips.

As well it might. But none had a hope of seeing them coming. The glow was cataclysmic, sweeping like a wave to fill the room entirely, utterly blinding. Pitch cowered, eyes stinging, and pressed his cheek against Silas’s chest, desperate for somewhere darkness could thrive.

The ankou roared, his ribs humming against Pitch’s skin. Beneath the bone and flesh, his heart thundered, pounding against Pitch’s ear.

He clutched at Silas’s coat, terrified suddenly that the light had nasty tips after all. ‘Are you hurt?’ he cried. ‘What is it?’

The ankou bowed his head, spreading himself over Pitch like a dark swan over its cygnet.

‘Life…’ he gasped. ‘It is life.’

He roared again, and the light roared back, like the torrent of a mountainside waterfall. Cascading, pummelling, seeking to fill every crack and gap. Pitch clung to Silas, held on as though the torrent might sweep them both away. Because it was doing its level best to do so. The luminance brought static with it, liftingthe strands on Pitch’s head, prickling every fine hair on his body. Fuck. If this was life, it was unstoppable.

Pitch listened to the momentum of Silas’s heart, each beat a thunderous boom. And feared what it meant for a messenger of death to bow to life.

The radiance extinguished. No warning. No waning.

Just there one moment, and vanished the next.

Thrusting them back into a world scorched with white shadows, the burning at the back of the eyes that brought tears forth.

Silas and Pitch had been floored, and neither seemed to have realised it. Pitch gazed up at Silas who braced his hands to the wall either side of Pitch’s head. He was on his knees, and Pitch flat on his arse. Both blinked at one another, cheeks wet.

Pitch touched a hand to Silas’s cheek. ‘Are you all right?’

He was gasping, but nodded. ‘You?’