Page 89 of The Death Wish

‘Shaken but mostly in one piece.’

That brought a welcome, tremulous smile.

‘Bring him to me.’

The smile vanished. Silas’s eyes narrowed. He moved to turn and follow the voice, but Pitch grabbed at his shirt. ‘One more moment. Just give me one more moment.’

He didn’t need to look.

The simurgh scratched at Pitch’s insides. But he could not say if it was to run to or from its maker.

Silas cupped his face. ‘Breathe, my darling.’ He did so, gently, shifting the hairs that had fallen into Pitch’s eyes. ‘Breathe.’

Not so easy, not here, in this old cell, with an old master. But Pitch indulged his lover, and played at an inhale and exhale. Drinking in the heart-aching smile it drew.

‘I said, bring him to me.’ The angel was demanding. He’d never been anything less. Death, or whatever had befallen him, had not changed that.

Pitch abandoned his breathing lesson. ‘I’m ready.’

Silas nodded grimly. ‘And I’m here.’

He lifted Pitch to his feet, and stepped back, just enough to allow Pitch view of the room, but not so far that they did not still touch.

Edward was slumped by the side of the bed, groaning. Charlie crouched with him, sobbing, and indifferent to the enormity of all else. Jacquetta was on her knees at the foot of the bed, in a deep bow, one shift of the knees from prostrating herself.

That angel was now seated bolt upright. His linen nightshirt had slipped from one shoulder; his hair, ridiculously long, splayed like a golden web around him. Pitch noticed at once that this creature held no aura. No magnificence of design that screamed,Seraphim.

What aura should encompass the body–hugged it like a second skin–existed entirely in the angel’s eyes. They glowed with an intensity that had, a short time ago, nearly sent everyone in the room blind. And those eyes were fixed upon one person.

Silas glanced at Pitch, his puzzlement obvious.

Neither of them attracted the angel’s gaze.

Lucifer rose to his feet, shaking where he stood. His bruising and battery never more obvious; and barely a hint of flame survived in his gaze.

He had but one word to say. But one word was enough.

‘Seraphiel.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

SERAPHIEL. BUThow in the Celestial’s name was such a resurrection possible?

Lucifer’s mind rioted as he held the gaze of the angel he was so certain he’d lost. He searched, for sign of foul play, deception…anything that might explain the strangeness, the utter improbability of what was happening.

‘Bring him to me, Lucifer. Am I not heard?’

‘You are very much heard.’ Lucifer forced the words clear. ‘But that does not mean I understand what is happening here.’

Seraphiel stared unblinking, unwavering. And instantly recognisable. This golden-haired reiteration of his form was one Lucifer knew well. The angel had worn this suit of flesh on the occasions he’d lured Lucifer to the human realm with promises of new-found libraries to explore. He’d worn it as they sat beside fierce hearth fires, with aperitifs in hand; perhaps Seraphiel’s head upon his shoulder, the angel exhausted by his driving obsession with Blood Lake’s legacy.

The pair of them close, but never intimate; as Lucifer preferred, and Seraphiel tolerated.

But this could not be his Antinous. Lucifer had been there when Enoch delivered the killing blow, one delivered at Seraphiel’s begged behest.

The angel had died. Lucifer had tasted grief ever since.

But there in the dazzling glow of his white eyes was the aura Lucifer mourned.