Page 95 of The Death Wish

But here was a chance for Pitch to make sense of his tangled thoughts. A moment away from Silas to think straight.

‘If that has been instructed, then that is what will be done.’ Pitch picked at loose cotton on his long white shirt. Its billowed sleeves felt like blasted wings, the clothing so damned oversized. ‘The Seraph wishes to know the state of the simurgh. You heard the message earlier. I’m not about to go running off into the lake, considering we know there is damage done to the bird. But it is sensible that you are not present when a delusional angel is playing with divine magick.’

‘That isexactlywhen I should be present.’

Jacquetta’s bluntness proved useful as she said, “You are not invited, my lord.”

‘I don’t need a bloody invitation.’ Silas fumed, his neck reddening.

Sensing that this argument could go on until the next turning of the tide, Pitch ruled with an iron, somewhat cruel fist.

‘I don’t want you there.’ He tilted his chin, determined not to let the hurt in Silas’s eyes affect him. ‘It shall be bad enough being poked and prodded yet again, without knowing that you stand there as witness. The simurgh was taken from me once already, and it was not a pretty scene. I know it will not make you happy, which will make the experience far worse for me thanit has ever been.’ He looked to Jacquetta to escape the ankou’s visible distress and forthcoming protest. ‘Jacquetta, after I am delivered, take Mr Mercer to Charlie and Edward, and Scarlet.’

‘Of course, my lord. They are resting currently. The prophet is much revived.’

‘It would be best if we judged that for ourselves. That is why you will take Lord Death there whilst I see to the simurgh.’

Silas muttered against the title, but otherwise stayed agreeable; as Pitch had known he would. The rare thing that could separate Silas from Pitch’s side was his love for those he called friends.

And it was not as though Pitch himself held no concerns for the purebreds and the wisp; he’d find comfort too, knowing they were safe.

Silas insisted on a kiss, and Pitch did not deny him. Brief but deep, it held a comfortable intimacy, though was spliced with a violent longing that threatened to engulf Pitch. He pulled from the kiss first; and stepped away without another word.

He followed Jacquetta with the ankou’s wetness on his lips, and a lovely pain on the tip of his tongue from Silas’s teeth. He’d been forceful, more so than normal; as though leaving Pitch with a reminder that he was here; or irritated at being left behind.

But if Silas had known the thoughts that jostled for position in Pitch’s mind, the growing plan, he would have never have just stood there and watched him go.

Pitch was guided through long hallways and down several flights of stairs, using spiral staircases that left him dizzy. More halls followed, some expansive, lined with mirrors that reflected the white air, giving the impression of walking outside, beneath rows of heavy crystal chandeliers. The floors were so polished in places it was like mirrors lay there, too. All of it combined to give the place a sense of vastness that was unsettling.

He paused at one point, a dark corridor catching his eye. It was the only hint of gloom he’d seen since they stepped foot inside a palace that glowed.

‘Not that way.’ Jacquetta had been terse, immediately bobbing her head in apology. ‘Sorry, your highness. But that is not the way.’

Pitch briefly considered telling her what she could do with her way, and heading down there regardless. But the simurgh stirred: hidden deep, making its presence known.

He kept on.

They travelled down another set of stairs, then another, until they were in the cellar, a domed room with a low ceiling and rack after rack of wine bottles, many with cobwebs and thick dust coating them. No wonder Seraphiel had been so adept at keeping Pitch inebriated here. This supply would take a decade to work through.

The simurgh brushed along the bottom of his ribs, slipping around his spine. The first definitive movement from the Cultivation since Seraphiel’s awakening. There was no pain, but the sensation itself was ghoulish; as though the creature was trying on his skin for size or perhaps looking for an escape route. Who was not?

‘Will this travel never end? I’ll be another hundred years old before I see Seraphiel, at this rate.’

Jacquetta produced a ridiculously huge key from the equally large drop of her sleeve. ‘We are here, your highness.’

‘My name is Pitch.’

She said nothing, and kept on to where there was a simple wooden door, thick panels, with black iron reinforcing it; Pitch noted the surplus of subtle runework on the wood.

‘This is as far as I go, your highness. They are waiting on you.’

The Child inserted the key into a lock whose large opening Pitch could have slipped four fingers into. Sparks jumped at the key’s touch, and the waft of orange blossom briefly filled the air. Faerie magick always tended on the pretty side; even the UnSeelie cockaigne had not been without beauty.

Leaving the door closed, Jacquetta hurried away, promising to head straight back to Silas.

‘Come in, hurry up,’ Seraphiel called. ‘Why are you just standing there?’

Patience was not a virtue of Higher Angels, nor of a princely daemon for that matter. The door swung open, perfectly silent.