Page 96 of The Death Wish

Pitch bent to accommodate the low roof of the doorway, and stepped into what appeared to be little more than an extension of the cellar–minus the plentiful supply wine–but with the uncomfortable addition of a rectangular metal table, one that would fit nicely in a mortuary.

He looked away. Lucifer was in the invalid chair. The poor bastard still looked dreadful, but both he and Seraphiel wore outrageously elaborate coats.

Seraphiel had his long golden hair now tousled with curls, and looked ridiculous in a white satin justaucorps; with thick gold embroidery upon its deep pockets and enormous cuffs, and heavy braid work at the flare of its knee-length hem. White stockings defined a pair of muscular legs and accentuated his red heels.

‘Are you preparing to whisk back in time and join the Sun King in his court at Versailles?’ Pitch made no pretence of enjoying the angel’s elaborate look, not only was it gaudy, but it made him feel near naked for how under-dressed he was; and vulnerable. ‘What on Earth are you wearing?’

‘Clothes hardly matter, Vassago.’ Lucifer’s coat was a deep crimson, with the requisite gold trim. He wore breeches, and plain black shoes, so polished Pitch could have shaved withthem as his mirror. Perhaps the king had done that, for his own moustache was gone. He was clean shaven, but still looked like he needed a decent wash; thanks to the patchwork of bruises, which seemed worse, not better.

‘Are you not healing?’ Pitch frowned. ‘Or was the angel far too rough with you in his bed?’

Lucifer smoothed at his already slicked hair, glaring his very best glare. No hint of daemonflame in his irises, though. Another anomaly, considering how readily he usually flared with temper when Pitch was around.

‘Get on the bench.’ Seraphiel drew on a pair of gloves. Surprisingly, not gold, but the duller grey of chain mail;actualchain-mail.

‘I prefer to stand.’

Pitch shot up into the air, a pressure throwing him onto his back, lifting him up and over the metal bench.

‘Fuck, set me down. Now!’ He flailed his arms, and kicked his legs, like a child in the throes of a tantrum. He was dumped onto the table; a surface cold and hard.

The simurgh fed on his distress, losing its feathery mind: pressing at his stomach, stabbing at his hips, causing a scream to slip through grinding teeth.

‘Let me be.’ Pitch reached for his flame, trying to find its brilliance in the calamity. Only the merest warmth rose to find him. He was being suppressed. ‘You cunt, let me fucking go.’

What moron was he, to have left Silas behind?

‘Calm down, Vassago.’ Lucifer offered unwelcome advice.

‘Fuck off.’ Pitch bucked his arse off the table, groaning with the effort of fighting off a pressure that urged his legs to part.

A futile effort, evidently. Each leg moved, a heel to each corner of the table. The resounding crack of restraints came; at the same time their coldness met the bare skin at his ankles.Memories were pounding at the back of his head, trying to force their way through bone.

‘Don’t tie me down, fuck…don’t do this.’

Seraphiel stood by, still adjusting the fit of his gloves. ‘As always, the sooner you calm, the sooner this shall be over. I need to examine the simurgh.’

Pitch’s arms were thrust over his head, and restraints slipped around his wrist. He cried out. The pounding in his skull was excruciating.

As always: those two words shifted the stones weighing down his memories.

He’d been held here before; laid out and tied down, many, many times by this angel.

Panic was a wild stallion, stealing his breath, making his vision red and blurry with the crush of his trapped flame. He thrashed his head back and forth, trying to roll his shoulders, his hips, anything that would at least let him pretend he could escape this.

This is where he had been manipulated, and made a freak in Seraphiel’s show. How could he forget?

His thoughts screamed, and barriers came crashing down.

This room was where he’d truly been trapped. Not that other; where he recalled lounging between silk sheets, or taking long, hot baths with a whisky in one hand and sweet cake in the other after he’d laid with the angel. That other room was illusion, or distorted reality at best; a dumping ground for when Seraphiel was done with him.

Herewas where Pitch had actually suffered; worked upon and weaponised without agency, his freedom stolen.

‘I said fucking let me go.’ If he roared loud enough, would Silas hear? Fuck, fuck. No. Stupid idea. Seraphiel would destroy him.

Pitch’s chest heaved. The simurgh was a colt to his panic’s stallion, kicking its silvered heels against his organs, thrashing itself mindless as Pitch’s fear caught like kindling and burned them both.

‘Will this go on much longer?’ Seraphiel was cold, clinical as he’d been every other time.