Page 97 of The Death Wish

‘I don’t need your chains, you arsehole. It is by my own free will I am here.’ Pitch was screeching, sounding every inch the maniac he felt; and with the way the simurgh flew like a mad hawk within him, he’d be bleeding out of his orifices before long.

‘Stop. There is no need to restrain him.’

Lucifer wheeled his chair closer and touched a hand to Pitch’s shin, just above one of the cruel shackles. Pitch stilled, gasping.

‘There has always been a need in the past.’ Seraphiel frowned.

‘But that time is over, Raph. Just as you are not the angel you were, nor is Vassago the same daemon you worked upon. Let him be. He does not seek to escape his fate.’

Even the simurgh seemed lulled by the daemon’s speech; reducing its chaotic scrambling to a quieter restlessness. Pitch hissed his breath, trying to gather himself; wrench back from the precipice.

He let his head rest against the metal; nekhri he’d assume, for how powerfully it bound him. Pitch waited for the two powerful lords of Arcadia as they duelled in a silent battle of wills. He had thought he and Silas the strangest of lovers, but here were the true champions of that title: a sexless king and a mad angel.

Seraphiel’s lips twitched, his eyes ever radiant, but the creases at their sides hinted at a frown. With a tight nod, he turned away.

‘Fine. I have no time to argue with two stubborn creatures. But if you cannot keep perfectly still, daemon, it will be unpleasant.’

‘I am well aware of how much it hurts,’ Pitch said.

Seraphiel’s surprise was farcical. ‘You remember?’

‘That you tortured me? And that your supposed prowess in the bedchamber was all imaginary? Yes. But I know too because the simurgh was taken from me by the Morrigan.’

Shadows rippled over the angel’s face, and he looked beyond Pitch, beyond where Lucifer worked at the restraint around his ankle.

‘Do not gloat, you fiend.’ Seraphiel’s grin was poorly shaped. ‘Do not listen to this and think you have won. You’ll not take it from him again, Samyaza. Do you hear me?’

Seraphiel spoke to the wall; where runes flourished, crawling over the stonework like pretty serpents, covering every inch of the cellar. But nothing else, and no one else, was there.

‘Raph, keep your focus upon the prince,’ Lucifer said, still working at Pitch’s restraint. ‘The Watcher King does not hear you.’

The cuff came free from one of Pitch’s ankles, and the next followed quickly.

‘Oh, he taunts me, Luci.’ Seraphiel’s laugh was part hiccup. ‘You do not hear what he whispers. He challenges me to fail.’

Lucifer’s shoulder’s lifted with a silent sigh. ‘Very well, then best you meet his challenge.’

He unlocked the restraints at Pitch’s wrists and moved away. The king pushed at the rounded metal of the chair’s wheels, moving himself to where the roof curved low and would likely have brushed the top of his head were Lucifer not sitting with shoulders so hunched, and head lowered. Pitch had never seen the daemon so boneless, in all the years of studying his arrogance.

Seraphiel appeared, sudden and bright-eyed, standing over Pitch, who barely had time to lower his arms, and rub at the abrasions there.

The angel handed him a short length of wood, not much larger than a clothes peg, and about as round.

‘Take this. Bite into it.’ Seraphiel’s eyes grew shockingly white and bright. ‘If you truly remember as you say, then you will know that what I am about to do makes you wish your life was already over.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

SILAS EMBRACEDCharlie, holding on tight while the lad regaled him with talk of the tastiness of the cockle soup Jacquetta had arranged.

‘Astonishing, Silas you must have some. The saltiness is heaven-sent.’ Charlie laughed, giving Silas another squeeze before letting go. ‘Oh, I am so glad Tobias wasn’t here to hear that said. You know he’d make something vile of it. Where is he?’

The lad wore fresh clothes, as did Edward: simple fare of white linen shirts with unbuttoned, dark green and burgundy vests respectively, and with loose-fitting, chestnut brown trousers tied at the waist. They looked enviably comfortable.

Charlie peered around Silas to the doors which had shut firmly behind him once he entered the wood-panelled parlour; a warm and inviting room with its plentiful settee and armchairs, heavy curtains of a sunlight gold, a modest rounded dining table that held a multitude of platters and covered bowls.

‘He’s with you, is he not, Silas?’ Edward had a forkful of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth, his plate already scraped half clean by a pleasing return of appetite.

‘No. Not yet. He will join us eventually.’ Silas adjusted his collar, finding it too tight suddenly. He’d agreed to this separation with an ill-feeling. ‘He wished time with Seraphiel alone. They must investigate the soundness of the simurgh.’