Page 103 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Pitch’s carefully tempered breath escaped him in a sharp exhale. He spun around, staring into dust-speckled air, as though there were any chance the speaker might be standing there.

Find the prophet.A faint pull came at the watch, twitching his arm, an urge to hurry forward.

‘Who is that?’ His own pulse had grown more harried, for that voice was frighteningly familiar.

Find…the…prophet.

It was said slowly, with a dangerous hint of condescension mixed within. Far too reminiscent of a domineering tone he recognised and had only rarely listened to. Pitch shoved his free hand into his hair, finding a true travesty of tangled strands, full of hard pellets of the gods-knew-what.

‘Youaremad,’ he admonished himself. ‘They’ve done it. Tipped you over the edge.’

Find the prophet.

‘Stop!’He pressed his hands to his ears. Not much of a defence, considering the voice wasinsidehis head.

But no. No. This was all wrong. The Morrigan could not know this voice to mimic it so well.

Find the prophet.

There was steel in the command, as though all the previous utterances were a warm up.

With his hands still over his ears, Pitch leaned into the wall.

‘Is it truly you?’ He was hushed, as near to silent as one could be and still say something.

Find the prophet.

The watch jerked hard enough to pull his hand from his ear. Go. Onward. A lump sat at the back of Pitch’s throat, intent on keeping him as light-headed as he’d been when the Dullahan’s horse kicked him in the head.

Find the prophet.

Pitch curled his fingers as licks of anger curled about his mood. He glared down at the tiny smear of pink skin that was the only telltale of where he’d buried the watch. Seraphiel’s trinket.

Seraphiel’s voice.

And what if I refuse?He snarled his thought.

Gods. To hear the angel’s voice after so long…after so much fucking devastation.

It felt to Pitch as though the corset he wore were shrinking, the whale bone trying to come together until he was so narrow of waist he could not even think of breathing. He closed his eyes.

Wanting to hear more, terrified he would do so.

There was deep, copious silence.

His arm twitched once more, gathering up to cramp again. He took a step forward, hoping to any gods that were still holy that it was the right direction.

And promptly tripped.

‘Fuck, bloody…what the blazes?’

A tree root, of all things. Bulging out of a crack in the floorboards, thick as a hound’s tail, and the hue of cedarwood.

Find the prophet.

Seraphiel’s voice came at precisely the moment the watch’s violent downward motion forced Pitch to drop into a crouch. His hand was drawn towards the root where it peeked like an inquisitive worm. The arrow wound in his thigh screamed indignation at his position, he was tired beyond all reason, and it was incredibly tempting not to just fall on his arse right there and sleep. A movement further up the passageway drew his gaze.

A bulge of dirt pushed through fine seams in the floorboards, bubbling up like a strange fountain. With it, the emergence of another root. Or the very same one perhaps, snaking beneath the surface. Another appeared further along, like a sprout in spring, reaching towards the light. The flicker of movement continued for as far as he could see along the ever-darkening corridor.