Page 104 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Pitch ran his fingers over the wood, which was temperate, pleasantly dry. He rose to his feet.

‘Very well, then. Show me to this poor bastard prophet of yours.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

SILAS WINCEDas he slipped between the layers of the Sanctuary with his newfound ease, a wave of whispers coveting his eardrums. The lost souls sensed him and grew ever more hysterical because of it. They weresobloody loud, and with the distant hum of the teratisms, his mind was a jumbled mishmash of sounds.

There was little doubt he was growing closer to where the lost souls gathered.

His feet touched the ground in a brand-new chamber just as another calamitous tremor took hold of the Sanctuary. Startled, Silas stepped back, only to find nothing solid beneath his feet. He took a tumble, albeit a short one, which landed him hard on his backside. He stared up at a domed ceiling, where a trio of softly glowing stalactites bore down on him like enormous spears, casting their hue of winter-morn sky blue. He hurried to his feet, dusting off his hands and trying very hard to ignore the cacophony in his head.

For a moment, Silas thought the Sanctuary was taunting him with the illusion that he’d fallen into the chamber of the bluecaps, deep in the mines. If the Child was attempting to mimic the mines here, then they had gotten most of it very wrong.

He had stepped back off a raised platform of smoothed stone that formed the base of a monopteros. The circular colonnade was made of polished limestone and shot through with veins of cobalt. At the centre of the circular gathering of pillars was a carved statue, an angel with wings spread and lifting towards the roof, stone feathers arching over the slender, muscular body of a man with all his assets on display. And considerable assets they were. The figure’s face was perhaps not so admirable, an unsettling combination of superb beauty and severe angles. He was carved in fierce lines, mouth opened as though roaring his displeasure, eyes of ruby. Quite literally. The gems fastened into the stonework gleamed a searing red. His hair hung nearly to his waist in coils that serpentined all over his naked body. He clutched a weapon, a spear.

Silas licked his lips, his tongue catching on dry skin. He had an idea who this might be.

The Morrigan were, after all, beholden to Samyaza.

But surely that was not the cursed halo he held? The weapon that had caused all this angst to begin with could not possibly be so…well, so dull in appearance.

Their king, apparently,George whispered, confirming Silas’s suspicion without a question asked.How can a chap manage to be so ugly and yet so beautiful at once?

Silas harrumphed and nodded. The carving was indeed a juxtaposition, for despite the angered scowl and glaring eyes, there was no mistaking the beauty imbued in this sculpture. The creator obviously held a reverence for the angel, a wariness of his dangerous beauty.

‘The Watcher King,’ Silas said, for no real reason but to connect the name to the statue out loud. And in part to try to see if he could hear himself over the riotous babble in his head. The lost souls were ever so close. He would not have been surprised at all to find them all huddled in the corners of this chamber. But so far, he saw no such sight.

George shrugged dirty shoulders.We’ve heard them call ’im that. Do you ’spose this is what he actually looks like though? If the painters and sculptors who do our queen are anything to go by, then this lot are hardly going to sculpt something that’s downright ugly, even if it might be the truth.The ghost coughed, clearing a throat that had needed no such thing for a long time.Is it true, then? There’s angels about…

‘There are.’ Silas nodded, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple. The cacophony in his head was beyond intolerable. The teratisms’ notes mixed with a clamour of voices, all speaking over the top of one another and, as a result, saying little at all.

He caught coherent words only rarely.Here.And a more desperate,Help.

Does that mean there’s daemons too, then?

George’s sudden question made all the knots in Silas tighten.

‘There are.’ One of whom had barely left his thoughts since…oh hell, since the day they had first met. ‘But I dare say you have less to fear from the daemons than you do the angels.’

George gave a dramatic shiver.Can’t say that’s helpful in making me feel any better. So what can you do for them, then? The souls I mean…not the daemons.

Silas’s breath hitched, knowing which of the two concerned him the most. The last he’d seen of Pitch, the Dullahan had loomed, ready to strike the distracted daemon.

You all right, Mr Horseman Mercer? Now’s not really the time to go all woozy, if you don’t mind me sayin’.

‘I’m not woozy.’ Though hewassick with worry.

Another of the disconcerting rumbles moved through the chamber. A steady thumping sound came from beyond the monopteros, as though someone sought entry there. Either the Sanctuary was seeking to unsettle him with false sounds of carnage, or he should be truly afraid of the place caving in on him.

This place don’t seem to like you two very much. So what do we do now?

A good question indeed.

Through narrowed eyes, Silas surveyed the rest of the chamber. The walls were set with carved stone arches, one after another, side by side, like windows in an elaborate cathedral. But instead of a view of the outside world, each held a painted scene. Some were faint, others as though half-completed, but the nearest to where he stood was clear enough. Part painting, part engraving, it was set at the heart of the archway. A monstrous creature dominated the scene, with the etchwork of a forest chipped into the stone. The beast stood upright on legs that were like boulders stacked upon one another. One clawed foot pressed down on a fallen oak, the wood clearly shattered beneath the weight. The creature had massive shoulders and a bulging chest, hairless and craggy as a mountainside. The face was deep crevices of thick grey skin like folds of mud that had hardened, with eyes of onyx the size of golf balls. The creature would be tall enough to stand over a carriage and crush it underfoot.

A giant.

Silas tugged at his collar, seeking air against his skin. There was nothing to say this was a Nephilim, no plaque announcing that the grim beast was a reflection of what Silas might have become, but he did not feel well at all to look upon it. He felt as though the very sight stirred unpleasant things in a locked-away part of him.