Page 109 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

How had Iblis stayed hidden from the Order, and for so long?

The slowly healing marks of the Dullahan’s whip twinged, as though to answer that for him. It was possible the Unseelie Court had sheltered Iblis and his fledgling sorcerers. That was exactly the sort of meddling bullshit the Erlking thrived on. Plaguing a world he’d long been banished from was a favoured pastime, with no more purpose than to stir trouble.

Pitch scratched absently at his arm, digging his nail into the fragile scar. Vaguely aware that his arm hurt enormously.

By Enoch’s taint, they had been fools. Outplayed at their own game when it came to disguise. Evidently Satty’s elixir had a competitor, one potent enough to keep an angel hidden in plain sight.

Dr Severs was not a purebred nor a sorcerer. There was a damned good reason why the doctor had been so proficient with those ancient Arcadian words he spouted to cast his magick. It was his native tongue.

The kitsune adjusted his jacket and glanced up the corridor. Pitch brought the flame to hand, wincing as the burn reached around the trinket.

The kitsune looked away, searching the other end of the corridor. He had no fucking idea Pitch stood just feet away.

A deep, resonate groan moved through the Sanctuary, like a great beast slumbered beneath it and muttered in its sleep.

Weatherby’s fright was evident, his nose twitching, the hand that played at his collar tightening around the starched fabric.

‘Shit,’ he whispered. ‘Get on with it, Weatherby, old chap.’

Theold chapshook himself like a dog banishing water from a pond. His clothes flew from him like they’d been pasted on and the glue had failed. There was the same popping sound as there had been in the ballroom, a dull surge of light, and the kitsune was transformed.

A black fox now stood in the corridor, with its three bushy tails waving about like pussy willows caught in a breeze. The kitsune snapped its jaws, long pink tongue darting to swipe at a gleaming button-black nose. He darted straight at Pitch.

Instinct should have had him readying for attack, but here instead it urged quiet. Stillness. Pitch stayed his hand, teeth set hard against the unnerving sting of the watch.

Without a glance up, Weatherby swerved just before he would have struck Pitch’s legs. The kitsune trundled off at fast clip down the corridor without pause and vanished before Pitch had spun about.

‘What the blazes…’ The incessant pinching at his skin eased, the calamity inside stepping down a notch. Pitch rubbed at his arm, the ache fading. ‘If I’d known it could do that,’ Pitch grumbled, ‘I’d have fucking well used it to get into the Sanctuary to begin with.’

Floorboards creaked behind him.

He spun about. The tree root had returned, pushing through cracks all the way down the middle of the passageway, now with a webbing of finer roots spreading from the main shoot like pulpy spiderwebs. The kitsune had prattled on about a tree during his chitchat with Iblis, a tree with formidable magick. Pitch massaged the muscle around the watch, felt the hardness of it beneath the skin.

‘What the fuck are you up to, Raph?’ he muttered. ‘Am I finding a lieutenant or a bloody tree?’

Find the prophet.

‘Oh fucking gods, I’m sick of the sound of that. Answer my –’

A roar this time.Find the prophet!Louder than a horny garuda’s mating cry. Pitch clamped his hands against the side of his head.

‘Shit…bloody…gods, stop! I’ll go. I’ll go. But you give me something first. Tell me the ankou is unharmed. I’ll not move another step until – ahh!’

A violent tug at his ankle jerked him forward. The spray of fine roots had wrapped it tightly. And their message was decidedly clear.

Move on.

A fine, slithering section of roots crept over his bare foot, surprisingly warm against his skin. He kicked out, tearing them loose.

‘Enough. I don’t need to be dragged.’ The roots shrank from him, laying themselves upon the ground and untangling themselves from his booted ankle. ‘Is he all right? Tell me. And I’ll move.’

He braced, ready to be yelled at again. There was silence but much movement. Ahead, the roots swayed upwards in one great bouquet, tangling up in each other, gathering in on themselves, weaving and ducking.

Knitting themselves into a shape that had Pitch’s pulse skipping.

Silas’s scythe swayed before him, a topiary of roots that Harvington Hall’s gardener would have been proud of. The scythe tilted forward, tapping its point towards the far reaches of the corridor up ahead.

‘He’s that way?’ Pitch was already striding forward. ‘Show me the way. Don’t dally about it.’