Page 126 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Fuck. If he let go…if he bared his throat to the beast tangled about his innards, there would be consequences. Quite possibly terrible fucking ones. He might end up trapping Silas and his motley crew in this labyrinthine nightmare of a place with a Berserker Prince unleashed.

Pitch glared down at the scorched earth, sending fresh heat tearing through his fingertips, his arms aloft. He was on his knees but had no recollection of falling there.

Could he forget himself so thoroughly that he’d harm the ankou?

He’d harmed Lord Enoch’s precious Seraphiel.

He’d cared for killing far more than for seeing what was right in front of him. If he let go, he was certainly capable of killing Silas. And the bloody angel too…for a second time.

‘Fuck!’ Pitch roared, throwing his head back, trying to find a way through his own scattering thoughts.

‘Edward!’

Pitch’s head flew up at the sound of Silas’s cry. The lieutenant was crawling on hands and knees away from the ankou’s protection. He was almost beyond the curve of the blade. Charlie lunged for Edward’s foot, only to have Silas sweep an arm about his waist and gather him close.

‘The heat will kill you!’ the ankou bellowed.

‘Then help him, Silas!’

‘Edward.’ Pitch could barely spit the words clear. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

‘Hold fast.’ Edward’s eyes were twin suns. ‘They have come.’

Who the blazes werethey?

Pitch could barely hold his head up, let alone carry this burden any longer. If the Morrigan were returning to finish off what they had begun, Pitch didn’t have the strength to fight them.

Tears were scorched dry before they had a chance to fall.

What a terribly fucked-up idea it had been to ever go searching for Edward Charters. Pitch should have thrown the pendant watch back in Lucifer’s face.

Edward found a place between two of the teratisms, the creatures staring at him with fathomless onyx eyes. He clasped his hands, fingers entwined, and pressed his thumbs against his mouth. His lips moved, and fine scraps of his words reached Pitch where he bent beneath the folding weight of the Sanctuary.

The words were indecipherable, but the language was not.

The Seraphim and Archangels deemed themselves so far above every other pithy living soul that they had a language for themselves.

The lieutenant spoke the words of mighty angels, rushing them out through mortal lips. Gods, how much power had Seraphiel’s relic bestowed upon this man?

Edward unclasped his hands and slammed them against the ground. A glittering, jagged line of deep cerise appeared, like a tiny rivulet carving a narrow path through the ground. The colour altered, capturing all the hues of a winter sunrise as it flowed to a destination beyond the flames.

Pitch stared at the slender path that trailed away from him. Tiny white sparks danced off the surface, like diamonds on the boil, marking the path of the strange stream that stretched into the darkness as far as Pitch’s eyes could fathom.

It was a dramatic show. And Pitch had known one high angel who enjoyed cultivating such melodramatic displays of divine magick.

His arms sagged, threatening to lower altogether. He ached down to the marrow.

‘Pitch, higher… I can’t withstand it!’ Silas cried out.

With an effort that left him dizzy, vision blurring, Pitch raised his arms. The punch to his gut rocked him on his heels, winding him. The beast was so very eager, so very near to cracking the final hinge.

He was on the very precipice of losing himself. A choked cry escaped him. ‘Fuck.’ He hissed, blood spraying and vanishing in the heat.

He did not know Edward was there until the lieutenant was mere inches away.

Blood ran from his nostrils, making a crimson mess of his lips, and his irises were tangles of grey and umber. ‘The angel has been called for, she will find us now,’ he said damply. He raised a shaking arm.

‘Don’t touch me,’ the prince hissed.