Page 133 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

But he’dfoundEdward.

Gods. Pitch shifted, no longer so comfortable.

Even though he had watched the lieutenant cast divine magick, had seen the glint of angelfire in his eyes and heard that all-too-familiar command in his voice, Pitchstillcould not believe that the Seraph had truly returned.

Pitch had languished in an abaddon, had nearly turned himself inside out with grief and guilt, and had been cast from Arcadia believing himself a murderous, senseless creature.

And Seraphiel had lived.

He scowled.

The angel was capable of being a huge arsehole, that was no revelation. But would he go so far as to stage his own demise? He was clearly obsessed with the cursed halo, willing to try anything to undo the mistake he’d made on the Day of Ruination: hold a Dominion prince hostage and contort him to create a beast of burden for his almighty will.

But what purpose would faking his own death serve?

Pitch curled his toes, feet bare beneath the blankets.

Enoch’s rage at Seraphiel’s death had been a tangible force, as real as the heat of the creation fire the Lord of Arcadia reigned over. And Lucifer’s hatred of Prince Vassago, the one he believed the angel’s murderer, was strong enough to curdle a bucket of milk.

Both Enoch and Lucifer were in true mourning.

They believed Seraphiel dead. And there seemed small chance Enoch would not notice a deception if it existed.

Raph had died that day upon the cliff.

So what was Pitch seeing in the lieutenant? A resurrection? A haunting? Had the watch birthed something akin to a tsukumogami? If an object was old enough and handled often enough by the living, it was capable of growing a spirit, an entity that could learn to mimic the living so well it was indistinguishable from them. Maybe this wasn’t Edward or Seraphiel at all, but a spirit that knew how to mimic them both.

Pitch clucked his tongue at the idiotic notion. No spirit he’d ever known or heard of was capable of casting divine magick. They certainly weren’t capable of sending Pitch’s wildness scurrying back into its cage like a petulant bear and removing the burn from the halo’s mark with a single touch.

Pitch wriggled deeper into his blankets. He should move his arse off this seat and find the lieutenant, see what state the poor bastard was in.

I must take you there.

I know the way.

Edward’s words, spoken as the Fulbourn bore down on them. He was speaking of Seraphiel’s Sanctuary. And if it were true that the lieutenant knew the way, then he was the only one who did.

So was this why the watch bade Pitch find Edward? Seraphiel had made him a living map?

Pitch curled in on himself, wishing desperately to return to the dream. Not yet ready for another conversation with Edward…or whatever anomaly he’d become.

As though Silas sensed Pitch’s worrying thoughts, he looked up. Their eyes met. The sunshine was paltry, but it was as though the strongest beams found the ankou’s face, framing his smile. He spoke hurriedly to Charlie, who looked Pitch’s way. The lad smiled broadly, squeezing Silas’s arm as they both rose to their feet.

Go. Go.Charlie’s words were clear on his lips.

The ankou broke into a run towards the house. Towards Pitch.

He wore a coat of azure blue which fanned around his ankles as he moved, gold buttons fabulous with the touch of the sun. For a moment Pitch thought it the ankou’s favourite Inverness coat, but this one was a shade brighter and did not sit quite so perfectly upon his broad shoulders. A fine replica but the other suited him better somehow.

Silas held Pitch’s gaze, grinning like the dolt he was, until he was forced to turn with the path that led off to the left and presumably a door that would allow him inside.

Pitch sat up, fluttering his fingers as Charlie gave him a wave. The lad turned suddenly and waved again. Old Bess sauntered into view, a grey cloak covering whatever extravagance was undoubtedly beneath. He offered Charlie his arm, but Pitch did not bother to watch the pair any longer.

Silas would be here very shortly.

A stirring in his belly, like a plethora of moths had been set loose, had him running his hands across his stomach. For once it was not the wildness to blame. That tempestuous creature had not stirred since Edward’s touch. But, foolishly, Pitch would almost have preferred to feel its movements. Anything was better than this silly, nervous excitement.

He let the blankets fall into his lap. He wore a nightshirt, clean and scented with a hint of lavender. He was naked beneath it. The notion that it was likely Silas who had stripped him down and tended to him reawakened the arousal of the dream. Pitch touched at his hair, judging its state, finding it mussed and tangled, rough with horrid things still. A bath was in order. But at least his limbs seemed to have been washed down, and his face, caught in the reflection in the glass, appeared wiped clean of the Sanctuary’s smears.