Page 26 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

‘Where have you sent him?’

A sound of annoyance came from the mouth nibbling at his jawbone. ‘That doesn’t seem important right now.’

Pitch’s laughter was sugar and spice and all things very nice.

In the alleyway, a shadow stretched long, shifting from wide and squat to narrower, as though someone approached from somewhere further along but was still hidden behind the wooden fence which separated the courtyard from the alley.

‘I suppose not,’ Pitch said. ‘Do you suppose he’s in a straitjacket? Chained to his bed perhaps?’ He made sure to let his shiver be felt, the note of glee behind his words to be heard.

Fothergill’s breathing grew heavier. ‘If I didn’t know any better, Miss Cargill’ – his hold tightened – ‘I’d say the idea rather excites you.’

That was Pitch’s intention. To appeal to the man’s beastlier nature. But he had misstepped. Not for the man but for himself. It was too soon to speak so flippantly of being restrained.

‘Would you think me terrible’ – Pitch had to pause to cough the words forth – ‘if I said it did rather?’

‘I’d think you only more glorious.’

‘Well, then tell me…what is it like, where Edward is?’ He sucked in his breath, biting at his lip. ‘Is it frighteningly awful?’

Mr Fothergill’s grin was savage, ravenous. ‘Dr Severs was all for Hanwell Asylum when I put word out we needed matters dealt with. But the chap changed his mind at the last minute. Fulbourn, he said. That is the place. Cambridgeshire, so not so terribly far away if by some miracle his mother wished to see him, but far enough he can be put out of mind. Cheaper, as well. Haven’t been there myself, but they say it’s near to bursting at the seams with lunatics. I suppose they wouldhaveto chain them to keep control of things.’

Pitch dutifully made himself heavy-lidded, swooning on hearing such a lurid tale. ‘Oh my, how ghastly,’ he gasped.

Fothergill slid around to stand in front of him, and just as he got in the way of the view outside, Pitch thought he glimpsed a body moving by, a member of the household staff perhaps, or a police officer making the rounds. They seemed a large enough fellow. He had the strangest urge to wave at them. Gain their attention and…and bloody what? Have them come and beat off the manhewas seducing?

Gods damn it. He was tired of this room, and this prick. Both the man himself and his appendage.

He’d purposely chosen a line of conversation that would reduce Fothergill to a near-mindless mush willing to say anything at all so long as it got him beneath Pitch’s skirts, and it had worked perfectly well. An incubus at his best, manipulating the fellow superbly. Why then did Pitch feel so unbearably hot, the corset painfully tight? Why was he damned well trembling?

Curse that fucking tincture.

No more champagne. Until next week at least. Pitch’s gaze drifted over the man’s shoulder, searching the alleyway again. Looking for sign he was not alone. He frowned at the strange thought.

Fothergill cupped his chin, seeking Pitch’s full attention. He breathed in short pants, his pupils blown wide. ‘Shall I tieyoudown, my dear? Would you like that?’

A wave of bitter, foul memory crashed through Pitch’s skull.

Fuck.

No.

He would not like that in the least.

He moved to say so, to finish this charade, but Fothergill caught him unawares, shoving him so hard he was instantly off balance and came crashing down onto the desk. The back of his head cracked against the wood, and his vision burst with white stars. He stared up at the ceiling, where cracks in the plaster work looked, for one dazed moment, to be like faint sigils. His entire body went rigid, as though every joint had fused.

No, no, no!He shouted it inwardly.

Heknewthose lines were merely the cracks they appeared. There was no magick here, no Alp daemon toying with him. But sense was cowering beneath cold, consuming panic.

‘Get off me.’ Someone very, very far away was saying it. Were they his words? ‘Get off me.’

Dazed, and with his own mind disabling him, he barely struggled against Fothergill as he shoved in between Pitch’s legs, grabbing at taffeta, bullying his way in where he was very much not wanted. One swing, one paltry burning palm and he could have this cretin on his arse. Off of him. Pitch rolled his aching head side to side, avoiding the open mouth sinking towards him.

Pitch blinked, not sure if he was breathing or not. His pulse thumped in his ears. The shadow over him loomed larger, distorted. Pressure came to his chest. An unbearable weight.

For a terrible moment, he thought he glimpsed her again. Onoskolis grinning at him, taking him over, stealing his control. Laughing as she took what was not hers to have.

‘Get off me.’ His protest melted into nothing.