Page 28 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

FOTHERGILL BUCKLEDforward, collapsing on Pitch, his scream getting lost in folds of storm-grey fabric. Pitch grabbed a handful of the man’s jacket, readying to send him hurtling away.

A sudden tingling swept through the halo’s scar upon his back.

The discomforting crawl of something writhed beneath his skin. Fainter than he’d known it, but there nonetheless. The very same irritation he felt the moment Lucifer handed him Edward’s long-lost gift.

Pitch recognised the touch of the pendant watch before he did the person who must be carrying it.

A pair of broad hands grabbed at Fothergill’s shoulders, and the man squealed as he was dragged from atop Pitch.

‘Did he hurt you?’

Pitch stared up at the great figure of a man who stood there, practically dangling Fothergill from one hand.

‘What the bloody hell…?’ Pitch breathed.

‘Are you all right?’ Silas was clean-shaven, which was astonishing enough, but he also now sported a decidedly greyer head of hair, shorter in length too, with sharp lines clipped about his ears and baring the back of his neck. His ankou aura, a hypnotic swing of silver-grey light, was absent, but still the man was larger than life itself.

‘Your face,’ Pitch said, rather nonsensically. The absence of the ankou’s beard should be the last thing worrying him right now, but Pitch couldn’t stop staring, unable to decide if it was wonderful or somehow the saddest thing he’d ever seen. Gods, maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought. He’d gone from furious rage to dreamy contemplation in an instant.

Silas’s expression shifted just as quickly from angered to anxious. ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Have you been injured?’

‘I’m fine.’ Pitch sat up, gingerly, not so sure his head agreed with him. The ache at the back of his skull made him cringe, his recollections like tumours clinging there.

‘Set me down, this instant, you hooligan.’ Mr Fothergill was being held by a man who could mess up his face with just his pinkie finger, yet he still found a way to be a pompous git. ‘How dare you –’

‘I’d suggest you shut your mouth,’ Silas snarled. And itwasa snarl. One which Mr Fothergill paid full attention to. ‘Before I demand the police are brought into this matter.’

‘Police?’ Fothergill struggled to extricate himself from Silas’s grip, but the ankou was not yet ready to let go of the man’s collar. So he was going nowhere, raised onto his tiptoes as Silas held him high.

‘You were attempting to assault my sister.’

Pitch blinked. Sister? After all they had done in Lady Howard’s coach, in the hall, that was what Silas reached for?

‘I did no such thing,’ Mr Fothergill blustered. ‘How dare you, man. Miss Cargill, I beseech you to set this to rights.’

But Pitch had no more time for the Charters’ money man. He was well and truly done with Mr Fothergill. But Silas was another matter. Pitch was having trouble taking his eyes off him. He slipped off the table and found himself wobbly on his feet as he bent to straighten his skirts.

‘There was a terrible misunderstanding,’ he said, voice rusty. ‘In relation to Mr Fothergill’s interpretation of the word no. I’d like to go home now, if you don’t mind, Mr Cargill.’ Pitch kept his eyes lowered but peeked at Silas through his lashes. The ankou had come charging in like a horseless knight, here to save his damsel.

How silly. How bloody rousing.

But what the blazes was he doing here? Did Silas not think the daemon capable of handling this on his own? Had Lady Satine agreed and sent the ankou running? Silas’s presence was unnecessary, of course. Pitch was fine. And he would deal with the recollections of Seraphiel at a later time too. Everything wasfine.

He just wished to be out of this house.

‘Of course, my dear,’ Silas said. ‘We shall go at once.’

‘Now see here,’ Mr Fothergill blustered. ‘I’ll have you know, you have entirely the wrong –’

‘I’m not going to ask you to shut your mouth again, sir.’ Silas’s voice filled every nook and cranny in the fireless room. ‘I shall do it for you the next time, and you will not enjoy it.’

Pitch’s lips twitched. Dear gods, who was this bare-faced man, and what had he done with Silas Mercer? Pitch touched at his hair and made his way towards the door.

‘Please apologise to Mrs Charters for my sudden departure, won’t you, Mr Fothergill,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Tell her I was taken ill, too much champagne I think. I shall call on her later in the week.’

He glanced back to see Silas standing over the cowering man. The ankou was quite beautifully terrifying when he so chose. ‘We shall take our leave now, sir.’ Silas stabbed his finger into Fothergill’s chest. ‘You can count yourself lucky that my sister’s honour is more valuable to me than seeing your sorry face behind bars. But if I should hear a word of slander against her, I shall know you are the culprit and I will find you. Do you understand? Not a word of this is breathed to anyone, or you will learn very painfully what lengths I’ll go to, to protect those dear to me.’

The ankou’s words stayed Pitch’s hand where it clasped the door handle. He was not sure he’d ever beendearto anyone. Expect perhaps Edward, but the lieutenant had been led by his cock as well as any other man and had no idea what a piece of work Tobias Astaroth truly was.