Page 48 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Pitch opened the door; it was too amusing not to. But he did not open it so wide that the ankou was in any danger of being seen. Only, Silas didn’t know that and was making a dolt of himself trying to hide behind the low chaise and drag his clothes on.

‘Hello, Ada…Nancy.’ Pitch watched the women’s eyes flick to his hair, taking in the lack of black curls. The club owner and her paramour moved almost as one, their gaze shifting down to his corseted torso, where his nipples were still a rubbed-raw shade of red. Likely the same shade as his lips, which had enjoyed as good a ravishing as his arsehole. ‘Nothing you’ll enjoy here, I’m afraid.’

‘But someone did.’ Nancy was a giggler and had enjoyed her absinthe well. ‘Will you join us for one final drink for the evening?’

Surely it was nearer morning than evening?

‘Or are you quite exhausted now and would prefer we just show you to your room? We’ve only made up the one room. That seemed the obvious decision.’ Ada was probably grinning, but drunk as she was, she just appeared a bit mad.

Which had the Fulbourn tearing its way into Pitch’s evening, its looming spectre a cruel slap to the face of a pleasant night.

And all at once hewasexhausted, weary to the marrow. A lingering consequence of the Gu perhaps…or just the past few years of his existence slamming up against him, bitter that they’d been forgotten while the ankou fucked him senseless.

‘I can’t speak for Arthur,’ Pitch said. ‘But I think I am done for the night. Could I trouble you for a change of clothes perhaps?’

‘Another dress?’ Nancy gestured to his crumpled, stained skirt. ‘That is truly gorgeous.’

‘Wash it thoroughly and keep it, or burn it if the stains won’t shift. It’s yours, though the corset stays with me. A suit would be wonderful, if you can manage one?’

‘We’ll manage.’ Ada nodded. ‘For Arthur as well?’

Pitch glanced over his shoulder. Silas held their respective coat and cloak over his arm and was shaking out Pitch’s bodice.

‘I’m all right, thank you,’ he replied.

‘A cloth and basin of warm water will do for him,’ Pitch said, enjoying the fresh glow on Silas’s cheeks.

The women chattered about suitable attire for Pitch as they made their way back down the winding staircase. Ada planted her hands on Nancy’s shoulders, their banter easy, their affection clear.

He turned back to Silas. ‘We should try to get at least an hour or two’s sleep before we head off. I can’t imagine it’s much before dawn now.’

‘Agreed. I’m quite knackered, I have to admit.’

‘You’ve been a busy boy.’

With a roll of his eyes, Silas held up the bodice so Pitch could slip into it. ‘Are the arrangements all right with you?’ He adjusted the lacework on the high collar as Pitch began to do up the tiny sparkling buttons.

‘Arrangements?’

‘The sleeping arrangements, the one bed?’ Silas said. ‘I will not be insulted if you need some space and would rather –’

‘I would not rather.’ Pitch only bothered with half the buttons, too tired to deal with the fiddling. ‘Would you?’

The ankou was terrible at hiding his relief. ‘No. I doubt I shall ever rather again, if I’m honest.’

Pitch held out his hand. ‘Then let us go to bed, Silas.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

VASSAGO STOODupon the clifftop, the Lethe River churning so far below he could only just feel its heat. He watched the Nephilim fall: a grotesque, enormous twist of stony limbs, an unholy scream coming from the dying creature. If the fall into molten, churning fury did not kill it, the vicious wounds he’d landed with the vestige definitely would. Vassago had hunted down the Nephilim until it was exhausted, giant legs buckling beneath it. The monster had stared at him with blind eyes green as manticore piss, lidless and always glaring. The gurgled sounds coming from its rolling black tongue might have been pleas for clemency. The Nephilim had strayed too far beyond the borderline marked by the Lethe River. It had been alone on enemy territory.

And there would be no return to Elyssiam.

Vassago had struck at the towering creature, a blow that had severed a limb as hard and rocky as a mountainside and carved off much of the Nephilim’s chest with it. He had kicked the keening creature over the edge, sending it down into the river.

Now Vassago stood, his vestige held aloft, the curved blade lighting up the surrounds so brilliantly it was as though the solstice star had fallen.

He had destroyed another of Samyaza’s vile children.