Page 72 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Pitch glowered, hoping she could see all the vicious things he wished to do to her in his eyes. The wildness rolled in his hatred, eating at it greedily. ‘Lady Satine will not think much of your treatment of her Horseman.’

The ankou twitched and moaned behind clenched teeth. He was trying his best, but for Pitch, each sound he made rang as loudly as a church bell on a Sunday morn.

‘A pity both her Horsemen forgot their horses,’ Macha returned. ‘The Order must have turned half of London upside down searching for you by now. I almost wish I could be there to see it. But I like the view better here, I think. Lady Satine will know soon enough that her time of keeping us from the Watcher King is over.’ Macha stretched her arms overhead, rolling her shoulders. The cloak slid back to reveal a tunic, dark as tar like all the rest, over her trousers. The basic attire of the country folk. ‘Samyaza’s call grows stronger each day. Neither Satine nor the angels she serves can keep us from him much longer. Not now I have all I –’

‘Macha, my dear.’ Onoskolis reached again for the sorceress, entwining their fingers. ‘Careful now.’

Macha raised their joined hands and kissed at the daemon’s knuckles. ‘I merely wish them to know a few paltry Horsemen will not be enough to keep us at bay.’ She dropped Onoskolis’s hand like it burned her. ‘But don’t interrupt me again, Oni. I really don’t like it.’ Pitch relished the sudden rebuke for the way it clearly irritated the Alp. Macha returned to him. ‘No matter who you are or what pretty fires you can start, you and your ankou are not enough, Mr Astaroth.’

‘You seem so very sure of that.’

Macha peered down her nose at him, tapping her foot. ‘Feel free to convince me otherwise, for I’m quite underwhelmed so far.’ She glanced over at where Silas struggled to keep his head much above a few inches from the ground. ‘Oni insists you give a shit about this sod and that it pains you no end to see him hurt so.’ She huffed. ‘But your man has his ribs on show crying like a babe, and you’re just kneeling there with a piss-weak little flicker of flame and doing fuck all about it. I wanted to see you glow, little daemon.’ She actually stamped her foot. ‘He’s no fun at all, Oni.’

‘The naming, Macha.’ The Alp was gentle with her reminder. ‘Do you remember that is what you wished to do next?’

‘Yes, yes. Of course I bloody remember.’ Her lips twisted as she studied Pitch awhile longer. ‘You had best glow for me before the others arrive to seal you away. I want to see your pretty colours. It’s not fair that the others have seen them and I have not.’

The Alp darted a look at Pitch, who gave her his widest, brightest smile. He was seeing what she clearly hoped he had missed; her mistress was volatile and quite unhinged.

‘They will be here before long,’ she muttered. ‘Come now. Don’t you want to see them run like rats in the maze?’

Macha let out a delighted squeal. ‘Did Palatyne have time to do the oubliettes, do you know?’

His already-tormented skin prickled ever more. Oubliettes were this world’s paler version of an abaddon. Deep prisons where inmates were sent to be forgotten. The flame darted against his ribs, testing soft places for escape.

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Onoskolis said. Pitch stopped breathing as her gaze brushed him. He’d not be seen to tremble. ‘But then the Sanctuary itself shall be close enough to one when the seals are in place.’

Macha nodded, pleased. ‘Weatherby, gather what I need now please,’ she called.

The kitsune had been so quiet and still that he’d blended into the walls it seemed. Pitch had no idea he’d remained in the room until he suddenly stepped forward, adjusted his coat, and promptly shifted his form.

His clothes peeled away, like skin from an orange. There was a pop, a dull spring of light like a torch passing behind frosted glass, and the creature was on all fours, scampering across the room, his trio of tails sweeping about like a thick peacock’s tail. His pointed ears were too big for his head, and the single streak of white upon one of his bushy tails reminded Pitch of a skunk rather than a fox.

Weatherby made his headlong way, straight at Pitch.

Barely was there a chance to tell the pathetic creature to fuck off and Weatherby was lunging, jaws agape, yellowed teeth glistening wet. His damp nose brushed Pitch’s neck first, then the kitsune laid his teeth in, biting down and tearing free a sizeable chunk of flesh.

‘You fucking piece of basilisk shit!’ Pitch roared. He let the flames erupt from his hands and realised quickly how utterly useless that was, for it only scorched the floorboards, threatening to set them alight. He curled his bloodied hands while fresh, warm blood ran down the side of his neck. What the blazing fuck was that all about?

‘Good boy. Bring it to me now,’ Macha directed.

Rather than run at the dais, Weatherby shot past his pile of clothes and rushed straight out of the ballroom doors that swung wide to accommodate his departure.

‘I am not the only one anxious to acquire your company, Mr Astaroth.’ Macha set the Dullahan’s head on her chair, shifting some lengths of hair that had fallen across the blood-red eyes. ‘The Unseelie Court and the bluecaps are close cousins. The Erlking was very, very unhappy about what you did in those mines. I mean he was rather miffed you killed them all, but worst of all, you reneged on your deal with their queen, an unforgivable insult to all the races of fae. They do not like a cheat.’ She tutted. ‘The oath you broke with the bluecaps now belongs to the Erlking. You are rightfully his property to claim now, Mr Astaroth. Aren’t you honoured? Being so sought after by so many?’

Fucking gods, the Forest of Dean would never cease to plague him. ‘The best of luck to him in claiming me.’

She shrugged. ‘He’s aware it is unlikely, but very happy to add to your misery during your stay with us. And as the Unseelie Court has been so good to us, who am I to deny His Majesty?’

‘Who indeed?’

This stupid bitch could talk the spines off a hedgehog. Pitch glanced at Silas.

The ankou was more upright, slumped back on his heels, but his head hung far too low, and his body swayed too much. The Alp whore was right about one thing. Itdidpain him to see Silas so, like a butcher’s hook sinking deep into his chest. The ankou turned his head as though sensing Pitch’s gaze. With his hair cut short, there was no hiding behind its strands. The agony was writ large across Silas’s face, glazing his eyes, pinching at the corners of his mouth.

The wildness hit Pitch deep down, a blow that caused him to shudder. And he struggled to remember why he should not just let the inferno loose.

‘No…Pitch,’ Silas wheezed.