Page 76 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

‘I’m all right.’ Silas gasped. ‘Just need…catch…breath.’

He slung an arm over Pitch’s shoulder. Pitch could not wrap his arm about the ankou, so he held on to Silas’s forearm, tilting himself forward as though the man were a weighty sack of potatoes he had draped over his shoulder.

‘I’m sure Charlie was sleeping,’ Pitch whispered.

But damn the ankou. He was not paying a single snippet of attention to Pitch’s attempt to redeem himself. Silas braced one hand against the wall, busy peering up and down the corridor. His frown appeared partly borne of confusion rather than just his pain.

They had landed in a corridor. Doorless and windowless, with evenly placed gas lamps throwing subtle patches of yellowed light upon a dull brown hall runner. Wood panelling along the wall reached to hip height, Pitch’s hip at least, with white plaster above. Stark, save for the crimson inkblot showing where Silas had landed. It could be a hallway in any number of homes they might have visited.

‘Did she not speak of a maze? This looks nothing of the sort,’ Silas declared. Pitch’s words had not reached his ears, and it brought a selfish pang of relief.

‘So long as it remains roomier than the oubliette she threatened, I’ll take whatever they throw at us.’ Even just saying the word made his pulse stutter.

‘You do not like them much.’

‘Oubliettes? What utter moron wouldlikethem?’

‘I saw your face when the sorceress spoke of them.’ Gentle as the proverbial fucking lamb, of course Silas was, even as blood dripped from his shirt hem. ‘I’ve heard talk of the abaddon in Arcadia…where you were imprisoned… I wonder if –’

Considering Silas would have felt Pitch tense beneath his arm, what point in denying it? ‘If I was left to rot in an inescapable tomb much like an oubliette? Wonder no more. Now shall we get on with this so we can find what we came for and leave this place?’

Silas sucked in his breath. ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’

Pitch was too irritated to admonish him for apologising. He glanced back behind them. The carpeting was just as bland there, a cheerless brown runner with a hint of black patterning through it.

‘Do you feel drawn either way?’ Silas asked. ‘Any sign of what direction to take?’

Pitch touched at his arm absently. The irritation of the pendant watch was steady and not too bothersome, all told. With the benefit of hindsight, he realised it had not grown any stronger when Edward appeared in his coffin, which should have told him there and then that the spectacle was nothing but an illusion. ‘No, but I think you have the right idea.’ Seraphiel’s trinket desired to be with Edward. Perhaps it could prove more compass than pain in the back. ‘Shall we pick a path and see what happens?’

‘Absolutely.’

Their progress was slow, to say the least. With the injury-laden ankou keeping such a miserable pace, Pitch could walk without hint of a limp. They made their way along a corridor that stretched on as far as Pitch could peer, with no deviation from the blandness. The ankou insisted on trying to keep some of his weight off Pitch’s back, despite being told numerous times it was all right to do so. Silas walked with one hand braced against the wall, pausing occasionally to cough into his sleeve, blotching it with strawberry-coloured stains.

He did so for the third time, wiping at his mouth and smearing blood over his chin in the process.

‘Don’t do that. Can you brace yourself a moment?’ When Silas nodded, Pitch manoeuvred himself around so he stood facing the ankou and tugged at his own shirt sleeve so the cuff gathered in his hand. The material was frayed and rubbed grey where it had been caught beneath the manacles. Thenekhrimanacles. So the Morrigan had arrowheadsandcuffs and chains. Not exactly a calming thought. Arrowheads might be found in private collections. There were enough of them shot during the Severance War’s beginning, but he very much doubted the chains that had been the perfect lengths to hold a slight daemon and an oversized ankou just happened to fall into their possession. Which meant someone in the sorcerer’s merry bunch of arseholes not onlyhadthe metal but knew how to forge it.

Silas swayed on his feet, and Pitch hurried to tend to him. He pressed the material-covered heel of his hand to the ankou’s chin, where the blood was thickest and dampest. He dabbed at it in what he hoped was a helpful way, very much aware of how the ankou watched him.

‘Does the flame trouble you?’ Silas said softly. ‘What of your back?’

‘Aching but no more than usual.’ Luckily Pitch was a proficient liar. ‘My little monster is back in its cage. Fear not.’

‘I don’t fear you, Pitch.’ Silas grimaced as Pitch moved to his neck, near to a gash that trickled like a stream.

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s all right, Pitch.’ But that was hardly true. Silas leaned heavily against the wall, and gods there was just so much blood coming from the man. ‘You did so very well for so long when the Dullahan was –’

‘Tearing you to shreds?’

A soft chuckle squeezed another grimace from the ankou. ‘I know it could not have been easy. You were fighting enemies within and without, but you handled yourself remarkably well. I was so bloody proud of you, finding the strength to fight against Macha’s madness and the flame. You kept your calm for so long.’

Pitch’s cheeks flushed. The ankou had found time to be proud, even whilst being flayed open by the Dullahan? Honestly, this man was beyond comprehension.

‘Well, keep your pride, for in the end you suffered needlessly for too long. The calm was never going to last. I should have acted far sooner –’

‘No. You shouldn’t have. Now both the Morriganandthe flame know it is not so easy to taunt you.’