Page 85 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

‘With what? Do you have a hot poker in your pocket I don’t know about?’

‘I thought…maybe…you could use your flame.’

‘You want me to set fire to your open wounds?’

‘Cauterise…not set fire, thank you. The procedure is simple. Humankind has used it for centuries.’

Pitch shook his head in astonishment. ‘Not using the creation fire from beneath the Ophanim throne, they haven’t.’ He glowered. ‘And certainly not using a flame that’s been manipulated by a lunatic angel. I’m not burning you, Silas. Don’t be an idiot. You don’t want me for your nursemaid, I assure you. You said yourself you just need time.’

Pitch edged around the ankou, pushing at the door, which swung open easily for him. He stepped out into a tunnel with the same rough stone walls, only here there were lit torches set along the way. And it struck him again, the sense of familiarity with this setting.

Silas followed after him, dragging his stupid idea with him. Actually, it was not a terrible idea at all, only the suggested execution was awful.

‘Here.’ Pitch flourished a hand towards the wall. ‘I can grab a torch and set it to your back, if you like?’

‘You know that’s not how it works. We’d need a cautery. Could you not use your hand, your fingers perhaps?’ His slight shrug said he was not any surer of this than Pitch.

‘How much blood have you lost, Mercer? You are talking nonsense.’ Though not entirely. The idea was not without some merit.

‘A great deal, I think. I’m starting to hear voices. Will you not consider it?’ Then Silas cut right to the chase. ‘You just need to tell me if it is too much for you. I know that encounter with the Dullahan must have taxed you.’

‘It’s not too much. I’m not a helpless fop.’

‘Then you do not trust yourself to do it?’ He was gentle with the accusation.

Pitch whirled to face him, stepping up close now so he could hiss his reply. ‘No. I do not. Not here. They are seeking to unhinge us, Silas. Unhingeme. There is too much uncertainty.’ He stared up at Silas. He was so close to the ankou that Silas’s breath caressed Pitch’s forehead. There had been a subtle change in Silas since the greensward, a hardening of his resolve. He was not so afraid as he’d been, not of their enemies at least. But sometimes Pitch thought he caught a glimpse of a different sort of fear lurking in Silas’s eyes. The pained glances he sent Pitch every now and then. Silas had learned more of himself than he was saying, and he was not happy about all the memories.

‘Pitch, please help me. I can’t…’ He paused, his eyes taking in every inch of Pitch’s face. Silas ran his tongue over his bottom lip before continuing. ‘What will unhinge me is anything happening to you while I am stumbling about like an invalid. Christ, Pitch. Failing Charlie is bad enough. Failing you…I’d break, and Izanami herself could not put me back together again.’

Pitch stared at him, mouth agape and his reply a knotted lump at the back of his throat. What the blazes did Silas expect him to say to that? This was not the time for sappiness and sweet nothings. The ankou was certifiable.

‘Turn around.’ Pitch was hoarse. ‘If this hurts, do not blame me.’

‘I won’t blame you, I promise.’ Silas’s gentle smile was infuriating. He turned around and planted his hands upon the wall, digging his fingers into the stone, keeping his feet further out so he was tilted at an angle that saw his arse nearer to the centre of the passageway. ‘I’m ready.’

Pitch blinked. If he ignored the blood and flayed skin and dire circumstances, the ankou presented quite a picture. One worth returning to if they survived this.

‘Pitch?’

‘Yes, yes. Gods, are you in that much of a hurry for pain? I didn’t peg you for a masochist.’

‘Get on with it.’ Silas rubbed at his ear. ‘Are you hearing anything?’

‘Apart from your heavy breathing? No. It’s altogether too quiet. Are you?’

‘I think so. Whispers. Since we passed through the wall.’

‘The teratisms maybe?’

‘No. Different to that. There’s no melody…’ He shook his head. ‘Never mind that now. Maybe it’s another of Macha’s games. I’m ready when you are. Just do what you can, no more.’

Pitch summoned up the flame, bringing it to the tips of his fingers until they glowed as surely as any cautery. He glared at his own power. This rickety, unreliable power that the Morrigan knew was his greatest strength and most formidable weakness. So help him, if they chose now to test him, he would turn the fucking fire on himself and be done with this whole damned mess.

‘I’ll count to three.’

Silas shifted on his feet but said nothing.

On two Pitch pressed his fingers into the ankou’s ravaged flesh. Silas bucked, hissing and whimpering behind pressed lips as Pitch melted his body in the name of repair. The stench was awful, but Pitch kept his breathing measured, his hand steady, for if the ankou must bear the pain, he could at least bear the odour. He touched his fingers to the worst of the bleeds, where the pulse of blood from the vein was visible to the eye, like a tiny water pump at work.