Page 86 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

‘Oh god.’ Silas sagged, his knees threatening to give.

‘Steady, almost done.’

Pitch wrapped his free arm around Silas’s waist, taking his weight while his fingers danced over the worst of the ankou’s wounds, attempting a patchwork repair. Silas endured, allowing himself only the barest of moans, clutching at the wall as though he dangled from a cliff. By the time it was done, they had both sunk to the floor, Silas now clutching at Pitch’s arm about his waist, leaving marks sure to bruise.

‘It’s done, it’s done.’ Pitch kissed Silas’s shoulder, resting his head there as the ankou breathed heavily beneath him. ‘Well done.’

‘Thank you,’ Silas whispered.

‘See how terrible the scarring is before you get all thankful.’

Silas pulled his nails from Pitch’s arm, reaching back to find the daemon. His hand landed on Pitch’s arse, and he gave it a squeeze. Pitch kissed his bloodied shoulder again. The waft of burnt flesh did not manage to stifle Silas’s earthy scent entirely.

‘We should keep moving,’ the ankou said.

‘Can you stand?’

‘I can.’

Pitch helped him to his feet and tugged one of the torches from its bracket, just in case their hosts decided on plunging them into darkness again. They headed in the only direction afforded to them.

Silas seemed better able to keep up with the pace Pitch set and was not leaning so heavily upon the wall as he went. They walked on. The entire place was silent, and Pitch longed to hear something, anything, that would distract him from what he knew to be true.

That he had led Silas beyond reach of the Order and into intolerable danger.

‘Did that cause you any pain?’ Silas’s voice, coming from close behind, made him jump. ‘Using the flame on my back?’

‘No.’

‘There was no strain on the amuletum?’ he whispered.

‘No.’

The ankou grunted, clearly not believing a word, but fell back into quietness.

Of course there had been a damned strain on the amuletum. But he was certain Silas wasn’t lugging about a vial of the stuff as he’d been on their misadventure to Devon, so why worry him with something that could not be changed?

Pitch needed to choose his use of the flame wisely. The Morrigan, blast them, knew what state he was left in when the beast within slipped its chains. He was less sure they knew of Silas’s calming influence in such matters. But if they did, was being left together now just another cruel play? Would they whip the ankou away at the very moment Pitch would need him most? Strike Silas down and then sit back and watch as a Dominion lost his infernal mind?

A touch to his shoulder had Pitch stifling a scream.

‘It is just me, it’s all right,’ Silas said. ‘I thought you had stopped because you see it too.’

Pitch had no idea he’d come to a standstill. ‘See what?’

‘Where they have put us.’ Silas pointed slightly upward.

Pitch’s gaze first went to the lengths of ivy that coated the walls. The tunnel had given way to an open area with high walls made of imposing stone stretched high above them and no roof in sight. Further along the way lay a great pile of fallen stones, the remnants of a wall that had collapsed, the opening now a gaping hole in the structure. An all-too-familiar place.

‘Goodrich.’

‘Mm-hm. This is where we climbed in.’ As though Pitch might not recognise where he’d carried a trembling ankou on his back.

‘We need to keep moving.’

Silas nodded, though he seemed intent on where his fingers dug into the gaps between the pillow-sized bricks. He was thoughtful as he pulled his hand away.

Pitch quickened their pace along the cluttered corridors of Goodrich Castle…or at least, the illusion of the castle. The ivy was memorable enough, clogging up the pathways more and more as they moved, catching at his toes and causing him to trip and curse more than once.