Page 9 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

‘Shit,’ Silas muttered low beneath his breath.

A tawny owl landed upon the stone seat near the gate, grand talons clacking against the hard surface, enormous dark eyes wide and unblinking, fixing on Pitch as it landed. It held a mouse in its curved beak, the critter clearly no longer living.

And the bird was not alone.

Another shape descended, wings spread wide. Another owl, though this one was mostly white as fresh-fallen snow, with a little dappling upon the wings, and much larger than the first. It had not yet landed when Silas heard the first notes. A serpentine tune reminding him of wind whistling through treetops. He found himself thinking of moonlit nights, the scent of cedar, and rain on moss-carpeted soil.

Djinn. Snowy owl shifter.

At least one part of the melody’s naming was obvious enough.

The creature flapped its wide wings, stirring a wind towards them that had Pitch pushing errant strands of hair from his face and muttering unhappily.

‘Always so dramatic.’

There was a rustling, like a wheat crop caught in a breeze, followed by a flurry of white, as though the owl had suddenly come apart, feathers threatening to scatter in all directions. But the sudden blur of white settled like a blizzard easing, and there in the place of the owl stood a willowy, very naked man. His skin held an odd tinge of grey, as though there were storm clouds beneath the surface. Between his legs there was the barest hint of a cock, nothing of balls, and instead of pubic hair, he had downy feathers. His hair was long, falling nearly to his waist, and hanging in heavy locks that resembled an actual bird’s nest, twigs and feathers and hair intertwined.

‘Ankou…daemon.’ The djinn’s voice was raspy as a parrot’s. His eyes had not shifted to resemble anything remotely humanlike, far too round and far too big to be anything but disconcerting. And his lips were dark grey as though rubbed with ash.

‘Marcus.’ Pitch slipped the wicker basket from Silas’s suddenly slackened grasp. ‘I thought you must have been hibernating, it’s been a while.’

‘Owls don’t hibernate.’

‘Well, you’re not an average owl though, are you?’

‘I have been in Devon.’ Marcus’s head turned, or rather swivelled, to face the other owl, which still stared at Pitch. ‘The tawny wishes to thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘Saving his son. At the witch-bottle house. You released him from a cage.’

That comment pulled Silas from his mannerless stare. He recalled the owl in the cage very well. And this bird might not be so pleased to know his son had witnessed Silas sticking his tongue down the daemon’s throat and his hands down his pants.

The tawny owl spread its wings and glided to land at Pitch’s feet, where it dropped the mouse before him.

‘He thanks you,’ Marcus said.

Pitch wrinkled his nose. ‘Oh…all right, then.’

‘You need to accept the gift.’

‘Yes, yes, I accept it.’

‘You need to pick it up.’

‘That’s not going to happen.’

The djinn managed to look angered without narrowing his enormous eyes. Silas decided to put a quick end to things. He went to one knee before the tawny owl and scooped up the still-warm body of the mouse.

‘This is a generous gift.’ He bowed his head. ‘We are glad to hear your son is well, and very happy we could set him free.’

He glanced up at Pitch. The prince was giving him a quizzical look. ‘You do grovel well, don’t you?’

‘It is a generous gift. This is a decent meal he has parted with.’ Silas curled his fingers about the dead mouse. It did not irk him to do so. In fact, it felt entirely natural to hold the dead critter.

The tawny owl swung its head to look up at the djinn. It released a call, soft hoots that varied in length.

‘The tawny is pleased,’ Marcus said. Silas wondered if the djinn was cold, for it was a very cool evening and the shape-shifting gentleman wasveryunclothed. ‘He wants me to tell you that although the daemon’s flames were very pretty and he was right to burn that house, the ankou is far nicer and should not waste his time playing with the daemon’s –’