Page 90 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Silas wiped at the cascade of sweat running down his temples. The heat from the flaming corpse was overwhelming, but he kept himself edged as near to Pitch as he could bear, adding another shield to protect the daemon from whoever lurked out there with their nefarious bow and arrows. Arrows that taunted.

And aimed to push a fatigued and fearful daemon to his limit.

‘We should head for that passageway,’ Silas said. ‘Can you run, do you think?’

‘And go fucking where?’ Pitch’s flamed snapped with his irritation. ‘If they wish to see how pissed off I can get, then so be it. Stand aside, ankou.’

Silas shuddered at the impersonal naming. The daemon was losing himself.

‘Hold on to your temper, Pitch, I beg you.’

‘I’m tired of holding back, Mercer.’ The flame poured from the prince’s fingertips, his upraised arm shaking. ‘I don’t give a fuck what becomes of this Sanctuary…the asylum…or anyone in it.’

His eyes were entirely consumed now, heated furnaces that could melt any who dared to look into them too long. The prince’s rage, and rage it was, rolled off him in searing waves of heat.

Silas couldfeelthe prince drifting from him.

‘Of course you bloody care.’ Silas was steely. ‘That is your fury talking, and it does not own you, Pitch. Do notletit rule you.’

Pitch glared at Silas, and it was so bloody hard to stare into that sun. A rippling beneath the prince’s skin contorted his features, as though the beast he spoke of, the wildness he feared was not entirely his but something placed there, lurked just beneath the surface, seeking escape.

‘Don’t you dare lose yourself, Tobias. You must not be overcome…by any of them.’ Suddenly Silas was furious – at the Morrigan, at the daemon for not fighting harder, at himself for the very same fault. Silas grabbed Pitch’s collar and shook him. ‘God damn it, Pitch. You are stronger than any blasted angel or sorcerer. I’ve seen it. I know it. Do not leave me. I’ll not lose you. I cannot.’

The prince’s expression changed at once from murderous to disoriented. Traces of jade pierced through the furnaces. He blinked like he’d been staring too hard at his own flame. And the torrent of fire coming from his extended hand stuttered, the burning shell of the teratism dipping almost to the ground.

‘Why are you shaking me?’ His temper still crawled beneath his words, but Silas was not a pile of cinders, so there was that.

Silas exhaled a lengthy breath. ‘I thought you’d kill me for sure if I slapped you.’

‘Too right.’ Pitch’s eyes widened. ‘Look out!’

He slammed himself against Silas, throwing the much larger man off his feet. What seemed like an army of arrows whisked overhead, one catching at the hairs atop Silas’s head as he was hurled sideways. Pitch discarded his teratism shield and let loose with bursts of flame from each hand, merciless fireballs that lit up the courtyard. In the brilliant glare, Silas caught a glimpse of a figure standing in the archway that was the target of Pitch’s assault. Clad in black of course, masked as well, the only difference here was their shield. The colour of bone and just as dull, but the black lines carved into it gleamed like polished onyx, the sigils all too clear.

Despite the hurtling, oncoming flames, they did not move.

As the glare brightened, the stonework around the archer shimmered, duplicating itself, knitting fragmented pieces together in a blur of movement.

Pitch’s flames hit a solid wall of brick and were immediately repelled.

‘Oh shit.’ Pitch dove in front of Silas, placing himself in the way of the roaring returned daemonic flame. He raised his arms out to his sides, both limbs entirely on fire, forming a barrier behind which Silas stared, gobsmacked and dripping with sweat. The heat was phenomenal. He should have covered his head, perhaps cowered a little. But Silas could not drag his eyes away. And the daemon would never let him burn.

Pitch’s returning flame struck him. The prince staggered. There was a hissing sound, like water poured on hot coals, as the returned fire was absorbed back into the prince and sank back down to wherever it lay within him. Pitch grunted, found his feet, and extinguished the barrier. Now there was nothing but the soft crackle of the burning teratism, the creature twitching where it lay.

Silas got to his feet slowly, wanting to touch the daemon but filled with the sense that it was best to keep his distance for now. He peered around Pitch’s still-outstretched arms. Smoke billowed from an enormous scorch mark upon the wall. But it was a wall no longer reminiscent of Goodrich Castle. Now it was entirely nondescript, simple red brickwork with mortar bulging like grey worms in places.

Pitch pressed his hands to his knees, gasping, and Silas forgot the change at once.

‘Can I touch you?’ he asked quietly.

A nod was the reply.

Gratefully, Silas laid an arm across the daemon’s shoulders, holding him steady. Good god, the heat coming from the prince’s skin was enough to warm a room on a middle-winter’s day. His slender neck was riddled now with scratches from the ivy, along with the kitsune’s fading bite. His shirt held two awful polka dots of red where the arrows had embedded so close to his heart, the blood flow making strange tie-dye patterns on the once-white material which clung to the corset beneath.

‘Tell me there was no Gu on those arrows.’ Silas’s stomach turned at the idea.

Pitch grunted and shook his head. Ash flew from his hair. ‘No. I suppose I should be grateful for that.’

Silas tucked his finger beneath Pitch’s chin, needing to look in his eyes. Verdant irises greeted him, barely a trace of ember in their depths. A tilted, unsure smile rose on Pitch’s face.