Page 92 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

‘Is that what shall happen to me if I step out of line again?’ he quipped.

‘Macha has tormented that soul long enough. I’ll not see her monsters being made to suffer any longer than they must.’

The prince’s full lips pressed into a thin line. Silas flinched. Replace Macha with Seraphiel, and he could have been talking about Pitch.

The sharp clip of hooves upon cobblestones rang out, and the high whinny of a horse bounced along the only remaining passageway on the far side of the courtyard. Gooseflesh rose along Silas’s arms.

‘The Dullahan…again already?’

‘Fuck.’ Pitch wrapped his hands about his middle. ‘Silas, I can’t face him right now, nor can you. And if he catches me too weakened, there’s a chance…’

Silas stared at him. ‘Surely that was puerile nonsense spoken about the Dullahan claiming you for the Erlking?’ He waved his hand near the faint wound on Pitch’s neck. The kitsune’s attack and Macha’s talk of Pitch’s oath to the bluecap queen being owned now by the Erlking had come as he’d barely clung to consciousness after the Dullahan’s whipping. It was all terribly vague. ‘I don’t recall precise details about the Unseelie Court –’

‘Well, I assure you, all fae are ridiculously precious about oaths made to them, and the Unseelie particularly so.’

‘You are too strong for them surely –’

‘Not always.’ Pitch set his teeth into the words. ‘You of all people know that. And if the Erlking has played a part in keeping the sorcerers hidden from the Order for untold years, I am not keen to test the limits of what else his court is capable of right now. Are you moving us through the wall or not?’

Silas braced against the wall, which felt less like coarse brick and more like a dry sponge beneath his palms. This time he did not hesitate. There was no need. There was no time.

He honed in on the wail of the lost souls and allowed their despair to fill his senses. With shoulders set and the daemon tucked at his side, Silas pushed into the red brick.

The Sanctuary worked against him, a thick, syrupy sensation that pushed and fought back, refusing to be manipulated by him.

But it was not enough.

There had been a shift within, strengthening him. Silas had felt it with the snap of the first teratism’s neck. Like a rusted lock finally giving way to the insistent jostling of a key.

They fell through the wall, barely keeping their feet as it gave way and tumbled them into a small room, wood beneath their feet, the cobbles vanished. Silas kept his arm about the prince, aware he may need to rush them on again.

A simple bedroom lay before them, where a single window was covered by a thin length of cloth, making the room dim. There was a low chest of drawers with a tarnished mirror opposite a wood-framed bed set over a rug of startling white fur. Upon the mattress, a figure lay flat upon his back, naked as the day he was born, with arms splayed as though he’d fallen, exhausted, and not bothered to settle in properly. His fists were tight bunches, one grasping at the corner of a pillow that lay askew. The sheet beneath him was rumpled and had tugged free of one of the corners, while a top sheet tangled itself around his lower legs. He lay with his head turned away from them, the hair about his temples flecked with grey and damp against his skin. His member, only half slackened, was such a pronounced shade of pink that Silas could not help but notice it nor the dampness upon the skin that glistened under the glow of a sagging cluster of candles perched on a mantel over a small fire.

Silas averted his eyes, mortified by what felt like a blatant intrusion upon a very intimate moment. In looking away, his eyes fell upon Pitch. He frowned at the uncertain horror writ upon his face.

‘Pitch?’

‘Shit.’ The prince tried to free himself from Silas’s hold. ‘Let me go, damn it.’

‘What is it?’

‘Not what…who.’ Pitch pulled from Silas’s slackened grasp and took a couple of limping steps towards the bed.

‘Pitch, be careful.’ The room held a stifled but scentless air he did not like. The fire in the hearth did not dance as it should either. The flames were too bolt upright, like stiffened orange soldiers. ‘We cannot trust this place.’

‘I’m aware.’ His voice was tight. He took another step but did not place his boots on the pristine white fur rug. ‘Edward?’

Silas took a startled step forward, moving so he might see more of the man’s face, trying to stifle the silly flicker of something akin to jealousy that came with Pitch recognising the lieutenant so intimately.

The man shifted, and Pitch stepped back. The supine man rolled onto his side, and Silas sucked in a harsh breath. There was no doubt it was Edward, though the man looked more hollowed out than when Silas had last seen him. The shadows beneath his grey eyes were darker, certainly, and he’d lost enough weight about his face to make his cheeks sink in above the rough scraggle of three-day growth.

‘Tobias.’ The lieutenant pressed a hand into the mattress and made his wobbly way onto his knees. The rattle of a chain marked his lethargic movement, and the sheet slipped, baring his legs and revealing a shackle around one ankle. ‘You’re here at last. I’ve been waiting for you. I knew you’d come.’

He lifted his arms, reaching towards Pitch, who had moved no further. The daemon barely seemed to be breathing. In turn, Edward’s eyes were unfocused, and he swayed as he knelt there, causing his stiffened cock to rub against his belly. Silas blinked, unsure if the man had been quite so aroused a moment ago. There were scratches too that Silas must have missed in his haste to offer some modesty by looking away. They scoured the man’s belly, his chest, and worst of all, his collarbones. They were crescent-shaped wounds, the unmistakable pinch of fingernails. Silas bit his lip, feeling heat seep into his blood. He’d seen such marks before. He glanced at the daemon. The Alp had sullied Pitch’s body with the same cruel cuts.

Silas’s chest tightened. It was hard to breathe. Nearly impossible to hold on to a modicum of calm. No wonder the prince held himself so rigid.

‘Do you see where we are, Silas?’ Pitch said, holding on to each word as though they were horses threatening to bolt.