Page 100 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

Pitch was eye to eye with the Exarch of Elyssiam.

‘Be honest with me.’ Iblis’s mouth moved with his master’s words, his tongue shaping the words Azazel wished delivered, words spoken in the fiercely guarded secret language of the higher angels: the Cultivators. How could he have forgotten the lilt? Seraphiel had carried on with it more times than Pitch could remember.

He slipped his heels from where they pressed against the stone to try to ease the weight on his wrists.

His tongue itched. Itched to speak of what had been done to him. Itched to reveal the secrets of Blood Lake. To be honest with the Exarch.

With each of Iblis’s resonating hums, Pitch’s mind softened. Became less his own. And though he thought he knew why– magick and all that nonsense– he cared too little to protest.

What harm in telling the Exarch of Seraphiel’s meddling? Pitch need not be loyal to a bastard who had imprisoned him, who had twisted him up inside so badly that he did not recognise himself.

He stared at Iblis, who was but a few inches away. Stared into the eyes within the eyes. Should he speak up?

He blinked, startled by a sudden image of the ankou, of Silas scowling, shaking his head. Warning Pitch to say nothing?

Why did everyone always wish to keep him silent? He wanted to talk. To be heard. He’d never had a voice.

He was property. The property of the Lord of Arcadia, of the King of Daemonkind, of the Seraphim. And none of them wished to hear their chattel speak. They preferred their servants silent. Submissive.

And besides, Silas wasn’t here. He’d lied. He’d said he would be here. Promised he would not leave the mad prince alone. That he’d protect Pitch.

That he loved him.

Pitch’s body jerked with a fit of bitter laughter. Wetness dribbled from his nose as he snorted his disdain. Had he actually believed the ankou could ignore all his foulness and find a creature beneath tolove? Whatever the fuck that meant.

‘Be honest with me.’ Azazel’s voice caressed him, filtered through into painful, raw places. ‘Tell me your secrets.’

Did the angel truly wish to listen?

That would be a first. Having an audience who listened to him. Who heard when Pitch said he asked for none of this and he resented, to his very core, being made a vessel for Seraphiel. He didn’t want to go to Blood Lake, gods damn it, and fix someone else’s mistakes. He wished he’d never stepped foot in this fucking world. For then he’d never have met the ankou. Silas made Pitch’s mind hurt, knotting it into unrecognisable shapes, deluding it into imagining there was a place for him at his lover’s side.

The ankou was not here. He’d not kept his promise.

But the Exarch would. And they promised to listen.

So tell him.

The idea perched in Pitch’s mind, a canary in its gilded cage, beautiful and delicate and begging to be regarded. Hewantedto speak. The Lady had trapped his tongue. His silence had been forced on him with yet more of the violence to which he was accustomed. But here…here Azazel just asked him to speak.

Iblis ran his thumb across Pitch’s lip once more. He stared into the eyes of his enemy and was nearly…nearly what? Overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the desire to speak up.

Pitch shook his head, trying to break away from Iblis’s touch. Overwhelmed…strange thought, was it not? But he truly wished to speak…and Azazel wished to listen.

Pitch shrugged his shoulders, barely bothered by the painful tug at his hands. His moment of pause rushed away in an instant. He jutted his chin, mumbling against the sewn barrier of his own lips.

He wished to speak.

To tell them everything he knew.

Iblis caught on quickly and touched the tips of his fingers to Pitch’s mouth. Freedom was instant, rushing in with the air Pitch dragged through his widened mouth. The iciness of it prickled the back of his throat.

Breathe. Breathe.

Familiar words. Who’d said them to him?

‘Be honest with me.’ Azazel’s honeyed voice drew him back. ‘But hurry now. We don’t want to be interrupted, do we?’

Pitch was the centre of the Exarch’s world. Not at its periphery, or hidden in a Sanctuary like a dreadful secret. ‘No, I don’t want to be interrupted,’ Pitch whispered.