Page 103 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

One of the angels snickered. Iblis did not smile.

‘We’ve heard enough. Hold his legs.’

Barely had the other angels done so, their hands on Pitch’s knees, their feet stomping his own hard against the tree, and the halo pierced deep, sliding through flesh and sinew and other places he could not name. Pitch released a strangled cry, bucking against his restraints, tearing fresh pain from his burn.

‘You fucking cunts,’ Pitch spat. ‘Don’t touch me.’

But Iblis was done with listening. He sank the blade deeper still, reaching into the abyss where the wildness usually lurked. He placed one hand above where the halo impaled Pitch’s belly, scowling as he worked the weapon like a thief with a lockpick.

‘Why is he still moving?’ Zaquiel nearly deafened Pitch on top of all else. ‘What are you waiting for?’ He kneed Pitch’s thigh, ensuring he could barely shift his hips against the penetration of the halo.

‘Shut your mouth,’ Iblis hissed, all semblance of pleasantness gone, working his wrist as he adjusted the angle.

‘Oh fuck.’ Pitch’s own curse slipped through bloodied lips but was not born of pain. The halo’s prodding was all levels of unpleasant. Godsdamned awful, as though his belly were filled to the brim with serpents all moving at once. But unpleasant was very different to painful.

Iblis made a strange sound, something between a snarl and a growl, and he dragged the halo free, taking a step back, wiping Pitch’s blood absently against his cloak. The angel’s own nose bled profusely, his eyes a map of crimson ruin as his Exarch ruled them.

‘The Seraphim has a seal set upon his monster.’ The words bore the weight of Azazel’s voice upon them. ‘A sleeping beauty who I would very much like to wake on my own terms.’ Iblis peeled his gaze from Pitch, taking Azazel with him, and fixed on Harut. The angel’s composure slipped, his startle obvious, before he gathered himself and bowed his head.

‘Your Majesty.’

‘That halo is no use here. You will need more to destroy this vessel, but there is still more to learn of where this rat and his ankou are bound for. Deliver him to the Morrigan with all haste.’ Iblis turned back to Pitch. His lips shifted at the corners, jerking up as though someone’s fingertips dragged at the skin. ‘Now I understand why my lord calls to my maleficent children. Thank you, little daemon, for being so delightfully honest with me.’

Iblis’s eyes closed in a slow blink, and when the lids were raised again, there was only the drab hue of Dr Severs’s eyes to see. Pitch’s blood thinned.

‘Where has he gone?’ Desperation sank into him. ‘He promised…he…the Exarch said I could see…Silas.’ The word was less than a whisper, more a breath of pained air, but it was the only sound that made any sense at all.

The magick slipped away, mist at sunrise retreating, leaving his mind naked, flayed bare and raw.

Oh gods, what had he done? What had he just beenmadeto do?

‘You heard His Majesty.’ The voice of Dr Severs returned, unremarkable and plain. Not girded by his master. His shoulders hunched, the curve in his spine evident as the weight of Azazel left him bent. Good. Let him suffer. ‘Harut, we must summon the Hunt. They will be done with the ankou by now. Ready him.’

Zaquiel reached for whatever mechanism had Pitch pinned so solidly to the tree, and Harut stepped away, withdrawing something from beneath his cloak, but Pitch barely noticed the movements. Barely registered all the damage he’d just done. How he’d blathered to the ruler of Elyssiam, the very creature the halo was intended for, of the weapon’s existence.

Done with the ankou.

While Pitch was here spilling his fucking guts, had the Herlequin managed the unthinkable? Bile seared up his throat, parching the lingering prickle there. He was dizzy with horror, with pain, with the magnitude of what had been done, and whatmighthave been.

Hold it together, you imbecile.

He’d lost his marbles once too often, fearing the ankou gone. And each time he’d been wrong.

Silas survived.

Surely Pitch would feel the Earth tilt, see some of the stars slip from the sky, if that were not so. He would fuckingknowif that stupid oaf was gone for good.

Pitch dug a heel into the neck of his panic, stomping it down. The bandalore was right here, in the pocket of Silas’s coat. Its master did not need it.

Silas survived. And so Pitch must too.

He took a breath. Sucked it up his nostrils like it were sugar and cocaine and all the white fluffy things he adored.Breathe.

A long mournful note rang out as Zaquiel released Pitch from where he hung. The angel did not try to halt his fall, and Pitch’s legs were unable to support the rest of him, bringing him to his knees. Harut held a curled white horn to his mouth, the pearlescent surface twisting the paltry light, as he blew a summons for the Wild Hunt. The echo of the singular note resonated deeply through the clearing. Pieces of Robin’s hair chipped away, falling in macabre imitation of their petals.

Pitch put up little struggle as Iblis resealed his lips, silencing him anew. He wished to be gone from this place. Taken far from where he could cause more harm.

He had tried to run, he had sought to hide, and here was the result. A debt he could never repay to a forest that had given him its all.