Page 121 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

What a strange turnabout this was. Silas’s enemy now his hope. A dangerous agreement existed between them, but if there was chance of the unsettling union leading him to Pitch, Silas would not shy from risk.

The scythe hummed gently against his finger.

Sybilla’s chorus reached him. Filling his head with a suddenness that had him inhaling sharply.

The angel’s notes were ones of sheer and unadulterated beauty. Soaring high.

Are you unwell?The Dullahan’s words were soft beneath the melody.

But Silas did not answer. He listened. Felt the long weight of the Valkyrie’s years pushing her notes aloft. Notes that strove for freedom. That sought to disentangle from her near-immortal coil.

‘She is dying,’ Silas breathed. ‘No, no. It cannot be.’ He denied what he knew was certain. Sybilla’s quietus reached across the miles, finding him, calling to him. Silas ran his thumb over the ring, the hum of the scythe making him shiver. He shook his head, rage bleeding into grief.

‘Ride on, now. Fast as you can.’ He pointed, and the ring flashed as he directed the Dullahan. ‘There. We must go that way.’

Who is dying?

‘My friend,’ Silas snapped. ‘Take us that way, at once.’

It may not be the way to the prince.The Dullahan’s voice was the hush of sand through an hourglass.Do you not wish to reach him now?

‘Of course I do.’ Silas’s fury grew as the notes elevated. Slipped higher from his reach. ‘If you will not do it…’

He moved as though to dismount, his fright and panic making him insensible, for there was great distance yet to reach the angel.

The infernal headless creature sighed and threw back their arm, wrapping it about Silas to stop his angry departure. A strong grip, despite the lack of a hand.

You are as impetuous as he. Keep your seat, Lord Death.

Silas was far too distracted to reprimand the ridiculous title.

The gallop was flat out and stopped for no obstacle. Low hedges were cleared without adjustment of the horse’s stride, as was the width of a shallow stream and the remains of a broken wagon which blocked a suitable thoroughfare. Silas moved into the motion of the jump as though he were an extension of the horse itself, leaning into the Dullahan, using his body to ease himself clear of the horse’s rump as the roan soared. They rode in unison, a pair of dancers in a well-practised routine.

Horsemasters both. Silas had simply forgotten how masterful he was. And it had been Sybilla who was first tasked with reminding him.

She’d been patient with his vacant self. The Valkyrie had guided him while Pitch mocked him from the sidelines, laughing as Silas was unseated by the lowest of jumps or the suddenness of a trot. Sybilla was the one who had helped Silas remember his place upon Lalassu’s back.

He winced, the air harsh, his eyes stinging.

How he needed those wondrous creatures now. Both the angel and his Pale Horse. But only one of them was within reach, and he could not let her slip away. The loss of the skriker had chipped a part of Silas away, and discovering Hastings’s mane had scoured wounded parts rough. To lose the angel…he could not think it. Could not allow it. For if Sybilla could be overcome, what hope a tender prince?

Silas continued to guide Byleist, following the angel’s song. ‘Faster.’

Does my Lord Death wish to kill my horse too? Chollima has nothing left to give.

Silas’s insides crawled, his skin too tight, his pulse frantic. He felt as though he might fly off the Earth at any given moment, made hollow by all his fears.

He rubbed again at the circle of silver and emerald around his finger. The etching would be rubbed smooth before long. In his mind, whilst Sybilla’s notes played, he sent up a small prayer to the goddess, begging her to allow the bandalore to protect Pitch until he could reach him. Goosebumps pricked at the back of his hand, the scythe stirring. A wild notion found its way into his thoughts. He was master of two scythe now, and they were as much a part of him as his limbs, his tongue. Perhaps…perhaps…he could be heard, by a prince who needed to know he was not alone. Silas brought the ring to his lips. ‘I am coming for you. Stay strong, my love. They will not keep me from you.’

He bit his lip, stifling the sentimentality that threatened to bring him undone. The gooseflesh settled.

No answer came.

Of course no bloody answer came. He was muttering to a piece of metal. No ordinary piece, granted, but he was treating the scythe like one of those blasted carrier pigeons that had failed to return Charlie’s message in London.

Does your love reply, Lord Death?The Dullahan’s voice drifted like the hush of satin on a dance floor.

Silas blushed. ‘That is not your business. Do not intrude so.’