Page 16 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

The rage was palpable. The wings beat harder, strained further, grew ever more gigantic. And Seraphiel’s fury built with it.

Pitch realised, with no small amount of sheer delight, that he was struggling. Gods, was the wildness too much, even for the angel who manipulated it? If only Pitch did not feel like he was swimming in the primordial flames under the Ophanim Throne, he would have cheered the beast on.

‘What have you done to me?’His jaw was turning to stone beneath the heat.

Cultivated a last hope.The voice came like air escaping a bellows, strong to begin but dying quickly.The prophet must reach the Sanctuary, he is the key. No more delay, daemon.

The arsehole could turn him inside out but couldn’t give Pitch a name.‘I don’t know where your fucking Sanctuary is, you prick. I was more prisoner than guest, do you recall?’

Seraphiel, the undead cockhead, didn’t answer that.The prophet knows the way.

‘And the prophet is dying,’Pitch thought-said.‘You’re killing him.’

You forced my words from his lips in the home of your enemy. The blame is yours.The angel’s voice dropped low beneath the savagery of the fire. How Pitch despised this holy arsehole.

‘Tellmewhere your fucking Sanctuary is. Let Edward go.’

The Sanctuary calls to him alone.

‘Well that’s a stupid fucking idea–’

Enough.The bellows exhaled a mighty blast, causing even the wings to miss a beat where they sought to melt all the known worlds.He hunts for you, the Watcher King in his lake. The behemoth you carry must be silenced, lest its cry be heard. With this last seal, you will know true weakness. See you are guarded well. Prepare the prophet to ride this day.

Pitch’s ire was as red hot as the flames encompassing him. He yearned to say so much more, but the conversation was over.

The language of the higher angels whispered through the flames and reached out to shape themselves around the wings. Drawing them in. Dragging at their titanic reach, pressing them back into Pitch in a tidal wave of firelight. The heat was astounding, eviscerating his insides, taking him over, the wildness…the behemoth…snapping back at the angel who sought to cage it.

Seal it away.

Divine magick hissed around him, rain on hot rocks.

The angel’s monster fought its master. And Seraphiel…dead or alive…was much displeased.

I am your master.His voice roared in Pitch’s head.You will heed me.

Much the same words as he’d uttered that day on the cliff. And there, in the midst of the inferno, Pitch understood.

The angel’s own Cultivation was testing the limits of his control.

And the struggle was not new.

Seraphiel hadalwaysbeen barely in control of his own beast. This behemoth. Maybe that explained so many secreted trips to the blasted Sanctuary. The angel had overreached, and couldn’t quite bring his invention to heel. Still, he’d forced the burden on Pitch regardless. Left a daemon prince to drown in his own nightmare.

The heat vanished; the cage slammed shut. And the real world returned, with all the force of a slap to the face.

Actually, no. Someonehadjust hit him.

Pitch’s eyes blazed. The view he saw through narrowed lids was sunset red.

‘Pitch…go!’ someone shouted. ‘Just bloody well…go.’

Pitch shook his head. No…that wasn’t what was said.

‘Let go.’

‘Let him go, Tobias. Bloody hell.’ Frantic, panicked. Charlie. ‘Let go of Edward, now.’ The lad hissed a curse. ‘Bess! Someone help me.’

Pitch blinked his eyes wide. The light was dull, no longer incandescent.He knelt on the floor, straddled over the lieutenant, the man’s nightshirt bunched in his fists. Pitch had Edward’s shoulders lifted off the floor, and the man just hung there, not resisting. Not moving at all. Dry lips slack and parted, the blood from his nosebleed streaking his cheeks with the lolling of his head.