Page 22 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

A strong current pushed at Silas, and Ezume’s hold on his arm released. He opened his eyes anew. Chinami babbled incoherently, bubble bouquets erupting from its wide mouth. The kappa jabbed its webbed fingers into the murkiness.

There was something tangled in the weeds, fighting to free itself. Silas pushed off his rock, using the stem of a water lily to pull himself forward and see what had invaded his pond.

But it was notwhat.

Who.

Pale skin and slender arms, a glint of gold in his hair. Silas spat a curse, his lungs reminding him there was no air left for such things.

Pitch was in the goddamned water.

Chinami reached him first and was deft with freeing the jerking, thrashing daemon. Broken water-lily stems joined a mesh of slashed milfoil as the kappa released Pitch.

Silas grabbed at one of his arms, pulling his slender body close. He rushed them to the surface. Ezume grabbed hold of Silas’s shirt and pulled him along. Pitch’s body spasmed once, then stilled, adding a further chill to Silas’s already-frigid bones.

They broke the surface, and Silas felt the kappas’ amphibious hands at his arms and his back, sending him at speed towards the shallows. He concentrated on keeping Pitch’s head clear of the water. All too concerned with how quiet the prince was, how slack his body in Silas’s hold.

‘Pitch? Can you hear me?’

There was no reply.

Silas felt the ground beneath him at the same moment the kappas backed off, releasing him and letting him glide in to where the water lapped at the mud. Matilda stood there, arms folded. No bloody help at all.

He settled Pitch on his side, conscious of how full of water he must be. He nearly buckled with relief when the daemon coughed out a great brown mouthful of putrid water.

‘What happened?’ he demanded of the water elemental.

‘He thought I was killing you.’ Matilda was unperturbed.

But Silas less so.

That may explain why the prince was in the water. But why the bloody hell was Pitch shaking so hard, his eyes clenched shut, odd whispers coming from between chattering teeth?

‘Pitch, I’m here. Take a breath now. You’re out of the water.’ Silas knelt over him, water raining down onto the oddly unresponsive daemon. He should have been cursing at the very least, bellyaching about being in the mud for certain. But instead there was only strained clicks coming from his throat, as though a blockage stopped the slightest hint of air moving down. ‘Pitch, take a breath now. Come on.’

That seemed to shift the daemon from his frozen stupor. He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, revealing the merest hints of his flame through the emerald. The prince clutched at Silas’s chest with one hand, while the other did the same to his own, pulling at the sodden fabric of his shirt. The prince’s lips were blue as winter lake ice. He was gasping something incoherently. The traces of his flame evaporated from his gaze, and in their wake was left behind a most peculiar look. One so at odds with the daemon himself that it took Silas too long to see it.

This was sheer panic.

‘Easy now.’ Silas tried to stop him from scratching at his chest, but his frantic effort was strong. ‘Pitch, please. What is wrong?’

‘He worked himself into a state looking for you. Acted like a bloody madman. If I thought him capable of such things, I’d say he’s hysterical.’

Pitch let go of Silas’s shirt to grasp at his own collar, his fingers tearing at the lacework there. ‘Can’t breathe.’ He sounded like a steam train hissing, but Silas caught the prince’s words sure enough. And he realised Matilda was absolutely right.

Silas knew Pitch capable of working himself into an agitated state, he’d seen it when the daemon and Lucifer shared harsh words. But then the panic had manifested in flame and bitter words, not this frailty.

‘Pitch, listen to me.’ Silas took hold of his chin, careful to be soft about it. He made sure they were eye to eye. ‘Youcanbreathe. I assure you. This is an attack of panic.’

‘No. No air.’

‘There is plenty of it for you. Easy now.’ Silas moved his hand to lay it over Pitch’s, where the daemon seemed still intent on tearing off his clothing. ‘Steady, my dear. Breathe with me.’

Silas inhaled deeply, dragging it through his nostrils loudly to make his point. He made sure his exhale could be felt, sending warm air against Pitch’s eyelashes, making them flutter. He abhorred the fear he saw in the prince’s eyes. ‘Pitch, my darling, you are safe. I promise you.’

Silas tensed, realising what he’d said out loud. He’d gotten away with the endearment once, leaving the Fulbourn, for Pitch had been unconscious. He was certainly not now.

A strained inhale came from the daemon, as though he were as shocked as Silas to hear such pretty talk. His breathing evened.