Page 83 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

‘It’s all right, I won’t hurt you.’

He didn’t blame the little thing for disbelieving that. He dropped to his knees to make himself, if only mildly, less imposing.

The child dashed off, sobbing and calling once again for its mother.

‘Shit.’

He followed suit, distantly aware he was fast losing track of his direction, but with flashes of the yellow slip not far ahead, he was certain he could catch the little runaway before long. He was almost proved terribly wrong a moment later, losing sight of the child when they darted around a big ash. By the time Silas reached it, crunching through a patch of snow, there was no sign of the lost one. But something had disturbed the first of the morning’s twittering birds, for they fell abruptly silent.

Likely that something was him, crashing about in the forest as he was. ‘Are you there? I truly mean no harm. Just let me catch you.’ Christ, what a preposterous thing to say.

A shadow shifted in the treetops: the spread of wings as a bird alighted from a branch. He glanced up but caught only the darkness of a swift-moving shadow.

Silas bit at his lip as he surveyed his surrounds. He was in an endless tangle of trees and shrubs with narrow pathways between, trails best for deer and creatures far smaller than he. Whichever direction he turned, the snow-dusted ways each looked the same.

The Major had said it…Sherwood enjoyed getting people lost in her…and Silas had not minded the leshy well enough.

A quiet whimper brought him away from his thoughts.

There at the base of a dead birch, the child huddled with knees cradled to their chest, dirty cheeks marred with pale lines of tears.

‘There, there.’ Silas advanced slowly. ‘Let’s find your parents, shall we?’

The child lowered their head and pressed their forehead against their knees. There were twigs caught at the back of the bonnet, a white fabric once but dirt-stained now. Silas dropped into a crouch, keeping a cautious distance, not wishing another chase through the woods. It was very quiet where they were, and it bothered him. Almost as much as the bird he’d glimpsed. It’d been a decent size and very dark.

His throat worked as he tried to keep the fear down.

Not every single raven in the British Isles was the Morrigan’s servant. If it truly was a raven he’d seen, though it could well have been his wild imagination taunting him. He touched at his pocket, looking for the reassuring bulk of the bandalore.

‘Christ,’ he said beneath his breath. So much for a quick jaunt into the woods. Would he never learn to carry the scythe at all bloody times? But he did not need it to hear the melodies, and there was no song of the naturals here. Not for the child, nor for the bird that had spied on him from the treetops. ‘Come now. We really must go, little one.’

He’d have to take the child with him back to the clearing. Robin and the Major could decide what to do with them. Silas could barely stifle his impatience to return to Pitch. ‘Give me your hand. You must come with me.’

The time for coaxing had passed. Silas leaned down, ready to pick them up whether they cared for it or not. He had one hand upon their slender shoulder when they looked up. They curled a lipless mouth into an ornery smile, revealing gums crowded with jagged teeth.

The low, dreadful caw of a raven came from the trees.

Silas froze.

And in that finite pause, the harpy’s melody, loathsome and rough as it was, sang beneath whatever illusion fought to keep it hidden.

They lunged, teeth flashing, eyes sagging into that horrid melted appearance the unfortunate harpies were graced with. Silas threw himself backwards, narrowly managing to avoid the first attack.

There was another straight after, the harpy’s speed catching him off guard. They drove at him, releasing their soot-black wings, shifting their feet from a child’s to a monster’s in a heartbeat. Now instead of a slippered foot, it was a scaled leg with dangerously pointed claws that aimed at him, searching for where to impale him. Silas dropped onto his side, executing a quick roll to move himself out of reach. He needed to get back on his feet, but the forest was not favouring him. Silas gasped as his panicked roll landed him up against the trunk of a tree, right against his ribs, winding him.

A claw raked his back. His shirt tore as easily as his skin, but the blow was not terribly deep. Not yet. Shallow luck came his way, for the harpy was too fevered, too eager to land blows, and their strike set them off-balance. Their wings caught at the shrubbery. Silas scrambled clear on hands and knees, seeking desperately the best way to go. But it was forest, forest, and more forest around him. His hesitation was costly.

The harpy landed on his back, flattening him to the ground. The creature bit down on his shoulder, driving its numerous pointed teeth through his skin.

Silas roared his hurt and fury to the trees, reaching back to try to catch ahold of the creature who gnawed on him. The wretch was slippery, their wing tips equally as sharp as their teeth, and Silas’s arms were soon cut and bloodied with trying to dislodge his passenger.

He was so busy seeking not to be eaten by a foul-smelling child-monster that the rumble beneath him nearly slipped his notice.

The disordered drumbeat of many hooves causing the earth to shudder.

‘Fuck…fuck.’ Silas coughed, tasting warmth and copper.

He forced himself upright and at last snagged ahold of a coarse leg, the scales roughing his palms like gravel. Silas gritted his teeth and hauled against the struggling creature. The harpy was ripped from its perch upon his back. Silas got his other hand upon that same leg and twisted his shoulders, gathering momentum. The harpy screeched. Silas threw the creature against the birch, where it had huddled as a lost child to deceive him.