Page 84 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6
With the weight of Silas’s rage behind it, the blow was tremendous. The harpy’s cry broke along with its back. Silas heard the snap as body met dense wood. The creature gurgled where it lay, wings twitching, dark drooping eyes full of hatred.
Silas was on his feet just a moment when a fresh assault began. The raven he’d spied earlier returned, coming in like a furious shadow, flapping and scratching and darting too swiftly for him to catch. The bird was more annoying than dangerous. Silas winced at catches of claw against his cheek, cursing the creature for its bursts of speed that left him lunging at thin air. The trembling beneath his feet steadily intensified.
He should be running, not swatting at the bird like it were a giant wasp. But run where? He would not go back to the clearing. Not if there were any chance that place remained the haven it had seemed. It was he who had wandered too far.
He who had chased after a goddamned illusion.
Silas punched at the air, and his fist met a low-hanging branch, the sudden stop reverberating up his arm. ‘Shit, idiot!’ he shouted at himself.
The clatter of riders was unmistakable now and seemed to come from all directions at once. There was no one way he could be certain of to run. Even if the bloody raven had backed off long enough for him to see clearly. So Silas chose randomly and sent a hurried, brusque prayer to the goddess to help him choose wisely.
He covered his head and ran, past the dead birch, towards what he hoped was the furthest place from the clearing. He kept his eyes to the ground that shook beneath him, ignoring the swoops of the bird taunting him. He knew it a fruitless dash before it had begun. But he’d not stand there for the Wild Hunt to find him. Let them chase him down. He’d not go to his knees with a raven pecking at his scalp.
Silas ran, and Sherwood Forest shook herself apart.
Good god it sounded as though all the trees were toppling around him. And then it struck him. Not the raven. But the song of the Wild Hunt itself.
A shrill, discordant wreck of melodies, all clambering over the top of a central, sonorous, contralto note. One so deep it alone could be responsible for the rumble of the earth.
Silas threw his hands to his ears, seeking to halt the dreadful symphony. But the orchestra sat in his head; there was no escape. Silas ran on, lungs aching, ears bleeding, heart sinking. The few trees whose leaves still clung to them let them fall now, the chaos that closed in on Silas shaking them free.
He recognised one of the melodies at precisely the moment its owner found him.
The Dullahan’s whip came from behind, blazing a white line at his side, reaching ahead before curling back to wrap bony joints around his arms and pin them to his sides. The vise-hold cut off his cry, and a hard jerk pulled him off his feet. Silas hit the ground, dirt filling his scream-widened mouth. The Dullahan wrenched on the whip, digging bone into soft flesh and flipping Silas onto his back. He’d not stay there. Bones be damned, he’d not lie there to be trampled.
Silas rolled onto his side, grunting as he managed to get onto his knees.
The Wild Hunt drew in from all directions, an abundance of cloaked riders. They were hidden in their folds but must have been slender of form, for even with the layering, they did not seem so substantial. Ravens flew among them, and several perched upon the haunches of the horses, the equines foaming at the mouth and squealing with displeasure when commanded to halt. The headless horseman was nearest to Silas, holding his whip lightly as though assuming him not foolish enough to attempt an escape.
Silas dragged in rough breaths, desperate to ease the pressure of the bones.
The Dullahan’s shoulders shifted beneath his grey cloak in the manner of someone glancing in another direction. Silas caught a movement off to his right: the shuffle and rearrangement of the riders assembled there, reining their horses aside– stepping back, out of the way of the one who moved through their ranks.
At first he mistook the approaching rider for a shadow cast by one of the monolithic trees, an aged elm shifting in the breeze. But it was no tree, and there was no wind besides. The horse moved closer, a massive black shire with stark white hooves as large as Silas’s head. This animal would have put Lalassu in its shadow, large as she was, but there could be no lesser mount for the brutish rider being carried.
The Herlequin’s horse sank hooves deep into the undergrowth, drawing their master near. There was no naming melody to announce them.
There was something else.
Silas watched, pulse rabid, mouth so dry he could barely move his tongue. His blood was thick beneath his skin, burning as though his heart pumped fire.
A strange sound escaped him. Recognition a mighty blow.
The Wild Hunt’s leader was Nephilim.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
PITCH AWOKEwith a jolt. The rude awakening tore him from a rare, pleasant dream. He reached out, eyes still shut fast, and patted the ground, searching for the body that should be warming him. He found only moss, cool moss at that, instead of the brick wall of flesh and bone expected. He opened his eyes and sat up, head throbbing at the sudden movement. Will Scarlet dashed up into the air, brightening the confines of the shelter with its rainbow colours.
‘Were you sleeping on me?’ He brushed at his shoulder, where he was quite certain it had been perched. ‘You damned well were, weren’t you?’
The will-o’-the-wisp had the gall to smile at him, revealing tiny teeth the colour of plums. But it would certainly not receive a smile in return. Pitch’s stomach was not settled, and he rubbed at it absently.
‘Where is he?’
Will Scarlet shrugged, tittered. It tilted its head, hands in prayer and touching at its temple. The damn thing was telling him it had been asleep too.
How many blasted times this week had Pitch woken alone now? He’d never had so much issue with keeping a man in his bed; usually it was he who was kicking them out. Now the one man whose presence he craved with a fool’s addiction seemed to have an aversion to sleeping late and preference for leaving Pitch to wake alone.