Page 87 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6
It was sensible to stay put.
But sensibility stood no chance against the overwhelming idea of losing the ankou.
Pitch pressed his smouldering hands against the wood, singeing the bark.
‘That is unkind,’ the Major grumbled. ‘We seek to help you.’
Pitch didn’t want blasted godsdamned fucking help, just as he didn’t want a sleeping behemoth in his belly, nor an angel’s scar upon his back, or to be hiding here with the brownies and gnomes while Silas was in harm’s way.
The Major held him at a slight distance, and there came a splintering sound. A great split formed down the tree’s middle, and two folds of wood opened like doors on a crudely carved wardrobe.
‘Don’t you dare.’ Pitch struggled, but was ultimately pushed into the innards of the tree, a hollow of a size more than ample enough to hold a slender, panicking prince. He was to be sealed in.
His fear got away from him, slipped its collar and had his heart crashing against ribs. ‘No, no don’t do this.’
‘It’s all right, Pitch. You will be safest there,’ Robin called from where she stood at the centre of the clearing with her gaggle of naturals. ‘That is my home.’
‘Your home is too fucking small.’ The folds of the tree began to move back in place. Doors being closed. Locked in darkness. ‘Not the dark.’ He knew himself wild-eyed, practically spitting his plea, slapping his hands against the steady wood. ‘Don’t put me in the dark.’
‘Robin, he’s having a turn,’ the Major declared as though Pitch were a child who’d just soiled their nappy. ‘And he won’t stop burning my skin.’
‘He’s frightened, Major. You can see that as well as I.’
‘It’s us who should be frightened, if he’s the one they think will right all the wrongs.’
‘That is truly not helping. He’s not deaf.’ The discussion played around him as he fought not to lose his mind entirely. ‘Pitch, do try to take a decent breath. We seek only to protect you.’
Protecting him by confining him. This felt little different to being sealed away in the abaddon. A scream was building at the base of his throat. He was damned awful at holding his nerve, since Seraphiel had buried the behemoth. As though that beast had devoured his fears before, eating at them with teeth made of rage.
The sections of wood creaked, moving on invisible hinges to close.
‘It will not be dark, I promise you, Pitch. Please trust me.’ Robin blew at the palm of their hand and sent a swathe of petals floating his way. Each one glowed like the toadstools surrounding the hamadryad. The petals slipped in through the narrowing crack between the portions of wood, which drew slowly back as the oak reformed his trunk.
Will Scarlet dashed through the gap. The will-o’-the-wisp settled on his shoulder, tittering in hushed tones, sending its colours to every dark inch of the tree’s innards.
With such a bathing of light the darkness was pushed away, too far away to plague him.
Will Scarlet made itself comfortable against the black collar of the Inverness coat, settling in and giving him a pat that might have gotten it slapped were Pitch not so desperate for reassurance.
The trunk closed over, the wood settling without a sound. And his view of the world narrowed to a small gnarled peephole in the ancient tree.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE NEPHILIMhalted his massive steed a mere step from where Silas knelt on the ground. The stallion’s chest loomed over him, blocking his view of most of its rider, who in turn was so heavily clad in layers of dark fabric that even if Silas had dared try to move, he was unlikely to see much more than shadow.
The horse and rider’s spectre engulfed him, stifling the emerging morning all but completely. Silas craned his neck, seeking out the rider that had his blood churning: akin to having his veins filled with boisterous, tiny gnats.
He yearned to see what he might find atop that horse, yet loathed the idea as well. What lay beneath those heavy layers of fabric? Silas knew not all those who had been born of angel and woman became fearsome goliaths. If he were to rip off that hood, would he see monster or man? Perhaps a bearded, frightened fool, hardly different to him?
‘What do you want with me?’ He already knew the ultimate answer, of course. They wished to finish him. But why was their rush now stalled? ‘Answer me.’
Not a one of them did. The silence was cloying. The wait painful.
Silas was pinned by the Dullahan’s whip, vulnerable as he’d ever been with the bandalore still in his coat pocket back in the clearing. Thought of the clearing left him reeling. Christ, surely the leshy and the dryad knew of the Wild Hunt’s invasion of their forest?
They would have Pitch spirited away by now. Theymusthave spirited him away by now. Silas would not call on the bandalore. Not least of all because he’d never risk betraying the daemon’s location, but also because it felt inordinately right to have it remain where it was.
The other riders flanking the Herlequin were far less substantial than their leader, lithe beneath their cloaks, and not so numerous as the shaking of the ground had suggested. Three on each side, their horses unsettled and cracking their bits against their teeth.