Page 106 of The Simurgh

‘Sickle? Can you see me now?’ Green eyes swam with worry, sublime features made sharp with Pitch’s fright.

‘I see you.’

‘Something is coming.’ Pitch held his arm, helping him to his feet. ‘Something bloody large.’

‘I know.’ The massive shadow in the distant gleam of the Drifting Meadow was poorly concealed. He knew the shape of it too well. ‘The Herlequin approaches.’

‘The leader of the Hunt? That’s him?’ Pitch kept hold of his hand, in Silas’s shadow now that they were both back on their feet.

‘Yes.’

‘So it was him in my head, picking at my mood like a vulture.’ Pitch’s mouth was fixed with a snarl. ‘But the prick will need to do better than that with me. I’ve had a fucking Exarch in my skull. I recognise a rat crawling in my mind.’ He glanced at Silas. ‘He had your measure, though. I feared you’d not rise.’

Silas nodded grimly. He watched as the darkness of the rider pushed through the haze. The headache had not fully withdrawn. It was there in the cracks, seeking to grow larger.

‘He nearly brought me undone in Sherwood with it, too. I should have known bloody better here. I’ve been a fucking fool to allow him in twice.’

Pitch squeezed his hand. ‘Well, you know well enough now, and you beat him back, despite all the upheaval of the Drifting Meadow. You are a greater creature than he.’

Silas stared out at the approaching rider on his massive black shire. The Nephilim and his mount seemed to fly across the landscape, appearing some distance off the ground.

‘I’d not be so certain of that,’ Silas said, quiet with the weight of his past.

‘I don’t mean to be pushy, but are we intending to stand here and just hope he’s here for a chit-chat?’

Silas’s smile was a grim thing. ‘I need to finish this. I cannot run from him. Your flame serves you well again?’

Pitch was quiet for all but a heartbeat. ‘I am rather splendid with it, if I do say so myself. But to be honest, I’d try to fight him off with a feather, if it means not having to race about with those boots again.’

Silas laughed, the daemon could always have him do so, no matter the circumstance.

The air was still honeyed, the bees still humming. The Nephilim still probed at him for weakness.

But the spells were broken.

Silas’s mind was closed. The Herlequin would not reach him a third time.

And maybe the creature knew it too. He imagined he could feel the Herlequin’s anger, an uncomfortable taste in his mouth, a niggle at the back of his skull.

‘Let me deal with this vazey prick, Silas. A decent flame up his arse should end things nicely, no need to get your pretty blade dirty.’

‘No, he is mine. I owe Forneus as much.’

He expected an argument. Instead, Silas received a nod, a half-bow, and a flourish of the hand.

‘Then I shall play the adoring mistress, swooning in the stands with my handkerchief. Onward you go, my fine man.’

Pitch straightened, grinning, until his gaze shifted over Silas’s shoulder.

‘Oh, fucking faelands.’

Silas turned about, half expecting the Herlequin to be directly upon them.

It was not quite so bad. But still none too pleasing.

The haze was gone, the Drifting Meadow living up to its name and moving on.

In its place lay the expanse of a pristine white desert. High sand hills stretched into the distance, where only the utmost arch of the palace was still visible, its facets glinting in a now-azure sky.