Page 116 of The Simurgh

‘Not leaving.’ Pitch was strained, as though truly in the midst of labour pains. ‘Get me on the horse.’

The stallion nuzzled at the back of Pitch’s lowered head, then snorted in Silas’s face, making his hair shift.

‘The Herlequin’s horse will likely ride you straight to the palace.’ Silas pushed back at the stallion crowding their space.

Puffing short, shallow breaths, Pitch straightened, grabbing hold of the ink-black mane. ‘Exactly. It’s where I need to be. You will run with me?’

‘Of course,’ Silas said. ‘Why would you even ask that?’

‘Because I like hearing the answer.’ The prince’s grin lasted half a heartbeat before he was biting at his bottom lip, a soft whimper escaping him. ‘Quickly now, Sickle.’

Silas knelt and cupped his hands. A dirty foot slipped onto his offered temporary step, and he boosted the prince up. The pink material flared out, and Silas had to duck his head to avoid a slap in the face. Pitch sought to settle into the enormous saddle. Sure enough the daemon let out a fresh groan, his hand slipping from his belly to his crotch.

‘Gods, he’s wide. I feel like I’m doing the fucking splits.’

‘We’ve done this the wrong way around,’ Silas said. ‘Swap with me, take the boots.’

Pitch shook his head, doubled over in the elaborately-embellished leather. ‘I hate running. It makes my nipples–’

The fate of the prince’s nipples vanished beneath a tremendous cacophony of sound, a crack like the very tree of life was falling, splintering. The noise shook everything, even the ground beneath Silas’s feet. Sand whispered down the dunes around them, and the stallion whinnied in distress, high on his hooves. Pitch struggled to manage the horse one-handed, and Silas quickly grabbed at the reins.

‘What the bloody hell was that?’ he said.

The prince stared into the distance, dark shadows beneath his eyes, his skin near as pale as the fur-ruff on the cloak’s hood.

‘That was us running out of time. Let’s move.’

CHAPTER THIRTY

LUCIFER WOULDnot waste another moment fighting illusion. With his choice made, he took hold of the tip of his thumbnail and wrenched. The nail tore free, and he tossed the bloodied fleck into the air.

His vestige burst forth.

The conduit for his flame, the angel-bone relic bestowed by the Lord of Arcadia at Lucifer’s creation, found its form. From insignificant human part, to breathtaking blade, as long as Lucifer was tall, the hilt dramatic with forward-sloping quillons tipped with quatrefoils as large as his palms. The blade ignited with daemonic flame, and the brightness took Lucifer’s vision to a different plane. All he saw was simplified, made into different shades of shadow.

And illusions bore no shadows.

The way was clear. Lokke’s time of foolery done.

Lucifer carved his way through the petulant landscape, driving forward to where a singular point of light amongst the greyer shades thrashed itself about. The simurgh sought its freedom with a breathtaking frenzy, its morose call driving spikes into his mind. Sparks flew as it threw itself against the divine magick cage, like sprays of shooting stars in Lucifer’s monochrome world. But he viewed with horror the rivulet that ran from beneath the creature, a slender stream that trickled towards the mirror where Azazel stood with both arms extended, palms raised.

The Exarch had spoken of the Faelands being pliable, of wishing to see how far he could reach. Azazel could not enter the purebred world, that much was tried and tested and known to be true. But how much tenure could Samyaza’s truest disciple find in this realm?

Gabriel moved like quicksilver and flew at Lucifer on spread wings. They clashed like the titans they were.

Angelfire and daemonic flame met with the force of a volcanic eruption. The shock wave hit the glass of the Crystal Palace, and every panel shattered. A hailstorm of sharp edges and glittering shards descended. Gabriel staggered with the blow, his wings thrown wide to halt a fall. Lucifer narrowed in on the Archangel’s uncharacteristic unsteadiness. The angel was still hazy with the Cultivation and unready for the sudden shift from complex magick to simple maelstrom. Seraphiel had been equally unfocused on occasion. Slow to realise himself not alone as he shook off the hold of divinity.

‘This is over, Gabriel,’ Lucifer bellowed, and released the full magnitude of vestige-siphoned flame upon the angel.

The Archangel’s human form slipped, the pulsing aura beneath breaking through, fissures forming in his skin. Incensed, Gabriel came at him again.

‘It has just begun,’ he spat. ‘And all the puppets of Enoch shall fall.’

Lucifer’s double-handed grip closed upon the hilt. ‘I am no puppet.’

He held his ground and did not move, did not blink, as the enraged angel bore down on him. An angel still without his halo. When Gabriel was upon him, and only then, Lucifer moved.

He threw himself flat against the ground, slipping beneath the deadly sweep of the Archangel’s wings. Gabriel made a sharp sound, sought to make a sharp turn too, but his lethargy betrayed him. Lucifer rose up, swivelled, and found that most vulnerable place between the wings of an angel.