Page 121 of The Simurgh
They made their way back to the yellow doors, Lucifer’s boots sloshing through the water which now covered his toes. He stopped to collect the Melusine cloak he’d discarded earlier, and wrapped the simurgh in its folds.
Lucifer moved on.
There, just inside the entranceway, was what the second strike of lightning had aimed itself at.
The UnSeelie Court would need a new Erlking.
Lokke had been struck midway between shifting his appearance. The corpse of the fae king was mostly oak tree, his legs were a solid trunk, his lifted arm was a branch with fingertips of flesh, the overhead foliage a tangle of vermillion vines and leaves, the remnants of his hair. But one side of his face remained, and it was far more disconcerting: Vassago’s face, angular, striking, caught in the throes of agony. Just as Lucifer had left him.
The wisp lifted from Lucifer’s shoulder and flew to the chimera tree. The creature nestled against Vassago’s cheek, letting go a tiny sigh, caressing the petrified semblance of flesh.
Lucifer wrinkled his nose with distaste. ‘Move on, or stay behind. But don’t waste your time on the prince. He is dead.’
He quickened his step, eager now to be rid of the cockaigne and all the seesawing choices he’d made here. He’d never been so fucking indecisive in all his thousands of years. Enoch must regret his choice of Herald.
The wisp, which Lucifer thought the ankou had named Crimson or some such, zipped up alongside him. The line on its rounded face, like a sketch from an artist’s pencil, suddenly lifted in a smile. The creature caressed the simurgh’s long neck before suddenly shooting up into the air, whirling in wild circles, and clapping those godsforsaken hands again. Strange creature.
Stranger still when the ball of rainbow flew up to his face, so close he went nearly cross-eyed to look at it. There was much squeaking, too much squealing and he was readying to scorch the thing like a forgotten bun in the oven when two words rang crystal clear from a creature who should not be able to speak them.
‘Not dead.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE LABOURpains had stopped, which Pitch thanked all the useless gods for. It was just as well he could not bear a child, for he doubted Silas would survive the stress of it. The ankou was attempting to run alongside the horse and keep his eyes fixed upon its rider. He’d been trodden on twice but insisted it did not hurt.
‘Watch where you are going, Silas,’ he said from his vantage point atop the Herlequin’s mount. ‘I’m quite all right now.’
The ankou’s scowl was deep as he turned away. ‘You still look pained.’
‘It’s been a shitty day. I’ve forgotten how to look otherwise.’
What the cease in spasms meant for the simurgh, Pitch couldn’t say precisely, though he was very certain the Cultivation still existed. But if he hurt when the wildness was in danger, he suspected sheer torture would arrive if it were destroyed. He’d keep that thought to himself. Silas was already deeply unhappy with the idea that daemon and Cultivation still held a connection.
The sand dunes at last came to an end. Or perhaps the landscape had grown bored with its own appearance and decided to change. The Faelands were capable of such things. Hence why very few purebreds who found their way in, ever found their way out again.
The desert gave way to more of that curious mix of woodlands and jungle that existed near the towers, but the humidity was far more intense. A sheen of sweat covered Pitch’s face, and he saw it on Silas too, like a fine mist rained on them. There was not a cloud in the sky, but again, anything was possible in the cockaigne.
Silas had taken his stroppy mood ahead by a few strides. He managed to look both dashing, with his dark hair streaming, and quite ludicrous, with his easy running manner contrasting the extraordinary lengths he travelled.
‘I don’t like that the wildness can affect you still, so badly.’
He negotiated a dried-up streambed, leaping from one side to land five feet from the edge of the other. His harrumph suggested he’d not intended to jump quite so far.
‘So you’ve said, my dear, many times now.’ Pitch spat out the last remnants of the dunes. He’d swallowed enough sand to make the next time he relieved himself intensely uncomfortable. ‘I don’t understand what is happening anymore than you.’ He chewed at his lip, trying to offer an answer that wouldn’t betray too much. ‘I wasn’t offered a detailed guidebook titledWhat you need to know about events occurring at the Crystal Palace.’ The sought after chuckle did not come. ‘I just felt there was a problem….and now…’ He blew out a breath. ‘I don’t know. Things are calmer, I think.’
The stallion leapt over the same empty stream that Silas had just done. They were airborne a few moments, and Pitch felt the power of the animal between his legs. This was no purebred creature, not entirely. Certainly he was partly bred from a shire horse, but there was a strength in this animal that was beyond even those mighty beasts. He suspected some unicorn was inherent, for there was evidence of scales, deep beneath the thick, wintry coat upon the neck. An immense animal for an immense rider.
Pitch’s gaze went to Silas.
His ankou was Nephilim. And Silas had thought that such a catastrophic thing to reveal. Perhaps it should be, the creatures were, after all, his mortal enemies, but in truth it brought a flush to his cheeks. It was all rather bloody exciting. Silas was a marvellous contradiction of a man.
He was, by blood,allmonster. The horror that had been the Herlequin was his kin, and yet, Silas was also the man who worried about Tilly hearing Pitch curse, or scraping her knee on tree bark, he was the man who would cradle a restless daemon in the dark of night, and hold at bay his nightmares with soft promises of never letting go.
Silas was death. He was Nephilim. He was a travesty of humankind. And yet, he was none of these. He was only Silas Mercer.
Samyaza would have gone fucking mad to see his tool of destruction eagerly ordering strawberry tarts at the local bakery to satisfy his lover.
Pitch smiled and his dry lips ached.Hewas that lover. Those were his tarts. And by the fucking gods it felt good to know it.