Page 152 of The Simurgh

He ran.

Silas’s smile held a radiance even the rising sun could not challenge. The ankou reached out his hand and Pitch grabbed fierce hold, like it were the halo itself.

Silas slipped his arm around Pitch’s waist, bringing them close.

‘I’m fine.’

There was a feather-light kiss against the top of his head, for the ankou could not resist at the best of times. ‘And Lucifer?’

‘Gone. We are on our own now.’ Pitch jerked his chin towards the crowded graveyard. ‘Well, as alone as this is.’

‘Not alone enough, as far as I’m concerned.’ The ankou slipped a muddy strand of hair behind Pitch’s ear. ‘But everyone is as well as can be expected, for which I am more than grateful. Sybilla had me most concerned, she took on far too much to hold that gateway open with the Dullahan.’

‘I suppose that headless prat was not so irksome in the end.’ Pitch traced his finger over the roughness of Silas’s beard. ‘I am in his debt, for watching over you when I could not.’

Silas closed his eyes as Pitch moved to trace his lips. ‘Have I told you how good it is to have you back, my love?’

With his pulse thumping quite stupidly, Pitch said, ‘Not convincingly enough, no.’

The ankou’s soft chuckle was a delight, and they gravitated towards one another, as they were inclined to do. But the riff-raff, who had reached the carriage, were descending into a mild state of chaos.

Isaac and Tyvain were bossing Sybilla about as they tried to dismount her from Lalassu. Their calls to get in the carriage were being fiercely protested by the Valkyrie, who thought it best she stayed on Lalassu, and let Pitch and Silas ride in the carriage. Jane was trying to mediate, while Phillipa was begging everyone to calm down. Old Bess was arguing with the chignon-wearing woman who, from the snippet Pitch caught, seemed to be a sibling. The argument was lacklustre and childish, something about stuffing the woman in the baggage crate if she showed hint of doing any harm. The hubbub seemed to bemuse the teratisms who were gathered just inside the graveyard fence, like spectators at a race. And the only silent party was the creature who usually had most to say. Pitch could see no sign of Scarlet, and assumed they were where Lucifer had put them, guarding the simurgh.

‘Silas, do you think you could speak with Sybilla,’ Jane pleaded.

‘Don’t you dare talk of me like I’m not standing right beside you,’ Sybilla said. ‘Look at them. Are they to ride half-naked like that?’

With all the goings-on, Pitch had forgotten the state he was in. Silas was less easy to overlook. Even with his healing wounds, scarring that shone pale pink, he was a sight that was making it more and more difficult to control incubus cravings.

‘Take these,’ Isaac grunted.

And before either Pitch or Silas could say a word the coachman removed several of his copious layers. A thick brown wool cape for Silas, and a broadcloth sack coat for Pitch. Barely had they accepted the dubious gifts and the elemental was winding his impossibly long black scarf back around himself, burrowing into the folds. He looked no lighter for shedding the layers, it seemed two more had simply grown in their place.

Both the cape and the coat fit well. The ankou gave Pitch a bemused smile, and nodded at Isaac.

‘Thank you very much.’

All he received was another grunt.

But with that sorted, preparations to leave continued. Sybilla glowered whilst Jane and Tyvain mothered her to within an inch of her life as they loaded her into the carriage, joining her once they were satisfied. It was a crush, as Scarlet refused to allow them to shift the sleeping simurgh.

Isaac and Phillipa settled into the driver’s seat. Old Bess assured them all there was no need to worry about sending horses or a carriage, that he and Palatyne would gather the sirin who’d been placed around the village as lookouts for an enemy that never came, and wait till it was dark enough to have them fly home to Harvington Hall. Time alone with his sister, before the Order came calling for her, would be a boon.

No farewells were said. There seemed a silent agreement that no such goodbyes would be uttered. Pitch would broker no protest. He waved as Old Bess headed off, in the opposite direction to Lucifer, with the reluctant Palatyne in tow. Pitch promised to whip Bess soundly, the next time they met for cards at Harvington Hall, and received a suitably crude reply in return.

All perfectly civilised. No tears or sickening sentiment to unsettle anyone’s nerve.

Only Pitch and Silas were yet to find their place with Lalassu.

Silas grasped Pitch at the waist, lifting him onto Lalassu’s back. Pitch shimmied forward as the ankou straddled the mare’s saddle-less back, and settled in behind him.

The carriage horses tossed their heads, eager to move on, their tack tinkling.

‘So, who knows where we are going?’ Pitch said.

Lalassu threw her head up, a loud whinny startling some sparrows that were exploring the mass of brambles smothering the church.

‘That answers that then,’ Silas declared.