Page 28 of The Simurgh

The Dullahan touched his gloved fingers to Tyvain’s forehead. The soothsayer relaxed, shoulders settling back against the floorboards. Her mutterings ceased, and a sublimely contented expression settled on her face. She sighed, and there was peace in the sound.

‘Was it Iblis who had you sedate us? The Erlking?’ Even as Silas said it, he knew it made little sense. Cumberland House was a fortress. And Mr Ahari was clearly involved in their containment. But he still could not yet bring himself to believe this imprisonment came at the whim of those who should be allies.

Byleist sighed. ‘I went to rather great lengths to escape Lokke’s binds, if you recall. And Iblis has never been my master.’ The Dullahan moved to Sybilla’s side, glancing at Silas. ‘May I?’

‘May you what?’

‘Tend to the angel?’ He fluttered a finger. ‘The djinn hit his head when he fell, so he’s not so much asleep as knocked out cold. And Miss Vale’s pains need constant subduing. If you recall, I assisted her once before.’

Benedict, whom Silas was appalled to realise he had forgotten about entirely, lay half against the doorway leading to the hall. His head lay out in the corridor, out of sight, his legs splayed. Of course Silas remembered Byleist tending the angel when first they’d found her.

But the fae had not exactly earned trust with the pixie dust.

Sybilla moaned, a painful grimace twisting her already-burdened flesh. Silas glanced again at Tyvain, who seemed contented enough after the Dullahan’s touch. But he had no bloody idea who was on whom’s side.

‘Don’t touch her. Don’t touch any of them again.’

Tyvain smacked her lips, and sighing again, she rolled onto her side, tucking her hands beneath her head.

Not exactly tormented…but still. Silas had put the angel through enough already.

Byleist returned to his sherry glass. ‘Very well, my lord. And if you must know, it was the daemonic gentleman who instructed me. For some ludicrous reason, he chooses to be called Reginald. Terrible name. And I suspect, he is far too grand for it.’

‘Lucifer? He told you to send us to sleep?’

‘Ah, there we are, then. Just as I said, far too grand to be a true Reginald. His Majesty gave me the pixie dust before he left, with instructions to use it should you become agitated.’

Tyvain’s feet twitched, her face scrunching. She sat bolt upright. Much the same as Silas had just done, though luckily with no table overhead to bruise her crown.

‘What the bloody feck just ’appened?’ She wiped at the drool on her chin, eyelids fluttering. ‘Balls, I’m thirsty…Why does me mouth feel like a gravel pit?’

‘It was quite the symphony at one point, all of you were snoring,’ Byleist answered, his gaze moving to Silas. ‘Well most of you. Lord Death ruined the ambience with all kinds of lewd noises. I think he enjoyed his snooze very much.’

Silas was considering punching the fellow when Tyvain released a startled gasp.

‘Cripes, I remember it now, you did this to us. Who let you out of ya cage?’ The soothsayer flipped onto her hands and knees before Silas could utter any reassurances, scrambling away like a red-topped and very maddened crab. ‘Get ya pet back on ’is leash, Mercer. ’E’s supposed ta be behind some big fancy bars, ain’t ’e?’ She grabbed at the nearest thing, a footrest for another armchair, holding it up like a cushioned shield. ‘And since when did ’e learn ta talk too then, aye?’

Byleist regarded her with his pitfall eyes. There was something imperious in the way he did so. He seemed well-versed at looking down at people along the length of his vaguely aquiline nose.

‘You can thank my lord for the return of my vocal gifts.’ He gestured at Silas, who was not prepared to leave Sybilla’s side with the Dullahan so close. The angel slept through the hubbub. ‘I was told I could sing like a nightingale once, perhaps I shall regale you when there is some semblance of normalcy returned.’ The Dullahan poured his small portion of sherry into the fire, making the flames roar and sputter. Silas stared into their depths, cold despite the warmth, his thoughts back in the dream that had felt so damned real.

‘Feckin’ Christ, you prattle on, don’t ya?’ Tyvain snapped. ‘What the ‘eck just ’appened, Mercer? Can’t keep me ’ead straight.’

Silas pulled his gaze from the fire. ‘Byleist was following Lucifer’s instructions.’ He believed the Dullahan in that.

‘Reginald wanted us knocked out? Feckin’ prick. ’Aven’t ’ad pixie dust in an age, on account of it giving me damn hives.’ She pushed up her shirtsleeves. ‘See! Bloody Jesus’s toe crud, I’m gonna look like I’ve got the feckin’ pox in a while.’

‘I could do something about that, if you like,’ Byleist said, the extraordinary lengths of his violet hair moving like slippery silk over his shoulders.

‘Ya not touchin’ me.’ The soothsayer held up her balled fists and braced. ‘Trust a fae as far as I could kick ’em.’

‘So be it. Off you go and play with your little cards then, Hag of Beara.’

‘Piss off.’

‘It’s been a very long time since I’ve pissed anything.’

‘Enough!’ Silas shouted. Christ, it was like having a lesser version of Pitch here to banter with the soothsayer. ‘There’s no time for this. Byleist, how long have we been asleep?’