Page 34 of The Simurgh

‘Your prize is well protected, little prince. But there are very few knots I cannot unravel, I assure you.’

Gods how satisfying a bullish, vulgar reply would be, but Pitch kept up his act. He groaned, rolling his head back and forth, using the moment to really put his back into the act. A lump near his left ear had excitement coursing through him. Momentarily. Another decent roll revealed it as nothing more than an atrocious knot of his own hair. Not a hiding wisp at all.

‘Your Excellency.’

The voice drew Gabriel’s gaze away. ‘What is it?’

‘Nemain has arrived. She awaits instruction at Crystal Palace.’

Pitch’s stomach roiled, his every nerve alive with repulsion. Onoskolis’s voice was devoid of the sly cruelty she’d used on him, but it made his skin crawl just the same.

He forced his thoughts towards his breathing. What was done was done. He needed to keep his wits if he was to survive. Silas would never forgive him if he did otherwise.

‘Macha has rested after finishing with the Sluagh, as I instructed? ’ Gabriel returned to studying Pitch’s chest. His face was blank of expression, as good a mask as those foolish feathered constructs the Morrigan adored.

‘She has indeed. I can vouch that she slept well enough,’ Onoskolis said evenly. ‘And as you also instructed, I passed on the grimoire you delivered. She is going over the spellwork now, but wished me to tell you that it is complex work. Time will be needed to perfect the casting.’

‘They do not have time.’ Spoken low, threatening as an oncoming storm.

‘Of course, your grace. How long shall I tell them they have?’

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, his gaze still fixed on Pitch’s torso. Pitch ducked his chin, trying to see what bothered the angel.

The puncture wounds were gone. That is to say the deep cuts from the angel’s nails were but tiny pockmarks of pink. Barely perceptible fresh scars.

Pitch had healed over within moments.

Elation bubbled. Elation, and some confusion. This was healing at a rate he’d not known even when he was in peak daemonic condition.

‘Did you bring what I asked?’

‘Of course, your grace,’ Onoskolis replied, ever calm, all too collected.

The Alp stepped into view. Curled horns jutted through her thick black hair, which was woven into a braid that curled over her shoulder. She was far shorter than the angel, so in turn, far closer to Pitch than he would have liked. To his horror, he flinched from her before he could stop himself.

Gabriel stepped away, moving back behind Pitch’s head, out of view. ‘Good. When you take to him do not be sparing. I want him weak, weaker even than he is now. Do your worst.’

‘Of course, your grace.’

‘Ensure your best is far better than last time you were ordered to bring down a prince.’ It was very near a snarl coming from the angel, and Pitch relished the flicker of fear that crossed the Alp’s face. ‘If you had not wasted so much time pleasuring yourself, this could have been over long before now. Get to it, I will ready the sorcerers and return. Wipe that smirk off Vassago’s face, if you will.’

Onoskolis bowed, low and deep, but Pitch could hear her teeth grind. Gabriel left the chamber, taking the bright light of his aura with him. The daemon turned her vile gaze upon him, her eyes glittering with hints of her flame, a shift in her demeanour, like a boxer repositioning themselves after a strike.

‘Hello, sweetheart.’ Her smile was insipid. ‘Have you missed me as much as I’ve missed you?’

CHAPTER TEN

ONOSKOLIS WASTEDno time in invading his personal space. She touched him. Traced her finger along his side. Pitch sucked in his breath, seeking to hold himself rigid. Gods, he’d barely controlled a whimper, and a raw, animalistic desire to evade her.

‘You put on quite the show at Gidleigh, didn’t you, pretty one?’

Onoskolis glanced away, searching in the deep pocket of her burgundy coat. The removal of her attention broke the spell she’d woven, one cast without any need of enchantment. Pitch needed to breathe, but feared if he let himself go, in the slightest way, he’d become mindless with the monstrous urge to run. He was a bundle of contrary sensations; he wanted to tear her apart, but also curl up in a corner of this room and sob like a child.

The daemon found what she was looking for. She held up a syringe, a crude thing with a tarnished brass plunger and a simple wooden frame around the glass vial. The vial was filled with a murky grey-tinged liquid. If it were Gu it was very different to that which had been on the bluecap’s knife, as inconceivable as water.

‘I heard a rumour that our first concoction didn’t suit you very well.’ Never had a smile been so perfectly shaped, and so empty of warmth. ‘Made my poor precious boy very unwell. So we’ve played around a little. Nemain has added a few touches. I told them you are no daemon. But they didn’t believe me. I told them you were more than a needy whore. No one listened to me, not to begin with.’

‘How sad for you.’