Page 35 of The Simurgh
She traced her finger up his neck, along his jawline, and over his chin. She was close enough to bite. But that would likely only see him stabbed with the syringe sooner. He needed all the time he could draw from this. To work out what the fuck to do.
‘Always with the sharp tongue, my beautiful harlot.’ Onoskolis leaned close, and the cloying scent of her breath had his weakened stomach tying itself in knots. ‘Oh, you want to hurt me, don’t you? Well, that’s good, because I want to hurt you too.’ She dragged the needle tip along the line of his collarbone, and he was struck once again by the lack of wince-worthy pain. ‘But I have to wonder, do you hate me because you truly despised our encounter? Or because you crave more?’
He had intended to stay still, to be as reactionary to her inflammatory words as the stone he lay upon. Trauma had other ideas, ones that raced beyond his reason. Pitch dragged at his bindings, contorting his body where it would allow. Sharp pulses of the hips, and a twist of the shoulder were all he could summon. He lifted his head, but the daemon only had to inch back to be out of strike range.
A lascivious smile crawled over the Alp’s mouth.
‘Such indignation, great prince. My gods you have no idea what a thrill it was to learn who you truly were, the high and mighty Berserker Prince, no less. I had no idea, you see, when I held you down and made you pant and moan and cry in that room. We all knew you to be powerful, significant…but a Dominion, a king’s spawn.….oh the stars aligned for me that day.’ She ran her free hand down over his stomach, tracing the scarring, moving lower to the waist of his trousers. ‘The gods finally,finallyshined their favour on me, and granted me the chance to torment you. To ride the high and mighty Vassago so low. Force him to do what he did nottrulydesire, and learn what it was to be like those beneath you, devoid of control of their fate, no-one giving two fucks what they want.’ Her fingers glanced over his crotch, but his cock would not lead him astray here again. He’d never been more flaccid in his life.
‘I ask one small mercy,’ he said.
‘Oh, I’ll play along, then. What is that, your highness?’
‘That you stick your needle in now so I might die and not have to listen to you anymore.’
Her laughter was short, bitter, but faintly amused. ‘Oh I’m not here to kill you. Just to make you far more uncomfortable than you already are, so they aren’t so frightened of you.’ She danced the tip of the needle against his earlobe, finding the place where he’d pierced Tilly’s earring through, dragging at the puncture. ‘You have the angels all worked up, you see. They don’t seem happy with just some sigils and Nekhri to keep you down. I’m going to make you sick–’
‘Mission accomplished. Off you go then.’ He sounded suitably sarcastic and taunting, but beneath all that, he shook.
‘Did your legion have to laugh at your poor jokes, Vassago? Before you sent them into skirmishes you must have known they’d not survive.’
Pitch was tired of talking now. His fingers were going numb in the hardened casing. He didn’t like the way she kept touching him.
‘Hmm, not so chatty now, then? Good, because I want you to listen. I shall have this moment to lay my story upon you before they tear you apart. I’d have preferred to shout it in the halls of White Mountain, scream it in Lord Enoch’s ear so loudly that all the Celestials would hear me, but you’ll do, sweetheart. With those lovely, perfect ears, you will listen.’ She pushed at his earlobe, the needle’s tip slipping through the hole and glancing at the vulnerable spot behind, the soft dent between jawbone and skull.
‘I’m not sure Gabby will approve of this tête-à-tête.’
Gods, this chamber was cold. Pitch felt the strain at his ankles and wrists where he shook hard against the restraints. He’d never realised how satisfying it was to flex one’s fingers before, and how immensely irritating it was when one could not.
‘I’m certain I do not care.’ Onoskolis was hard flint and resolve. ‘I am a consequence, your highness. Me, and the sorcerers, we are all consequences. Gods, even our master Samyaza himself. We are all products of Arcadia’s wrongful decisions. We are what happens when our cries fall on ears deafened by sanctimonious righteousness.’
‘Perhaps you could wake me when your tale is done?’
Just a little bend in his pinky finger would suffice to ease the aches in his hands. Fuck. Pitch would never wear gloves again, he swore.
‘And there you are, proving my point exactly.’
‘Wonderful. So we are done, then?’
Onoskolis grabbed at his throat, set her thumb and forefinger in deep, squeezed tight. ‘You will listen to me as I speak for those who are not heard.’ Her breath was heated, sour. He remembered it well. ‘The Watcher King sought greater influence in the court of White Mountain. He wished for agency, he wished just to beheard, but Lord Enoch did not like the challenge, and declared that his child must die. Just as the Order declare that Badh and Nemain and Macha must die, and all those of Maleficium who came before them.’
Pitch dragged in shallow, laboured breaths. She was choking him. But where he’d thought to mock, to ridicule, he held his tongue.
‘And I…my kin, the Alp….we had no desire to fight upon the Hellfield. All of us said it loudly enough. But they were quickly silenced. Arcadia had decided we would serve them, and there was no recourse for us. We were to walk the dreams of White Mountain’s enemies, drain them whilst they slept feverishly. So they wake exhausted, too weakened for war. It was a Dominion who came to my village to make us submit. Orobas. Your brother.’
She let him go, shoving at his throat hard.
Pitch coughed, dragging in a breath. He was shivering as though laid out in a winter storm. But it was only partly due to the cold. He knew the Alp to be dream enchanters, knew that blood was for them as sugar to him, and alcohol for the purebreds.
A euphoric substance to be craved.
The Alp sedated their prey, let them drift in a dreamland while they fed. The dreams were usually pleasant, the exchange leaving no more than a small itchy mark on the neck.
‘Orobas is no brother to me. And I had no Alp in my legion.’ Pitch turned his head, seeking distance from the creature who crowded his space. She clasped her hand upon his thigh, her hold very tight, her rage tighter still. So thick he could taste it upon his tongue.
‘Likeyouknew who was even in your legion. You are famed for body counts, and not just those of Elyssiam. Those beneath you are expendable.’ She spat at the floor. ‘And Orobas is your brother. Perhaps not in the way of humankind, but in the way of the Dominion. You are both carved from a King of Daemonkind and made incarnate by a creation flame of Enoch’s choosing.’
‘Different kings. Different flames.’