Page 46 of The Simurgh

‘I suppose we should not be surprised to find you enjoy restraints. Your Highness’s fondness for debauchery is known across all the lands.’

Pitch’s smile wavered on hearing Gabriel speak but he did not let it vanish entirely.

‘Would you like me to teach you the way of debauchery, Narci?’ He returned to what he was good at, which was being a belligerent prick. ‘I wager you are the type who loves to be pissed upon.’ He inhaled sharply. ‘Perhaps shat upon too? Now there is a fetish that suits you no end.’ He was fully expected something, a retort at the very least, a blow at best. Nothing came. Only silence, and a disturbing quiet in the softening glare.

‘Why does he wear that ridiculous blindfold?’ Gabriel’s voice came from an entirely different part of the room now.

‘Your Grace,’ someone said quickly, almost breathlessly. ‘There was a concern he may bewitch those who guarded him if he woke, and eye contact was made.’

The Archangel did not have a lovely laugh. ‘You superstitious fools. Remove it, now.’

A rasp of a boot against the stone came, before the fumble of fingers at the back of Pitch’s head. Next, a soft tut of the tongue, a rough tug, and with a decent amount of Pitch’s hair going with it, the blindfold was removed. He blinked, and squeezed his eyes tight, shaking his head before opening them again. Oddly, the initial roar of discontent from his shoulders was now stifled, the ache there, and in his hands, so distant he might pretend himself free of it.

‘There, we cannot keep those sublime eyes hidden from the world, now can we?’

Gabriel was gloriously overdone for the occasion. Some of his black hair was woven in tight, intricate braids on his skull, while the rest hung loose. He was dressed, or rather sewn into, an outlandish suit: a gold fabric patterned with, of all damned things, peacock feathers that glinted, hinting at gemstones worked into the design. On any other occasion, Pitch might have admired the ruffle at the neckline, the cinching at the waist. Not today.

Iblis stood with him, cloaked, his hood pushed back, and no mask. Behind them, Pitch spied two of the sorcerers, near to where a tapestry of a circle of dancing fae upon a flower-filled meadow took pride of place upon the amethyst wall. The Morrigan were hooded, masked, but not so concealed as they might wish to be. He’d seen enough of Macha now to know her shape, to understand it was her whose glare daggered into him from behind the two angels. A turn of the head and he caught a glimpse of a robed figure to his right, whom he knew was Badh from the bulkiness beneath the gown. His outline had been burned into Pitch’s mind at Gidleigh House.

He saw no glimpse of Nemain, but had the sense that he was surrounded at all angles. She must be there, lurking out of sight with Harut. Likely she stood as the others did now, clutching a grimoire like it were the holy words of Enoch himself.

He was so busy studying his audience that Pitch didn’t notice the hands that reached for his ankles and shackled them in irons that held his feet tight against one another, his thighs pressed. Pitch jerked, trying to work some momentum into throwing a bucking kick his gaoler’s way.

In response, they pinched hard at the back of his thigh. ‘Try all you like but you are not going nowhere,’ Harut hissed. ‘And when they are done with you, the Captain and I shall take our turn.’

All this was said at a murmur, one Gabriel paid no attention to if he heard.

‘Let’s begin.’ The Archangel took a step closer. ‘Slowly now, we do not wish to turn the vessel into a corpse too soon. Keep your focus, children of Azazel. Do not disappoint your true father.’

The lump of cloak and feathers that was Macha rocked on her feet. ‘If there is disappointment, we cannot be blamed. We transcribed the spellwork from the grimoire you brought us not half an hour ago. We cannot be expected to master this complex work in such a short time.’ Macha’s tone was dark, and spilled with barely-concealed resentment. Onoskolis’s death was delightful in another, very unexpected way. Those here had either misjudged the depths of Macha’s feelings for the daemon or simply did not give a shit about it to begin with.

Gabriel made no outward sign he was displeased, but Pitch knew the angel to be feared for his silences. That rich, pungent pause when the Archangel was displeased.

And it was here now. Swollen, ripe, and gorgeous music to Pitch’s ears. He shifted against his binds, testing them as he soaked in the discord in the room.

‘You are a master of your craft, Mistress Macha.’ Gabriel was oil-slick smooth, uncharacteristically patient. ‘I appreciate the scarcity of time, it exists for all of us. We are upon a precipice, as I’m sure you are aware. A point of no return that I too stand upon.’

True, that. Gabriel had relinquished his anonymity, revealed his true colours, and assumed with his usual arrogant fervour that he held the upper hand here. That Pitch would have no opportunity to spread the word of treachery. Well, fuck you, Mr Narcissist. Silas knew. And if Sybilla truly lived, gods let it be so, then the Valkyrie did also. The Archangel’s betrayal would be known.

Pitch would have that, at least. If they killed him here.

But he wanted more than to be merely a herald of treason.

So very much more.

Gabriel was still prattling. ‘I have no doubt you shall do his majesty proud, and excel despite the shortness of time. You are our anchor here, sorceress. Your supreme skills are much needed.’

‘Fucking gods,’ Pitch said. ‘Would you like to crawl up her arsehole right now, Gabe?’

‘Shall I bind him, my lord?’ Iblis was far too willing.

‘No. Leave him. I wish to hear him scream.’ Gabriel turned his back on Pitch, his attention fixed upon Macha. The feathers embroidered into his coat alternated their colours as he moved: sapphire to emerald to iridescent gold. ‘Macha, when I rule Arcadia in the name of his majesty, the Watcher King Samyaza, I will have you and your siblings at my right-hand side. That is where you belong, with your goddess’s benevolent grace. But so that might happen, your great skills, the blood of Azazel that flows through you, must be brought forth. Will you stand with me, and force all those who defy the Watcher King to kneel before us?’

Macha’s tight fury evaporated with every syrupy word spoken. Pitch watched her soften and fawn under the Archangel’s gaze. She shifted beneath her layers, and her fingers caressed the pages she held. She was so young. So pliable. So desolate and in need of securing.

Pitch was not so surprised when she gave up her defiance.

‘Thank you, my lord. I will honour you. I offer all I am, and bestow the great and holy strengths I’ve been gifted by his grace, the Exarch, into your hands.’