Page 47 of The Simurgh
Pitch thought he might throw up. He was surrounded by sycophants.
‘Good, very good.’ Gabriel delivered a wolfish smile. ‘Let us test the bounds of this creature, see what truly lies beneath.’ He glanced at Iblis. ‘Advise his majesty we are ready to commence.’
How many damned kings did it take to gut a daemon?
Iblis bowed his head, and a shudder ran through his body. And Pitch understood. Azazel would be eager to watch the show, of course.
There was a stagnant moment, one where it seemed Iblis had gone to sleep or passed out beneath the folds of his heavy cloak, he was utterly still.
But only briefly. A shift came over him, a shimmer in the air that Pitch could see for its strength. The Exarch’s arrival, even in the delicate, barely-there way of scrying, made its mark upon the chamber, prickling the air. There was a shuffling around the chamber, a clearing of throats, a Sunday service awaiting sermon. Even though Iblis had his back to them, Macha lowered into a curtsy, Badh into a bow, their robes spreading like ink around them.
Gabriel’s sleeve flashed sapphire as he drew it up to rest at an angle across his chest, two fingertips touching at his shoulder; performing the gesture reserved for the highest of the high. Pitch had no doubt such subservience to the Exarch was killing the arrogant Archangel, for Exarch or not, Azazel was an angel beneath Gabriel in the hierarchy of birth.
Iblis stepped up to Pitch, his eyes showing clear evidence of the passenger he carried. There was the disconcerting hint of eyes within eyes, with the Exarch’s flame a bright point where the black of pupils should be. Iblis drew closer, bringing Azazel with him. They were barely an arm’s reach away. Pitch dragged the mucous from the back of his throat, and spat at their feet.
Childish really, but it was the best he could do for now.
‘Good day to you, sir.’ Pitch grinned, though he found nothing funny at all. The eyes blinked, slightly out of time with each other, as they were prone to do. ‘I cannot say it is lovely to see you again.’
Neither Iblis nor his master replied. The angel reached for Pitch’s throat. He braced, not only against the physical touch, but against that of the mind. Ready for the manipulation that had come when he was held in Sherwood Forest.
‘You will not fight this, little daemon.’ The gravitas of the Exarch inflated Iblis’s own voice. Pitch felt a gentle tap against the back of his skull. ‘You will not fight this.’
Azazel stared him down from his distant throne. Certainty in his borrowed gaze. Supremely confident in being heeded.
There was a niggle to do so, certainly, but the compulsion was insipid. Easily shrugged off. Pitch’s lips did not loosen with any longing to comply.
‘I won’t fight this, you say?’ He spoke as much to test his own tongue as to goad the Exarch.
The merest hint of a twitch came at Iblis’s brow, and he spoke again. ‘You will not fight this, Vassago. You will release the Seraphim’s secret.’ He chewed a little harder upon the words, seeking to make them stick. ‘You will not fight this, Vassago.’
Pitch held his breath, certain the compulsion would surge, and his autonomy would disintegrate beneath the weight of Azazel’s divine magick.
There was the brush of a chill upon his skin, the rise of goosebumps along his arms. A stirring, yes…but not the kind that Azazel had delivered in Sherwood. Pitch had less than a heartbeat to realise the angel’s power over him did not exist. And even less time to decide it must not be known by his enemies. If they thought him overcome, pliable, and weak, their guards would be lowered.
‘I will not fight this.’ Pitch made the words slip lazily over his tongue. He recalled himself sounding almost drunk in Sherwood as he’d blurted out too many secrets.
His act seemed to please his audience.
Fucking gods, was it possible that Azazel did not know his magick was failing him? Certainly Iblis showed no sign of doubt. His expression, the Exarch’s expression, was that of a creature who fully believed in his own magnificence.
‘Good boy.’ The smile that crept over Iblis’s lips was truly gut-turning. Pitch despised the choice of words, for only the ankou had permission to speak to him in such a way and keep his tongue, but his elation superseded his repulsion.
This idiot had no idea his dog was off the chain. Pitch was losing track of how many ales he would owe Sybilla, when next they sat at The Atlas, if indeed her magick aided him.
Pitch dropped his head heavily, nearly crying out at the pain brought to his overburdened shoulders. He sighed instead. Exhaling as though he had just lowered himself into a steaming bath with his lover…one could only dream such a day with Silas would come.
‘I am a good boy,’ he whispered, ‘and I am tired of fighting.’
The first might be a lie but the second was certainly not. Which made it all the easier to sound convincing. He let his lids become heavy, his lashes brushing with slow blinks as he acted like a creature subdued.
‘You desire me to remove this burden, don’t you, Vassago? You wish to relinquish this weight, to me.’ Azazel’s words were a hush of air, one shifted by a delicate fan. Pitch felt them, absolutely, but was not troubled by them.
‘I do.’ He let the words drip like honey. ‘I want to give it all to you. I don’t want to carry this weight anymore.’
Not so difficult to lie when you spoke in half-truths. Pitch sighed again, lifting his head and staring into the Exarch’s eyes…those ember glints surrounded by darkness, taking up too much space in Iblis’s own.
‘I am so tired, Az.’ A tiny flicker of lashes, a blink within a blink. Pitch’s pulse went into a gallop. Had he been too familiar, too much his own acerbic self?