Page 78 of The Simurgh

This was blisswithouta vestige, mind. Which was dangerous. To have no siphon at hand for the fullness of his power left it more likely to slip entirely from his control. And Pitch had barely held control when hedidhave his vestige on the Hellfield. The angels had their halos for just such a reason.

But to say he was beyond caring about such details was grossly understating things. He channelled some of the inferno into his hands, determined to be rid of the Nekhri gloves.

The glare of daemonic flame and angelic fire faded, revealing a puzzling scene. Iblis was not there ready to level another shot at him. The angel had his back to Pitch, his wings curved forward, their dragonfly-like translucence suffering a multitude of scorch marks but otherwise still intact.

‘Get down, get down,’ he cried. ‘Stay behind my wings, do not leave their shelter.’

Pitch wrinkled his nose. The angel sounded quite…dare he think it…concerned. Gods, Iblis truly imagined himself some sort of twisted father to these cretins?

The sorcerers were crying out, grabbing at each other, trying to do as he bid. Their sweat-ridden faces were distorted through the wings. So much for almighty maleficium. Only useful so long as one wasn’t shitting their pants in fear.

‘Doesn’t anyone want to play with me?’ Pitch’s grin was, even he would admit, rather maniacal, stretching his lips taut. A quick glance up showed him the gloves glowed the red of iron in a furnace. He could flex his fingers a little now, the Nekhri was softening. ‘You all ran away at the greensward too. Now if you wish to speak of disappointment, Iblis, the failure of your witches that day is where to begin.’

Iblis twisted his shoulders, an awkward move when he did not dare leave his precious sorcerers exposed, and stabbed the halo towards Pitch. It was a poor shot, avoided with a buck of his hips, and a flick of flame that redirected the angelfire against the amethyst walls, turning several tapestries to cinder before racing up to the ceiling where it scorched away a decent portion of the sigils. For all the good they were doing now.

‘Tut-tut.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think Lokke will be happy with what you’re doing to his chamber.’

‘Have your vengeance with me, Vassago,’ Iblis said. ‘But do not make them suffer…I beg you.’

‘Don’t make them suffer as you’ve made all those around me suffer? As you have done me?’ Pitch laughed, and gods help him, it was no less crazed a sound than Macha had ever made. ‘I would gladly leap onto the pyre this place shall become, if it means I can watch you all scream for your long-dead mothers.’ The vitriol spilled easily. It was coming from a well-used place after all. These were the sorts of taunts and black promises that were thrown across the Hellfield. He’d made good on untold numbers of them. The death-cries of his enemies were the sonatas he’d soothe himself to sleep with.

And he could get lost in this bloodlust here, sink into its warm depths with a great, satisfied sigh.

He’d been terrible long before Seraphiel’s curse.

‘They were following orders, as you yourself have done.’ Iblis was still trying, bless him, to delay what was inevitable. ‘But they are children who know not what they do.’

Pitch’s stomach roiled. ‘Oh, they know exactly what they do. They just won’t be doing it any longer.’

The glove at Pitch’s right hand fell away to dust, raining down on his sweat-drenched skin. His arm dropped, heavy as stone. Within, his flame roared with hunger. Ravenous after so long constrained. The Beserker Prince was so close to the surface, closer still to unbridled release. Pitch could hardly keep his thoughts in a row.

But what harm in annihilation?

All these monsters who had hurt him, who had hurt Silas, would be gone. That was worth some madness, surely?

Pitch…Tobias…Vassago…took aim.

Fire poured from between his shoulder blades, arcing in twin torrents. Let it burn him alive, let his flames melt this pretty little body into an indecent pile of flesh and starched bone for all he cared. This sorry adventure would be over.

He sent forth a torrent of flame, one with the force of a hundred blazing carriages moving at full speed. The onslaught slammed into the angel’s back.

Iblis roared with fury and angelfire. He was spun about by the blow, and landed back first against the wall, crushing his silhouette into the crystal. Pitch drew back his flame, aimed again, and stabbed the Watcher’s belly, pinning him down with fire.

The sorcerers screamed and scattered. Nemain grabbed at Macha, hauling her aside. Badh went the opposite way, scrambling on hands and knees.

‘Stay with them, Badh.’ Iblis’s morose cry came with a thrust of his halo.

A woeful blast of angelfire jettisoned forth.

And Pitch knew what he would do, right before the angel realised it himself.

‘No,’ Iblis cried. ‘Please no.’

Pitch’s strike was almost lazy in its execution. He sent another flame against the halo’s searing white light, redirecting it where it served a better purpose.

Badh had turned at Iblis’s cry, and so he saw the moment he would die rushing up at him. He tried to flee. But there was nowhere to go. Badh pressed himself up against the wall, curling in on himself as Iblis’s angelfire struck.

The young sorcerer’s scream was ice to the spine. The roar of flame was deafening, the stench of burning flesh piercing to the senses.