Page 83 of The Simurgh

Silas suddenly lifted his hands. There was a metal ring upon his left hand that Pitch did not recognise. ‘I’m being far too sentimental, and I know you shall hate that. So let me temper it with saying that perhaps I exaggerated the perfection. The bower was cramped, and it made us cumbersome, and I had far too many scratches from thorns and stains from the dewberries after.’

‘I don’t think they were dewberry stains.’

More laughter, the sound of heaven. ‘Quite so. Plus, I’m fairly certain you chipped one of my teeth when you were kissing me–’

‘And you left a bruise on my arse where you grabbed too hard.’

The ankou’s smile was devilish. ‘You growled at me when I sought to be gentler.’ Silas spoke steadily, so sure of himself. None of the fluster he displayed before. Long before. In another lifetime. The ankou was much changed, which is what made him so recognisable now.

‘I confess, I like having your mark upon me.’

Pitch strode across the space that separated them. Without a hint of his limp, he thought to himself, vaguely, distantly. He walked straight up to the man who could only be Silas Mercer.

The ankou looked down at him, eyes warm and gleaming with what was likely unshed tears.

‘Hello, my darling,’ Silas said, quietly, just for the two of them. ‘I’m sorry I took so long.’

Pitch grabbed Silas’s filthy lapels, and dragged the ankou’s face down to where he could land a hard, rough kiss against dirty lips. His own were a wreck, he must have tasted foul, of ash and blood and dust, but Silas did not hesitate.

They met in a rush of warmth and wetness. A violent reunion that had Pitch gasping in an instant. Craving more.

‘You look dreadful,’ he murmured against the ankou’s mouth.

‘Not dreadful enough, evidently.’ Silas’s breath was not so fresh as it could be, but Pitch would not have moved away if Gabriel himself decided to return right then.

A chance that grew ever greater the longer they delayed.

Pitch barged into the kiss harder, gripping the back of Silas’s neck as thought of the Archangel brought all his troubles to mind.

Silas moaned as Pitch pressed into him. The ankou’s shirt was already loosened, untucked from the horrendously muddy trousers he wore, and Pitch slipped his hands beneath the fabric, needing to be closer.

They tangled in grit and heat and Pitch’s blood, and were well on the way to adding to Silas’s chipped tooth with how hard they drove at one another. Pitch felt he may choke on Silas’s tongue, the ankou sent it so deep. It was like they had both never kissed another living being before, their eagerness, their hunger making them utterly mistimed and desperate.

It was fucking glorious.

‘Are you all right? Truly?’ Silas searched for the answer on Pitch’s body, his fingertips brushing the small of his back, making them both groan like hungry fools. And fools they were indeed. Half of the Faelands must have heard the explosion.

But Pitch did not fucking care.

Silas tensed, his hands at Pitch’s back. ‘Christ, your tattoo...I can’t feel the…’ Whateverthewas, Pitch didn’t learn, he assumed the slight scarring left by the needling of the runes. Silas was too bothered to say more. He leaned his head over Pitch’s shoulder. ‘Pitch, the entire tattoo is gone. What did they do to you here? You must be in terrible pain. Why would you not tell me?’

‘I am fine, Silas.’ True, save for the twist of grief that came with thinking of Scarlet. Gods, how could such an insubstantial little thing cause such knots in him?

‘Sybilla is with me…well not here, clearly, but at the church…Jane and Bess too, between them all I’m sure something can be done. The amuletum will be replaced. Are you sure you are not in pain?’ Silas lips were blood-smudged from Pitch’s kiss.

‘I promise you, I am quite fine.’ He paused, wiping at the blood with the pad of his thumb, and could not bring himself to speak of the simurgh. ‘I will tell you all of what happened here, once we are free of this tower.’

‘Of course.’ Silas’s slipped his fingers through Pitch’s, and the ring was startlingly cool against warm daemonic skin.

‘You did not have this before.’ Pitch traced the ring with his free hand.

‘It was Crane’s scythe, it is mine now.’

For the first time Pitch recalled what he had in his pocket. ‘Your bandalore.’ He tugged it free, handing it to the ankou. The string moved like a morning worm, wriggling its way through the air towards Silas. But he stayed it with a soft command.

‘Stay with him.’ With his free hand he covered the bandalore where it lay in Pitch’s palm.

‘But you need it to—’