CHAPTER ONE
SILAS GLAREDat the King of Daemonkind across the wide oval table. With every unnecessary word spoken between Lucifer and the Lady Satine, Silas’s ire rose. Not only did he have to endure their endless, pointless discussion, but there was a distinct odour of the sea present, or rather, the waft of the day’s catch beginning to foul. It clung to the burly, unshaven fishmonger the Lady had taken as her vessel. The unpleasantness did nothing to improve Silas’s countenance. He’d not slept in days nor eaten a thing since the dewberries in Sherwood Forest, and he knew he stank every bit as much as Satine’s fishmonger for lack of a bath. But he was a man consumed with fear and anger and enraged by the goddamned delay.
Three days, two nights, and a torturous number of hours ago, Pitch had been taken from him. The sun had set and risen twice over, and here they were: wasting precious time with laboured considerations and ceaseless debate of how best to go about retrieving a stolen prince.
Silas knew exactly his plan of action. Lalassu was recovering well under Benedict’s care, so the moment he was given the go-ahead, Silas would be upon her back. Together they’d gallop out of York and churn up the miles, scouring every inch of the land, merciless in their search, raising every last ghost in the British Isles to serve as his hunting dogs. He would not rest until Pitch was found.
Silas pressed his thumbs to his aching temples, regretting the thought of dogs, for it reminded him of the loss of Forneus– another terrible consequence of his ill-fated decision to wander off in Sherwood Forest.
He stood, shoving back his grief, and his chair. The dining set was Queen Anne cherrywood, impeccably polished, its chairs delightfully comfortable to sit upon. But Silas did not wish to be delightfully comfortable, holed up in the luxurious surrounds of Cumberland House, with its picturesque view over the River Ouse. He touched his fingertips to the tabletop, a wash of dizziness making the room spin.
‘I’ll not sit here another moment, Satine.’ His aggravation overrode him. ‘This is ludicrous. If I cannot take Lalassu, then I’ll take another mount. But do not expect me to linger here any longer.’
Lucifer regarded him with pale grey eyes, his natural daemonic amber concealed beneath an unremarkable hue. He ran his thumb and forefinger over the thin oiled moustache above his lip, over and over until Silas was ready to slap his hand away and tell him just how ridiculous the design looked.
Satine’s fishmonger muttered some choice vile words. ‘Gods give me strength, are we to have this discussion again, Mr Mercer?’
‘It has hardly been a discussion.’
‘No, you’re right. It is a command. One I’ll say again. You will not leave this house.’
The fishmonger had dull blue eyes, but the Lady’s vexation gave them a frightening depth, one Silas feared he’d be sucked into if he did not keep his wits.
‘I cannot stay here, Satine. He is alone–’
‘He is hardly that.’ The fishmonger had a deep voice, one that suited the Lady well here, for it gave her words a ghastly resonance. ‘If he were alone, we’d not be in this dilemma. He’d call in, irritated beyond measure, and demand collection. We’d dust him off and continue on our merry way. But that is not the case. So you will go nowhere, for there is nowhere for you to go. Have sense, Silas. We have no idea where they have taken him. Give Mr Ahari time to draw information from that kitsune.’
Ernest Weatherby was somewhere in the confines of Cumberland House, very likely, Silas suspected, within the stoned walls of the basement. He’d arrived or, rather, been dragged here in the silvery hours of the previous night. Silas did not know the whys and wherefores of his capture. None of the details mattered, save for the information the man could provide.
Silas had not been allowed to see him. Some nonsense about him being in too foul a temper to be of use in extracting information. He was fairly certain they feared he would kill the kitsune in his fervour to learn of Pitch’s whereabouts, and he would not argue with them on that. His nerves were tinder dry, one spark from igniting into something fearsome. He glanced at the ceiling, looking not at the intricate rose in the plasterwork but at what lay beyond. Sybilla recuperated in one of the upstairs rooms. She was weak still. She had barely murmured on the journey here, one that took several infuriating hours to bring them north to the walled city of York. Evidently, this was a stronghold of the Order, where not just one house was a Sanctuary but the entire walled city.
Guilt ate at him, a rat nibbling on cheese. What a fool he’d been to run about playing with asrai, to let his lightheartedness blind him. Happiness had made a mockery of him. Taken him off his guard so a harpy might play with his heart strings. Silas ran his thumb over the ring upon his middle finger– Balthazar Crane’s reclaimed scythe. Silas’s tool now. He clung to his belief that the bandalore was with the prince. But he’d driven himself nearly mad with trying to form some kind of connection with his scythe, spending most of the past few days trying to listen for its call, and to whisper his own pleas into the distance that separated them. Silence alone had answered him.
‘Sit down.’
Lucifer’s tone brooked no debate. At least, it would have, should Silas have heard it a month ago, a few weeks even. He would have shaken and bent beneath the command.
‘I will not.’ Silas met the King of Daemonkind’s stare with one of his own. ‘What point is there of you being here if all you seem capable of doing is draining the wine and smoking all the cigars?’ He jabbed a finger at the glowing wad of pressed tobacco that rested between Lucifer’s fingers. ‘They smell like cow shit, may I say?’
The daemon lifted the cigar to his lips and took a long, slow drag before blowing the smoke very pointedly towards Silas’s face. ‘I should hardly worry what you think. Sit down, you impetuous fool.’
‘Piss off, Lucifer.’ Silas waved off the smoke as much as the royalty who blew it.
It was the lack of knowledge that was killing him. No one had any conviction as to where Pitch may have been taken. Even the Dullahan seemed unsure, or was simply not willing to say. Silas was not fool enough to trust Byleist outright, but the creature had done nothing to give him pause since he’d gone the way of a turncoat in Sherwood Forest, bringing down the Wild Hunt in exchange for his own release from the Erlking’s servitude.
‘Silas–’ There came a warning from the fishmonger and the djinn within.
Silas turned on the Lady Satine, who was seated far up at the head of the ridiculously long table. ‘How much time are we to give Mr Ahari’s interrogation?’ He gestured to the parchment laid out on the table in front of the fishmonger. A map of sorts, though not one any purebred traveller would find use for. To Silas’s eye, it resembled more of a checkers board than the lay of terrain, with simple pebbles of varying shades of white and grey laid out across its surface, which appeared to be the hide of some unfortunate animal, though not one he recognised. An elephant was the likely suspect, but he doubted it so plain as that. ‘And what are your rocks telling you? Clearly nothing of importance.’
He was being a prick. And prepared to be far worse if someone, soon, did not take some action.
‘Not rocks, Silas.’ The Lady was curt, fingering one of the stones as though fearful it might be insulted. ‘Location runes. These mark those I’ve sent out to find trace of the Red Horseman.’
‘Tobias,’ Silas shot at her. ‘At least give him his bloody name, Satine.’ He was a pot brimming over, desperation bubbling his fury.
‘His name is Vassago, if you insist on being a pedantic prat.’ Lucifer blew a ring of smoke, studying it like it was a fine painting. He’d forgone his spectacles in favour of a monocle that sat pinned to his coat, a lavish dark velvet in burgundy with gold trim and onyx accents. ‘Not Pitch, or any other pathetic endearment you might give him. That creature is no sweetheart.’
Silas’s bubbling pot erupted. He strode around the stupidly elongated table– the blasted thing could sit a damned battalion– and made sure to walk on the bare floorboards rather than the plush rug so his heavy footsteps could rattle the glassware in the cabinets.
