The Dullahan sat at a card table on the far side of the room, he lifted his hands from his lap where they had been concealed, and propped his elbows on the polished mahogany surface. His hands were clad in stark white gloves. Silas squinted. He swore he could make out the faintest hint of a face: a chin, a mouth, a brow, highlighted by the sheer curtains behind.
The Dullahan opened his hands, palms turned upwards, like a book being opened. Something glittered upon his gloves, like moonlight on a pond. He raised his upturned hands, and suddenly the moonlight was billowing into the air.
The tiny particles swept across the room. And before Silas could utter a warning, or cover his face, the pixie dust was upon them.
The very same dust that had rendered Silas and Pitch unconscious in the Fulbourn, here again to do its darnedest work.
‘You bastard,’ Silas mumbled, his head filling with cotton wool, his eyelids forcing themselves closed.
Tyvain had even less nice things to say. But her tirade was short-lived. Silas heard her hit the floor, an unpleasant thump that he hoped was not her head. ‘Why?’ he slurred.
‘Because I could not decide why not,’ came the infernal, cryptic reply.
And as Silas’s world was swamped with darkness, he swore the Dullahan’s face grew clear as a painting. A beauty, not unlike Pitch’s own, with similar sharp angles and high cheekbones that made the daemon so delightful to behold. But where Pitch had eyes of emerald, the Dullahan had only blackness, twin abysses in the empty sockets– giving Silas no clue as to whether it was hatred or disregard that drove Byleist to betray him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
PITCH WASnot awake. At least, not entirely. Aside from that, he had no clue what he was. Except rather comfortable. More so than he’d been in…well…perhaps his life? If only he could recall much of that life.
He wasn’t certain where he was. But he was warm. So warm. Heat was in his marrow, and it had not been there for some time. He sighed. Or at least, he wanted to but no sound came from him. Not a whisper. When had the world gotten so quiet?
It was nice. He liked it very much.
The strange thoughts were amusing. Since when did he regard things so simply? Better yet, when the bloody hell had he ever thought somethingnice? The word did not seem suited to him, to his life. The life he couldn’t quite get a grip on.
Which was fine. Perfectly fine. That life was better left off to the side. He knew that much.
Someone was breathing. He knew that too.
Breathing steadily, in and out. Here. In his nice, quiet darkness. And the sound filled him with utter, delightful calm. Was it coming from him? Did he even have lungs right now? Who knew?
Who cared?
It was dark. Deeply, unfathomably so. And he had the vague sense that would bother him…were he elsewhere. But not here.
In. Out.
The other breathed. He copied.
Pitch heard it now. His own intake matching the other sound. Someone else was here.
In. Out.
Great draws of air, a faint rasp on the exhale. He smiled into the velvet blackness and rode the unwavering beat of the other’s drawn breath.
He knew the sound. Pitch wanted to smile but wasn’t quite sure he managed it. Hard to tell when one seemed to have no lips to smile with.
But he knew where he was now. Or rather, he knew what he was.
Safe.
‘Silas.’ He found the lips he’d thought lost.
‘Pitch.’
There was a hint of surprise on the word, but all Pitch focused on was how well this dream mimicked the ankou.
‘Gods, Silas, I miss you.’ What harm in saying it here, where this dream, for it must be a dream, would hide his sentiment. ‘I miss your infernal hugs and fussing.’
