Her eyelids were heavy as Tyvain settled her back against the cushions. ‘Thank you.’
Byleist gave her a nod, replacing his glove as he stepped away.
‘An Archangel,’ Silas said suddenly.
The Valkyrie’s eyes, only just closed, flew open. ‘What?’
‘Is there an Archangel called Gabriel?’
Her dull eyes brightened. ‘There is.’
‘It was not a dream, I knew it, and your magick proves it. I was there, I was with Pitch, and he told me that Gabriel is the one who has him.’
‘A feckin’ Archangel?’ Tyvain said. ‘No wonder ya couldn’t sniff out them feckin’ witches a century ago, Syb. How many bloody traitors they got up there in them White Mountains?’
‘One too many at least.’ Sybilla looked to Silas, urgency burning in her gaze. ‘You must have Lalassu send a message to the Lady.’ Silas moved to do so there and then. ‘Wait, wait a moment. Give me your hand.’ Against Tyvain’s very vocal protests, Sybilla sat up again, or at least allowed enough assistance to enable her to do so. ‘Quickly now, before the trace of my magick fades.’
Silas reached out his hand and kept his face still as the roughness of Sybilla’s skin scraped his. ‘What do you hope to do?’
The angel closed her eyes and tightened her hold. Silas bit at his lip, watching the stretched skin on her knuckles tear with fine lines.
‘Jesus, Syb.’ Tyvain sucked at her teeth. ‘Sure this is wise?
Sybilla didn’t answer. Her grip grew more intense, to the point of painful, but Silas kept still. Waited.
‘I’m…using my magick…to read the seals upon this house.’ A wince, a short, sharp breath. ‘It’s complex. Lucifer and Mr Ahari have combined their magicks, and used what exists in this Sanctuary, too. But with so many castings involved, there must be a linchpin.’ She let out a shuddered breath, releasing Silas’s hand. ‘Damn it. I cannot see where it is.’
‘Linchpin, what does that mean?’ Silas resisted the urge to rub at his hand where the angel’s grip had stung.
‘That more than one party does not wish you to leave this place,’ Byleist declared. ‘Which really is for the best, don’t you think?’
‘Ignore him.’ Sybilla brushed Tyvain aside, and reached again for Silas. ‘Help me up, get me to the chair. We need to go outside. The linchpin will be somewhere upon the boundaries of the seal.’ She clung to Silas as he lifted her. ‘There is scant trace of my magick on your hands now. But your face…your lips. Did you kiss him?’
Byleist coughed as he pulled his glove back on. ‘Rather more than that I’d suggest, from the gyrations he was performing.’
Tyvain made a face. ‘Well that’s ruined me supper.’
‘Christ, will you stop? I kissed him, I didn’t…’ Silas blushed and fumed, and lied, all at the same time. ‘What is a linchpin? Will it get us out of here?’
‘Maybe, if we can find it.’ Sybilla leaned into him, she felt so insubstantial that it frightened him. ‘The linchpin is the point where all the different magick being used here meet. It is both the crux and the weakness of the seal. Perhaps I am delusional, but I’m wondering if your scythe, and what’s left of my magick, might be strong enough to destroy it.’ Sybilla clicked her tongue, wriggling in his hold. ‘Silas, carry me to the chair, this is too slow otherwise. I’ll be pissed off about being so pathetic later. Dullahan, will you aid us? You clearly have fae magick.’
‘No. I mean, yes, I do. But no.’ Byleist settled back in his armchair, extending his gloved hands towards the fire. ‘You are on your own, angel. I’ll play no part in returning my Lord Death to his hopeless quest.’
Silas seethed, and if not for the fact that he carried the Valkyrie, he would have dragged the Dullahan to his feet and thrown him out the door.
‘Leave it be, Mercer.’ Tyvain touched at his elbow. ‘No time for busting a boiler right now with that one.’ She grimaced, her free hand at her belly. ‘We’re on ta somethin’, I’m tellin’ ya straight. Got a gas ball the size of Wales in me gut. Let’s get you out of ’ere so you can do somethin’ stupid, eh?’
With a nod, Silas turned his back on the Dullahan and lifting Sybilla into his arms, he hurried them both from the room.
CHAPTER NINE
PITCH WOKEin brightly lit surrounds. He squinted, eyes stinging with the glare of the strange violet light. Very quickly he became aware he was no longer in his glass coffin, on account of being splayed out like a hide at the tanners, bound hand and foot, like a livingXmarking the spot. He was on his back, as so often was the case of late, with hard stone beneath him. Hard, and cold as the top of Mount Kailash, his nipples blush-pink pebbles. He shivered. The sort of shiver he’d only recently come to know.
Vassago, the fire daemon, was freezing. Plain and simple. Cold to the core. That same core where an extra inferno should burn, one beyond his own flame. But if the wildness still slumbered inside him, it was covered in ice.
Pitch fought to keep his teeth from chattering as he lay there. He was not naked. A mercy, he decided. He still wore his trousers, whatever use they were with their thin material insubstantial against the frigid air. And his hands were covered, too. He sought to flex his fingers, but they were kept splayed by a hard casing, like gloves stiffened immovably by the cold.
Gloves of metal, he quickly surmised. Nekhri. There’d be no flames coming from his fingertips, even if he were able to generate the smallest flicker.
