Pitch blinked, still trying to find the proper outline of the world around him. He wriggled, testing his restraints. And found them significant. They tightened the more he shifted about. He fell still, fearful the nekhri at his ankles might cut his feet clean off. It was that kind of day.
He eased his head gently this way and that, searching for the wisp.
Certainly his hair needed a wash of the highest order, but there was no lump solid enough that might be Scarlet. And the bandalore.
A deeper coldness overcame him, a flutter in his marrow. Had he been searched while he was unconscious? Were the wisp and the scythe discovered?
Was he alone?
The world was drawing into focus, the haze of his sublime sleep vanishing. What he would not do to be back in that dream. Pressed up against Silas, pretending that no one could find them in the darkness.
A gurgling croak, a wretched sound that made him shiver anew, came from somewhere behind him. He’d not forget the sound of the Morrigan’s ravens anytime soon, and certainly recognised it now. But there was no hint of the bird itself.
‘Who is there?’ he demanded, nearly stuttering with the clench of chattering teeth. ‘Enough with the fucking dramatics, you imbeciles.’
Imbeciles they may be, but they had him secured so tightly that he could barely shift his hips. Which might have been far more troublesome if his angry hip were discontent as usual. But nothing was usual here, certainly not him. He’d woken the first time with his pains irritating but not unbearable, the wound at his belly dull in its ache. Now, there was not even irritation. There was more discomfort on his nose where he was anxious to scratch at an itch than anything of torment upon his body. Pixie dust would account for some of the relief. The dust was enjoyed for its nullifying qualities by many, but he doubted it strong enough to wipe out the sear of a halo, or the puncture of fingers in the flesh. And the Morrigan would certainly not be trying to make him comfortable.
Something else was aiding him.
He swallowed at a thought. Sybilla was a healer. This could be the Valkyrie’s magick. Her death wish to him.
He squeezed his eyes closed. Pitch would cling to what Silas had told him– that Sybilla survived.
The harsh caw of the raven dragged him from his thoughts. Eyes opening, he tilted his chin up, trying to roll his head back so he could see behind. He saw what it was that caused the purple nature of the light. The walls around him were the hue of amethyst. Or rather, theywereamethyst. Rubbed smooth, the entire wall polished enough to satisfy any jeweller, glowing enough to illuminate the windowless room. This was not some dire cave or dungeon, nor so large as he’d expected. He was in a chamber, one of some refinement, but with little in the way of furniture save for some elaborate tapestries hanging upon the walls. They held depictions of a land unlike that of the purebreds, and fine embroidery of impeccably-gowned creatures with the tell-tale points to their ears.
Lords and ladies of the Courts of the Faelands.
Fuck, now he knew where he was. Notexactlywhere, but far more than he’d known a heartbeat ago.
And it was too late to tell Silas.
With his pulse racing, Pitch’s gaze lifted. Overhead the ceiling reached upwards to a shadowed peak, but it was what covered the surface that held his attention. Sigils, a myriad of them, all inlaid with silver.
Silver and amethyst. Precious materials the fae loved so much, but which were coveted by one court in particular.
He’d been brought to the Erlking’s domain. This was the UnSeelie Court. Which made perfect sense, considering.
Pitch could not drag his eyes from the sigils. His mind defied him and fixed his thoughts upon how he’d laid like this, staring up at the markings, at Gidleigh House. His own head tortured him with fear-tinged whispers that perhaps the Alp would return and finish what she and the bluecap had started– reduce him to his raw self, and plunge the knife in while he writhed, mindless and insatiable.
His panic rose up, and gods, he hated himself for it.
Pitch had never doubted he was complex and substantial. He knew himself a supreme creation, a perfect agent of chaos and destruction, he knew his purpose, he knew his invulnerability.
He knew…until he did not. Until the daemon’s assault whittled him down to nothing. Showing him his true self was nothing worth admiring, or coveting, or, gods forbid such folly, loving.
Pitch had been made powerless that day.
Just ashehimself had made so many powerless.
True, the enchantments he used to amuse himself were not so violent and so clearly without consent as the daemon’s attack. But still…
He could fool himself that he only worked upon desires that already existed. It was true, after all. His incubus blood could bring to the surface what lay beneath. But the humans were weaker creatures. Easily led and manipulated. And he had led them. Manipulated them.
Taken control when none might have been given, were they in their right minds.
This was what haunted him most about Gidleigh Park House.
The horror of a taste of his own medicine.
