‘Likely he already knows, and I dare say is not surprised.’
‘What do you mean?’ Macha whimpered. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘Harut, take her.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
There was a brief scuffle before Macha’s howls of rage and desperation grew distant.
A quiet hush sealed Pitch back into his tomb. And he exhaled, feeling as though he’d just emerged from a windstorm. Frazzled and misplaced and no less confused than those guards had been to see a dying Alp, but no obvious assailant.
Nor a daemon prince gripped by poison.
Pitch dashed his tongue over his lips. The vile had been empty when he glimpsed it, and yet he felt no worse than he’d been before Onoskolis entered the chamber. The coldness at his elbow had disappeared. He was not ill.
Iblis disturbed him from his thoughts, coming to stand beside the plinth, keeping his distance. The angel was wary, which meant he understood the situation no better than Pitch himself.
The angel’s regard was icy, his gaze slipping from Pitch’s face to his belly.
‘Like what you see?’
‘You bound and ready for us to cut you open and take out all your pieces? Yes, I do, Vassago. But I grow tired of the sound of your voice.’ Iblis raised his hand, lips parting before Pitch realised how stupid his goading had been.
The angel was about to silence him again.
‘Wait, wait,’ he said quickly. ‘Are you not bored with the silent treatment? I certainly am. If I promise to be a good boy, will you hold off with the gagging?’
‘You are many things, Vassago, but never a good boy.’
‘I know someone who would beg to differ. He thinks I’m a very good boy indeed.’
Iblis, to Pitch’s delight, actually rolled his eyes. ‘Do you speak of your dead man?’
‘Ankou, if you please.’
‘Oh no. He is definitely a dead man.’ Iblis’s smile resembled Onoskolis’s with its lick of cruelty. ‘The Wild Hunt saw to that. Died screaming, if I recall the Herlequin correctly.’
Pitch ignored the tiny ache that came, the doubt that tried to grow.
Do not give up hope, not for a moment.
That was no dream. Those were Silas’s words, the words of a man alive and searching.
‘Did your dear Herlequin mention if the dead man called my name?’ Habit had him trying to flex his fingers, as though it might somehow stimulate some warmth in this frigid room. ‘He does so love to scream it out loud.’
‘I dare say his agony distracted him from thoughts of you.’
I will find you. I will never leave you.
‘I doubt that, he’s rather obsessive.’
Iblis began to whisper. Divine magick flowed from the angel’s lips. Pitch felt the words tug at his own lips, drag at the corners, shutting them tight.
Oh, fuck, he truly hated being silenced. His rage found a foothold, and he strained against the tightening at his mouth.
His lips parted.
Iblis’s eyes widened. And Pitch had to push through his own surprise to speak.
