‘Oh, you seem to be a little off your game, old man.’
It wasn’t exactly comfortable, speaking, but nor was it impossible. Iblis scowled deeply, creating a plethora of wrinkles across Dr Severs’s stern face. He began anew with his mutterings.
Again, there came a pressure, a sting this time too, at Pitch’s lip. But not enough to clamp them shut.
‘Dear fellow, I think you need a warm milk and a lie down.’ Pitch smiled, making it wide as he could manage, just to show off how talented he was. A talent he suspected not to be his at all. A delirious laugh threatened. If this were not the Valkyrie’s legacy then he had no bloody idea how to explain his resilience. Silas’s touch and reassuring words girded him, but powerful as they were, they were hardly able to defy magick. Or cause an Alp daemon to turn so oddly suicidal. That event still perplexed him, borrowed angelic magick or not.
Iblis tried again, his words hard and peppering the air. The tug at Pitch’s lips was harsh, the prick of pins, or a needle seeking to stitch him up.
He tossed his head, and worked his tongue at the back of his lips. Not so cocksure now.
A warmth flowed through his body, as though a clouds parted and sunshine rippled over him.
Iblis recoiled with a subtle shake of his head.
‘Something the matter?’ Pitch said, testing his own mouth on the words. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone that you are under performing.’
‘You think yourself so clever, little prince. But you forget where you are.’
‘I do actually. Pray tell me, where am I?’
There was no hope such a blunt hunt for information would succeed, so he was not disappointed when the angel ignored the question altogether. Iblis took a step away, pacing slowly towards the far end of the plinth.
‘You are showing us your true colours, Vassago, and…’ Pitch lifted his head at the sudden pause. Iblis stared down at the ground, his expression unreadable. It was a good few breaths before he looked up, studying Pitch with a keen eye. ‘His Grace was right, we only had to push you hard enough to find your limits. The Alp was a wise choice to take you to the edge of them. She pried your secrets from you well.’
Pitch stared back at the Watcher, who remained at the end of the plinth. ‘Really? She’s dead.’
‘But served us well.’
‘I doubt Macha would agree.’
‘She’ll forget before long, it was an idle fancy between them. The Alp’s sacrifice was unfortunate, but necessary.’
Pitch let his head fall back against the stone, suddenly tired beyond words. Gods, this was a madhouse, and Macha maybe the least mad among them. He was certain Gabriel knew full well the Alp may not survive their encounter, and did not care in the least. Onoskolis’s hatred of those who soared above her did not look so misplaced now.
‘She only proved she is not immune to a deadly poison.’
‘And that nor are those who aid you.’
Pitch’s head snapped up. ‘What do you…’ His blood drained, and the cold sank deeper into his bones. ‘Oh gods…no.’
Iblis had not moved from where he stood, but he raised his hand. He held a handkerchief, one of snow-white. The angel laid his hand flat, palm turned upwards, and peeled back the folds. Lying on the linen was a faintly glowing shape, sputtering sparks of light coming from the tiny figure that held so still. Rainbow colours like weak, tiny fireworks spitting up from Scarlet’s glass-like body.
‘Is this the same confounded wisp who bothered us when we pinned you to that tree? If you have stooped to enchanting such pitiful creatures to protect you, then we have very little to concern us.’
Pitch knew how to hate. Knew how to loathe. But never had he felt it mix with such utter terror.
‘Harm them, you craven, insipid arsehole, and I swear I shall–’
‘You’ll what? Even if you could get off that plinth, and we have proved you cannot, are you capable of bringing dead things back to life?’ Iblis tilted his palm back and forth, and there was no movement from the wisp. Pitch stared, sick with dread. There was no sign of the scythe, the tiny creature wore no armour. ‘I suppose time spent fucking an ankou might make you think so. A pity you shall not get to learn if resurrection is a new talent of yours. Now that we have your measure, it is time for things to begin.’ Iblis curled his fingers, folding the wisp into the kerchief once more, and letting his hand drop to his side. ‘Goodbye, your highness. I cannot say it has been pleasant to know you, but it shall be pleasant to watch him take you apart.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
SILAS’S HEADhurt, and his knuckles were bloodied from punching at the unyielding gates. The knees of his trousers were shredded from clambering, very inelegantly, up the walls at various points to try to find the linchpin– the intersection of the magicks used to seal them in tight, a potential weak spot in their prison. Sybilla had explored the stables with Tyvain’s assistance, undertaking a similar search for the past hour. The evening was creeping in, the brightness of the grey skies fading as the sun slid away for the night.
‘Silas,’ Tyvain called. ‘Need them lips ’a yours again.’
Silas sighed, stepping down off a barrel, which was filled with goodness knew what, but he’d managed to roll it to where he could reach a lower section of the wall. ‘Fine, I’m coming.’
