‘It may well be faster if you added your help.’ Silas stepped out of the way so Tyvain could negotiate the wheelchair on the uneven cobbles.
‘I dare say it could be impossible without my help, really. The angel truly looks awful. Poor dear.’
‘Oh feck off, you ugly prick.’
‘All right then, I’ll go back inside. I just wondered if there was a kitchen garden about somewhere, and if there were any strawberries growing. I thought my Lord Death might like to enjoy some strawberry tarts after supper this evening, in memory of his lost love. I heard it said that the daemon had a taste for tarts?’
Silas lunged, and swung. And in true testament to how utterly chaotic his mind was, he aimed his blow at Byleist’s head, the only ethereal part of the creature’s body. The trajectory had Silas toppling forward. The fae stepped neatly out of the way, but in a breath, Lalassu was there in his place. Silas’s certain tumble was prevented by the mare. He careened into her at speed, though she did not move an inch under the considerable slam of weight against her.
Lalassu nickered softly, turning her head to nudge at his shoulder. Silas leaned his forehead against her belly. His heart was a thudding boulder in his chest, his skin flushed with heat. Christ almighty, he wanted out of here so badly that his skin felt ready to peel away from his flesh.
‘It’s feckin’ winter, you daft bastard.’ Tyvain spat. ‘Strawberries ain’t growin’. And ‘e’s real particular about what goes into ‘is tarts. Ain’t ‘e, Mercer?’
‘Tyvain, enough.’ Sybilla was quietly stern.
‘Well, my thoughtful gesture has really been quite sorely abused.’
‘Get out of my sight, Dullahan. Now.’ Silas struggled against lashing out again.
Chollima nickered in her stall, with a deep thud of hoof against wooden gate following.
‘Of course, my lord.’ The sarcasm Silas expected from Byleist was absent. There was a gentleness in its place. ‘But I hope you feel some release now. You were like a pot ready to burst its lid. I thought you might benefit from the venting.’
Silas raised his head and found himself eye to eye with the Dullahan, who stood on the far side of the mare. His features grew more distinct as time ticked on. And Silas couldn’t decide if the cuspate structure of his jaw and cheekbones made him seem crueller, or more beautiful.
‘You goaded me on purpose?’
‘As I have told you, I am here to keep you from harm. And that pulsing vein in your forehead had me worried.’
Tyvain chuckled. ‘Son of a bitch, ya might just be right,’ she said. ‘I was beginning to wonder if dead men could give themselves ’eart attacks, cause you looked fit for one.’
‘Perhaps you should strike at him again, my friend.’ Sybilla’s smile was fragile, but there was a glint in her eye he had sorely missed. He couldseethe presence of her magick in that brightness and hear, so very faintly, the echo of her true song beneath the morbid, tuneless hum that was her melody now. All at once her grin vanished. ‘Silas, beware…something approaches.’ Sybilla pushed herself upright, letting out a little cry as she did so and earning herself an earful from Tyvain, who rushed to aid her.
‘What is it?’ Silas braced, peering around the courtyard. The gates were firmly locked. There was not so much as a tangle of straw moving about. ‘Sybilla? What is it?’
Surprise swept her features. ‘Oh…it’s –’’
A massive gust of wind swept across the courtyard, catching at Lalassu’s long mane, ruffling Silas’s hair.
‘Oh! Well gracious me, that was unexpectedly brisk.’
The voice startled them all, even Lalassu, who turned about so quickly on her hinds that the Dullahan had to lunge out of the way.
Silas scanned the courtyard, trying to place the voice as he did so. His eyes were drawn at once to the figure near dead centre of the rectangular courtyard. A figure with an all-too-familiar shotgun blast to their guts.
‘Phillipa?’ Silas cried. She waved at him, startlingly cheery in the dire circumstance, the grin squeezing at the distinctive mole upon her upper lip. ‘My god, it’s truly you.’
The carriage driver of Lady Howard’s ghostly coach stood atop a Crimp manhole cover, its elaborate ventilation holes like an oversized doily beneath her.
‘It truly is. Hello, Mr Mercer.’ The ghost was clothed as Silas had last seen her, and would be forevermore, in heavy dark layers fit for someone out in the elements upon the driver’s seat. A black scarf coiled around her neck, touching beneath her chin. ‘Mighty lovely to see you again.’
‘You too.’ Silas’s laughter was choked by a frantic delight. ‘What the blazes are you doing here? How?’
‘I must say,’ said the Dullahan. ‘I am feeling less appalled at having a bone hand, seeing the state of that creature.’
‘Ignore him, I am learning to do so.’ Silas kept his attention on the ghost. ‘We are trapped in here, Phillipa.’
‘Yes. You are. But she is pretty certain we’ll be able to get you out of this bind.’ Phillipa leaned down to tug up her trouser leg. There was a thin red string tied to her insubstantial ankle, a strange enough feat in itself for a creature purely ethereal. The string ran down through one of the ventilation holes in the sewer cover. ‘Took us a bloody long time to get this tied, but there we are. Apparently it will help her direct her strength where it needs to go. Luckily, I have a way with tangible things.’
