At Silas’s light touch Lalassu moved beneath him, pirouetting on her hind legs, lifting her front feet to turn towards the street.
‘Which way are we going?’ Isaac called.
And Silas could not bring himself to say what was painfully true. That he did not bloody well know. ‘Just get beyond the walls, we take the way of least resistance.’
For now.
Silas sank low in the saddle, leaning into the solidity of the mare, gripping her mane, the reins slack. One step at a time.
Get beyond the walls of York, beyond the confines of a city heavy with the Order’s influence.
And pray for some kind of miracle to show them the way beyond that.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PITCH KNEWhimself to be drifting from a hard-won but shallow slumber, and the desperation to cling to it was hard to bear. He was not yet ready to cease waiting for Silas in the dreamworld, and he did not want to return to a place where his last memory was that of seeing Scarlet lying dead in Iblis’s hands.
The press of softness at his eyes told him he’d been blindfolded, not too tightly though, with a sliver of amethyst light peeking in at the bottom of his lids.
‘Bloody wonderful,’ he muttered.
The gloves were still rigid upon his hands. His finger joints were aching, his wrists pulsed in anger at not having moved in so long, and he longed to scratch an infernal itch upon his nose, but considering how long he’d been laid out this way, how damned awful the damage done to him in Sherwood Forest, he did not feel as dreadful as he had after the Fulbourn. Or the greensward. Or Goodrich Castle….or the first day in this world after being dragged from the abaddon.
Perhaps he was just very adept now at feeling like utter shit.
Or, perhaps, what he thought more likely, the angel’s magick was bringing some measure of comfort.
But he was going to need more than just comfort.
The angels and the Morrigan were going to take away what Seraphiel had forced upon him.
It was something he had wished for himself, with a passion. He’dcravedescape. Even when he knew nothing of its origins.
Never once had he imagined he’d lay here now desperately seeking a way out. Frantic with thoughts of how he might stop them stealing that which he’d loathed for so long.
A jerk at his wrists pushed a gasp from him. A rough signal that he was not as alone in the chamber as the silence had suggested. The barely discernible in and out of someone’s breathing was preceded by the snap of cold metal at his stiffened wrists, just below the trim of the gloves. He tilted his head back, trying to peer through the tiny gap where light seeped in beneath the blindfold.
‘I have no issue with decent bondage,’ he said, a glint of pewter visible through the gap. ‘But I prefer rope, if you don’t mind. Handcuffs don’t really stir my sauce, you see.’
Another snap rang out as a second cuff was locked in place. There was more than one person standing over him, he could feel the shift in the air, but no one said a word. Not even a snicker. Dull lot, then.
There was absolutely no warning before a sudden, violent jerk wrenched him up, hands first.
‘Jesus fucking Christ.’ He stole curses from Silas and Tyvain as he was dragged upwards, peeled from the stone surface that he’d lain upon for so long. His body lifted, and the strain upon the joints of his shoulders was horrendous.
He was wide awake now, though still blinded. They heave-hoed him upright, like he was some flag on a ship.
‘Best make sure those binds are tight. You’ll not want me free if you wish to keep your fucking throats.’
There were soft sounds of exertion, puffs of breath coming from behind him, but still no one said a word. A grinding sound superseded all else. With his eyelashes catching at the blindfold he peered down, seeing little more than his own dirty toes and the stone beneath, but he’d wager the harsh noise was that of the plinth he’d been laid out upon, lowering down into the floor. His upward trajectory stopped then and he was lowered until his toes touched stone once more. But only just so. His tiptoes touched the firmness, but he was left dangling high enough that there was no chance of setting his heels down.
‘There, right there. Tie him steady as is.’ Harut’s voice. Pitch knew it well enough. ‘Now step back and keep out of our way.’
They left him dangling like a church bell in its tower. Pitch clenched his jaw, determined they’d not drag another sound from him. But he barely managed to stop a soft whimper as piercing light invaded his darkened world. He squinted. The light held a greenish pallor, and for one blissful, delirious moment, he was reminded of the moss-laden clearing beneath the Major Oak’s boughs. What a sublime fantasy it would be to find himself still lying alongside Silas in the dewberry brambles, head aching with the effects of too much drink, balls aching with the need for the ankou’s hands upon them.
All this unpleasantness just a vile dream.
Pitch actually smiled at the lunacy, the beauty, of his thoughts. The kind of smile reserved for desperate moments, when one tried hard to pretend all is not lost.
