He raced on. ‘Take it from me, this power…it is too much for me…it always has been. Take it, and there will be nothing in all the worlds capable of keeping you from Samyaza’s halo. You will win the Severance War. That is what he fears most. What Enoch knows to be true. That you and the Watchers have always been greater.’
Pitch grabbed at every word of distraction that would pander to the greed and the lust of these angels. The Exarch hungered for power. He was as addicted to its call as any pitiful creature in the opium dens was to their pipes, as beholden as Pitch was to carnal knowledge, and sweet cake. He swallowed, hating how small he felt beneath Azazel’s glare.
And then, finally, there it was. The gleam he’d hoped for. A brightness forming in Iblis’s doubled gaze. Iblis’s fingers curled into the fabric of his cloak, the edges of his mouth twitching. Either he was about to have a fit, or he was fighting a smile.
‘And Enoch’s fear has made him careless, foolish.’ Azazel turned Iblis’s gaze towards Gabriel briefly, before it rested once more on Pitch. ‘It is said in the halls of White Mountain, amongst the greatest of angels, that it was not your hand that brought down the mighty Seraphiel, but that it was Lord Enoch himself. What say you, little daemon?’
Of all the things Pitch considered might come from the angel’s mouth, this was not amongst them. The sudden, strange shift caught him off guard, and he wasn’t certain his surprise was concealed.
‘I don’t, I don’t…no…it was me,’ he stammered, shaking his head. Which was a fucking terrible idea, all the muscles down the back of his neck seizing. He jerked, trying in vain to bend his fingers, an utterly futile attempt to grab at the chain which held him. He needed a reprieve from the constant hanging rather desperately.
‘Are you lying to me, little daemon? There is no need to protect your lord. You’ll not see Arcadia again.’
It was a struggle to maintain the facade of manipulated puppet. Pitch was protecting no one. As no one in Arcadia had ever protected him. This talk of Enoch killing the Seraph had been spoken of by Gabriel, when first Pitch awoke in this dire place. And he was no more educated on the rumour now than he had been then.
‘It was me. It was me. I killed him.’ Even after all he’d endured, it still stung viciously to say it. But now that sting was laced with doubt…and bitter hope of an alternate truth, however distasteful it may be to imagine the Lord of Arcadia cutting down his finest angel. And leaving the burden with Pitch.
Iblis leaned in so close that Pitch felt his breath against the base of his throat. ‘Truly? Or have they simply buried their sins with you?’
Pitch was certain only that he was fucking sick of this chamber, and the metal gloves, and the scrutiny of a mad angel, and being without the man who kept him steady.
‘Your Majesty.’ Gabriel was an unexpected ally. ‘I know your time is precious, and I would hate to see your vessel overwrought before we can deliver the Seraphim’s Cultivation to you.’ Gabriel was every bit as oily as he’d been with the petulant sorcerer. ‘May I suggest that if the daemon survives this, we interrogate him further on Enoch’s follies, but for now we should have the sorcerers begin.’
Pitch worked at staying limp, even though he wanted to kick the Exarch square in the face and scream the foulest, vilest curses in his ear till he was deafened.
The bastard would not stop fuckingstaring. Iblis and Azazel had not blinked in some time. The Exarch was a lion over a mouse, waiting for the creature to make the wrong move and stamp it out with one swipe of the paw.
Pitch sought to be anything but himself. He played at boneless, helpless, a creature without recourse.
And it was forever, absolutely forever, before finally the angels stepped away. Iblis lifted his chin, and blinked, making amber glitter in his gaze. His nod, Azazel’s nod, was barely perceptible.
‘Begin.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SILAS ANDLalassu made it through to Walmgate Bar with no hindrance, no one shouting about the escapees from Cumberland House. Silas received a few odd looks, most of them wide-eyed wonderment, which suggested it was Lalassu they were fixated on rather than he. It didn’t seem as though Mr Ahari had left anyone in charge of ensuring those trapped in Cumberland remained there. The carriage travelled a little ways behind them, having to divert at one point to a wider street and losing some ground. Byleist had chosen to ride at the flank of the carriage, with Silas already prepared for Jane to announce that the headless horseman had ridden off in his own direction altogether, and left them. It seemed the sort of change-of-heart the creature capable of. But Silas would not pursue Byleist if that were the case. He believed him when he said he had no clue of Pitch’s location. If anyone were to question Silas why, he’d find himself sounding a lot like Tyvain. Hisguttold him Byleist was no enemy.
Lalassu slowed to allow a flower-seller to push their cart across the laneway. Beyond them, in the grey-blue light of evening, Walmgate Bar was visible: one of four imposing medieval gates that surrounded the walled city of York, with Walmgate the only one still retaining its barbican, portcullis, and inner doors. It was a marvel of design. Or so Tyvain had informed him as Silas paced relentlessly on their first day at Cumberland House. She’d been trying to distract him, he understood that. He’d refused to play whist with her, declined a drink, and said no to a round of billiards. Several times for each, in fact. So the soothsayer had just talked. Filled the thorny silence with utter trivia about the city that Silas saw, even before he’d been locked into Cumberland House, as his prison.
Walmgate Barwasimpressive, he’d grant her that. Its weathered grey stone held hints of past conflicts, the marks of cannon fire and musket balls, but it was little wonder the damage was barely skin deep. The stonework was thick, the corridor to the barbican narrow, and reaching turrets with their crown-like tops jutted up from the lower-set houses.
With the laneway now clear, Lalassu quickened her walk. Silas eyed a couple who stood near the gate. They’d been watching since before the flower-seller had slowed his journey, the most attentive audience so far. Silas dug his fingertips into the pommel. Both appeared nervous, the woman shaking her head rather violently, sending fair curls bobbing. She grabbed ahold of the man’s arm, but he shook her off, gesturing towards Silas with the floppy hat he’d been wearing now bunched in his hand and waved like a warning flag.
‘Shit.’ Silas had intended to wait for the others here, but he’d not be trapped in this place, not a second time.
The mare quickened her pace, as though reading his thoughts. The man continued to try and dislodge himself from the woman, who was quite vocal in her protest.
‘Leave it be, Craig. Let them go.’
‘Don’t be daft. Hey, I don’t know where you think you’re going, Mister,’ the man, Craig, called out. ‘But you can turn that great monstrosity of a horse right around. Gates are closed after sunset, and I’m keepin’ them that way.’
‘Sweet child of Jesus H Christ, you open them gates right this instant.’ The woman hit at him with what looked like a loaf of bread. ‘I told you, I’ve got me hives right now. Me itches are telling me this fellow needs to be let go.’
‘Bollocks to you and your hives. You’ve got fleas woman, that’s all.’ Craig waved his hat in great sweeping arches. ‘Stop right there, Mister.’
He was a slight man, where the woman was sturdy, barely taller than Tyvain and clearly not lacking in strength. She had a similar dishevelled air to the soothsayer too, and beneath her ankle-length skirts, he spied sandals upon her feet. Not exactly barefoot, as Tyvain seemed to enjoy, but it made her naming melody make perfect sense when it declaredseer, child of the vision.
‘Stand back,’ Silas called.
