The sorcerer had been lifted and thrown by the blast and now lay utterly still some three feet away. Blood ran from a massive cut on the side of her face, and the twist of the ankle that poked out from beneath her cloak told of broken bones.
Pitch bent to cough, the lingering dust making his eyes sting and throat clench. When he righted, he caught glimpse of something familiar near the pile of ash he vaguely assumed was Badh.
He picked his way carefully towards the trinket that lay near hidden, save for the brightness of the string. He sank to his knees, and touched trembling fingertips to the rounded lump of wood.
The bandalore.
Its string was pristine white, its body still stained mahogany from Silas’s encounter with Black Annis. Pitch reached for it, startling when it lifted into his grasp, and nestled into his palm. The string curled around the base of his thumb, like a skinny cat’s tail. Pitch closed his scorching hands over it, the wood soothingly cool.
‘Silas,’ he whispered.
Pitch fought off a slew of sickening thoughts.
The bandalore had aided him when the angels flew him from Sherwood Forest, but it had not intervened since he’d been brought here. Scarlet had worn its little suit of armour but had not been able to free him. Why? Did the scythe have no power here? Or had the angels spoken truly when they told him Silas had been slayed by the Herlequin? Was that dream he’d had, a fantasy after all?
Pitch slipped the bandalore into the sole surviving pocket on his disgraceful trousers, the string caressing his hand as it fell. He couldn’t bear to touch it, to imagine it was all that was left of the ankou.
‘You wouldn’t dare, Silas, you wouldn’t bloody dare die on me. I’ll drag you from Izanami’s sordid bed myself if need be.’ He closed his eyes. ‘There are things I’ve not yet said. You cannot leave me alone.’
Loose debris fell somewhere in the room, a trickle of stones, a heavier thud of something shifting. A slide of feet on loosened stone.
A gentle inhale.
‘I promised you I never would. And I am a man of my word.’
The scent of dank earth tinged the air, the waft of cold stone and iron, loam and warm forests. Banishing the reek of charred flesh and cold ash.
Pitch was not alone anymore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
PITCH OPENEDhis eyes, turning on bare heels, debris cutting at his skin, but how little that mattered.
Silas was here. Across the chamber. Standing before the gaping hole which was dusted with the glittering ashes of a dead angel. A sliver of silver rope was coiling into his open palm, vanishing as it did so. The ankou’s hands were bloody, he was utterly covered in mud, thick clumps of it clung to his heavy boots, and streaked his hair.
He looked terrible, and was the most beautiful creature Pitch had ever laid eyes on.
Silas studied him, and did not like what he saw apparently for his scowl was deep. ‘They’ve hurt you.’
Pitch nodded, conscious of how awful his own appearance must be.
‘A little, yes. But I hurt them also.’ Neither of them made to move to the other, though Silas rocked on his heels with a poorly concealed desire to do so. ‘Did you just climb this tower?’
‘I did. You were at its top. This is where I had to be.’
The ankou’s voice came from a deep place in his chest. And the possessiveness that underlay the words, holy gods, it sent delicious gooseflesh the length of Pitch’s arms. His body yearned to run to this man, but his mind, exhausted and fragile, bade him wait. Be careful. Be sure.
‘I suspect the stairs would have been easier.’ Pitch tried and failed not to sound unsteady.
‘I could not find them. Nor a door of any kind. The Faelands are deceptive, and I did not have time for its trickery, so I climbed.’ He tilted his head towards the shattered wall. ‘Then fate opened its own door for me.’
‘I see.’ Pitch balled his fists. ‘How very convenient.’
Now Silas’s frown was rich with confusion, and not a little hurt. But he’d said it himself, the Faelands were a place where the senses were easily fooled. And worse here, this was the UnSeelie Court. The Erlking had gained his throne through sleight of hand, and a silver tongue.
Nothing, and no one could be trusted here.
The ankou took a step forward.
