‘Macha, the ravens, do you speak of those with the souls of the teratisms?’
She grinned too widely and clapped her hands like a child in the nursery. ‘Yes, yes. Did you see them? What a pretty Sluagh they make?’
‘A Sluagh? I’ve heard talk of this before, but I don’t know –’
‘Did you think I did well with giving them wings, Master Death?’ Macha continued before he could answer. ‘They did not think so at all. They hated me, and they hate Her. I can’t seem to stop the souls despising me…curious, don’t you think? I’m only trying my best. Did you think how well I had done?’ She asked again, and once again moved on before Silas could answer, bubbling over with talk. ‘They could not see it, those souls…they could not see what I tried to make them. Greater, mightier. Fit for a king. If I was like you, Master Death, and not a mere necromancer, I’m sure I could have made them happy, prettier too, if She had not snatched them from me. I wasn’t ready to let go yet.’ She clucked her tongue, a wet sound on account of the blood still running from her wound into the corner of her mouth. The blood loss was substantial. Pitch wondered how she kept upright at all. ‘I could have made them as pretty as the firebird they took from your daemon, Master Death. Now there was a beautiful beast.’ Her gaze darted to him, her eyelids wide, unblinking. She was manic with fervour. ‘Did the simurgh hate you, as the souls hate me? It seemed eager to leave you, too.’
Silas turned, and Pitch scowled at the blathering sorceress, wishing he had put an end to her after all.
‘We are wasting our time on a madwoman, Silas. Can we leave, now?’
‘What is she talking about? The simurgh?’
‘I told you, I will speak of it later.’
‘Then she speaks truth, not madness?’
‘Gods, Silas, just move.’ Pitch grabbed his upper arm, and tried to haul him away. Towards the opening in the wall, for there seemed no other option. He’d worry about the way down as soon as he had Silas distracted.
But Macha was not done with her show.
A raven flew in through the opening.
‘Fuck!’
Pitch dodged, as Silas covered him, and raised his sword once more. But the bird whisked by them silently, and went straight to the sorcerer.
‘Help me up, if you will,’ she said, sweet and so very childlike. ‘Thank you so very much.’
The raven, far smaller than others they’d encountered, sank its claws into the folds of her cloak at her shoulder, and hauled the diminutive woman near to standing. She settled on her feet, as though she did not have a grotesquely broken ankle. Macha’s cheeks stretched with another of her ridiculous smiles. If she were suffering, the witch showed no sign of it. The raven released her clothes, and settled on her shoulder, closing its eyes and fluffing up its feathers.
Pitch looked to Silas, surprised the ankou was not already taking to the bird with his blade.
‘Silas? Does this not seem like the perfect time to get the fuck out of here?’
‘I’m not certain. That soul…it has no malice…I think…’ He frowned. ‘I’m certain, that is not a human soul.’
Macha beamed, and damn if she did not remind Pitch of Scarlet with her frantic clapping. ‘You are wondrous, Master Death. I know you shall not disappoint me. Truly. This is a field mouse, actually. Gladstone. My first pet, and first successful merger of living and dead. Very loyal. And he has given you some time before anyone wonders why my family is a pile of cinder.’ Her smile did not falter, but something behind her eyes did. The flicker was gone before she finished inhaling. ‘Did I not do well?’
‘Very well, indeed,’ Silas said, carefully.
Macha preened, her shoulders going back, but her expression shifted suddenly. From self-satisfied to contemplative in an instant. ‘Daemon, you must not distract the Master with your firebird. That is not fair, and I’d say that you owe me, wouldn’t you?’ Again that shudder in the depths of her eyes, perhaps her reality seeking to push through the insanity. She fought it off, but the battle was tangible.
Pitch did not say a word. And the sorcerer continued. ‘I’d like Master Death to rescue my souls first. She did not ask me if She could take them. No one ever asks me anything…Oni didn’t ask if she could go…’ Her gaze found Pitch again, then discarded him. She blinked and took another breath. ‘I want them away from Morrigan and her Sluagh. I think they shall all like me then. Don’t you, Master Death?’
‘I don’t know what this Sluagh is you speak of.’
Macha shrugged. ‘The goddess named it so. As many souls as I could gather, preferably those who had met foul ends. Why She did not say. The almighty don’t listen they only demand.’
Pitch shifted his hold to Silas’s wrist, tried to move the immovable ankou. ‘We should go now, before the flying rat decides to turn on us.’
‘What did they take from you, Pitch? I can see it on your face, her words are striking you hard.’
‘Shall I try to call them to you, Master Death?’ Macha tried to fix her hair, only smearing blood more thickly through it. ‘Some might still listen. Some were loyal to you, they were hardest to break.’
A coughing fit took her.
Silas paid her no mind. ‘Pitch.’ One word, spoken with all the gravitas of Lord Enoch himself. ‘What has been done to you? There must be no secrets between us, not anymore. And there are none you could tell that would turn me from you. I promise you that.’
