The Fulbourn - Pitch & Sickle Book

Five: The Diabolus Chronicles (MM

Gaslamp Fantasy) D K Girl
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 Contents
Copyright
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Coming in 2023
More by D K Girl
About the Author
 The Fulbourn© 2022 by Danielle K Girl
Cover Art by Deranged Doctor Design
Edited by Inspired Ink Editing
ISBN: 978-0-6453274-5-8
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is
purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
 CHAPTER ONE

SILAS LURKED outside his own bedroom door like a ne’er-do-well. He had been banished from
the room for days. His own bloody room. He was beyond frustrated with the situation, but he knew
better than to argue with a sickly daemon. And Pitch was certainly unwell.
Silas pressed an ear to the door, listening in on the conversation taking place inside. In truth, it
was less conversation, more battle of wills and wits.
‘If you just hold steady, Tobias, this will be over in a moment.’ Jane was her usual measured self,
calm as a summer breeze. ‘You are making this far more difficult than it ought to be.’
Silas winced. Her reasoning would not go down well at all. His fingers tightened around the
mahonia blooms he’d just picked from the garden. Soon enough, the crash of something fragile against
the floorboards arrived.
‘You gib-faced, vazey, hedge-creeping bitch,’ Pitch decried, and proceeded to let loose with a
string of quite terrible ways he was going to show Jane how difficult he could be if she did not cease
and desist with making his existence a misery.
Silas had not discerned exactly what the air elemental was doing to the daemon. There was far
too much yelling to make out the details, but he knew it was supposed to make Pitch’s life less of a
misery. The treatment he was undergoing was designed to rid the prince’s body of the lingering dregs
of Gu.
For a time after their escape from Gidleigh House and the greensward, it seemed as though the
daemon would suffer no ill effects of his poisoning, something Lady Satine was mightily impressed
with. By her account, the prince should be dead, or so close to it they might as well measure him for
his coffin. Neither was the case, which evidently she was pleased with.
As was Silas.
‘Destroying a vase is not going to speed up this process.’ Jane was prim. ‘What if that was Silas’s
favourite you just ruined?’
‘The man adores headstones,’ Pitch scoffed. ‘He will not give a shit if he’s missing an ugly piece
of porcelain from his bedroom dresser.’
 ‘He may care that the flowers in that vase are now strewn about his room. You’ve noticed, no
doubt, that he is partial to anything from the garden.’
‘Of course I’ve bloody noticed. But he brought those flowers days ago. They are as good as dead
now. And he brought them to me. So they are mine to do with what I like. And I like to see them
strewn about on the floor.’
Silas glanced at the new arrangement he held. He knew the floral offerings to be silly, really. But
he hadn’t known what else to do. Several hours after Lucifer’s unsettling visit Pitch had declared
himself unwell. The prince had slunk off to Silas’s room, declaring he intended to sleep off a sudden
headache and churning stomach. Alone. When Silas checked in on him a few hours later, he’d found
Pitch buried beneath the blankets and pillows till he was all but hidden save for a few lengths of
gold-streaked hair peeking through the covers. His light brown shade was altering each time he used
the flame, and there were far more gold highlights at the fore now. The prince had been fast asleep,
and Silas had slept on the couch rather than disturb him. One night had since extended to three, and an
upset stomach to violent regurgitation.
‘Goodness, you talk a load of rubbish, don’t you?’ Jane now was most derisive. ‘I can see on your
face you are quite horrified at what you’ve done.’
‘You need spectacles, then. I don’t give a damn about those fucking flowers.’
‘You are a terrible liar. How surprising, I thought you were a master.’
Pitch muttered but the words were lost to Silas.
Jane was right that the daemon lied about not caring for the flowers. When Silas had brought him
the first bouquet of golden spiked mahonia three days ago, Pitch had gone all shades of fetching pink
as he watched Silas arrange them in the vase at his bedside.
‘You were out there in the cold, gathering these for me?’
Silas had been taken aback by the sheer disbelief in the prince’s tone.
‘I was. There aren’t so many as I’d hoped – slim pickings at this time of year, of course – but they
are quite pretty, don’t you think?’
Pitch had stared at the simple bouquet with a look Silas could not unravel. When he’d not replied,
Silas moved to pick up the vase.
‘They aren’t making you feel more wretched, are they? I can take them away.’
‘No.’ Pitch had lunged to stay Silas’s hand. ‘Leave them…please.’
The heat of the daemon’s skin had warmed Silas through, and he had seated himself gingerly on
the edge of the bed. ‘Is there anything I can do for you? Some chamomile tea, perhaps? Some cake?’
The prince, propped up on one elbow, drained and bleary-eyed but no less beguiling, had shaken
his head. ‘I couldn’t eat. Satty said Mr Ahari believes he’s found something that will rid me of what
remains of the poison, but that old bastard is taking his time bringing it to me.’
‘That’s good news though, isn’t it? You’ll soon be feeling well again.’
Pitch nodded, making a vague sound of agreement. He was watching Silas closely, or rather,
Silas’s mouth. ‘Being ill is inconvenient. I don’t like being kept from things.’ He wet his lips with a
delicate swipe of his tongue and edged closer, making the air between them thinner. Silas’s pulse had
begun to race. ‘Do you suppose…that it might be…helpful to…’ Pitch had paused, and the air had
crackled. At least, that is how it had seemed to Silas, who had been awash with indecision. He’d
longed to press in, to offer the kiss he thought was being asked for, but what if he was terribly wrong?
The daemon prince was fragile as a butterfly’s wings with all that had been done to him…and what
was now expected of him.
So Silas had held back, waiting for Pitch to lead the way.
The daemon had slipped his hand behind the ankou’s neck, urging him closer, vanishing any
ambiguity. With a hushed sigh, Silas had leaned down.
Only to be slapped back.
‘Gods, get out! Get out!’ The daemon had rolled away, lunging for the chamber pot beneath the
bed, and been very, vigorously ill.
That gut-churning path had continued for him ever since. Reaching for the pot once or twice an
hour, according to Jane, and Tyvain, who had only dared go in the once and not again, for fear the
daemon would make good on his promise to tip the severe black liquid he was vomiting all over her.
Silas had not been allowed anywhere near the sickroom…his own bedroom…ever since.
Now here he stood, flowers in hand, listening in like the voyeur Pitch accused him of being.
‘Oh fuck,’ the unhappy prince cried. ‘Are you not done with tormenting me, you daft elemental
cow?’
‘Do stop carrying on. So long as the akaname are still feeding, it means you have Gu left in your
blood. Wouldn’t you rather it all be gone, or do you think it quite fetching to be doubled over and
hurling your guts out?’
‘Piss off.’
‘Good gods, sit still, will you?’ Jane admonished. ‘They keep sliding off. You need to let them get
their pincers into you.’
Silas set his hand on the door handle, his guilt growing. If he had heeded Pitch’s warning about
Balthazar Crane, they would never have stopped at Gidleigh House. And there would be no need for
the daemon to have pincers set upon him at all.
‘Right, well that’s all of them. None left after this, so we best hope they finish the job,’ Jane said.
‘Mr Ahari says you are to leave them on as long as you can endure.’
 Rightfully so, Pitch thought little of that and voiced his displeasure in no uncertain, rather bawdy
terms. Silas was so preoccupied with how painful this supposed treatment was that he heard no sign
of Jane readying to leave until the door handle turned beneath his grasp.
He took a hurried step back, as though he were the sort of man who could slink into the shadows.
The door opened and Jane appeared. The oddest thing occurred. A melody played in Silas’s mind.
One he could read as though it were sheet music before him. The way an educated man might read the
newspaper.
Elemental. Air.
Of course, he’d already been told what type of natural Jane was, but now Silas knew it.
Silas could not see the hues, the auras, that surrounded naturals, for the most part. He’d glimpsed
the aura on the traitorous ankou, Balthazar Crane, and the melody denoting his presence had played
along, sure enough. But that day it had been the bandalore singing the ankou’s truth. Not today. The
scythe was in a mother-of-pearl inlaid jewellery box on the mantel downstairs.
The greensward had, it seemed, done more than shake loose distant, ancient memories.
‘Did I startle you, Silas?’ Jane smiled. ‘If you were seeking to hide, it can be difficult to do from
one like me.’ She touched her nose. ‘Especially when you have those lovely specimens with you.’
Jane nodded her head at the flowers in Silas’s grasp.
He hid them behind his back. ‘How is he?’
She wore her long hair tied back in a single bind, and a dress of loose chequered linen. ‘Aside
from cantankerous, whiny, and generally in a mood?’ she said. ‘He is handling it reasonably well.
He’s not being ill so often and says the cramps are not as bad now. It looks promising.’ She patted the
small metal box she carried, a biscuit tin for shortbread normally. ‘Can’t say the same for the
akaname though. They don’t last long after they have a full belly of the stuff. But they aren’t known as
filth-lickers for nothing. Their propensity for a diet of fouler things seems to be getting the job done.
Mr Ahari made a good call with recommending them.’
Silas nodded, peering over her shoulder. He could just make out the foot of the bed, and a lumpy
shape beneath the covers that might be Pitch’s feet. Heat emanated from the room, as likely from the
daemon himself as the small crackling fire in the hearth.
‘Would you like to go in?’ Jane stepped aside.
‘He doesn’t want me there.’
‘Go away, Silas.’ Pitch was muffled.
‘See?’
‘He’s an idiot.’ Jane shrugged. ‘And you are here anyway.’
‘I said no, Silas.’ The daemon was firm. Definitely cantankerous.
 A displaced wind moved against Silas’s back, sending his hair into his eyes. The force of the
sudden breeze pushed him forward, sending him across the threshold of his room.
‘There you go.’ Jane was most cheery. ‘I’ll be back to check on you in a little while.’
The door shut behind Silas with a decisive clunk.
Pitch lay on his stomach, with the pillow over his head and the blankets piled over his lower
body, covering it entirely. He was shirtless, a state that usually would have pleased Silas very much,
but not so this day. Pitch’s back was peppered with creatures that resembled leeches. The shapes
were similar, but the colouring very different. These specimens were mottled shades of oranges and
reds and browns, like slug-shaped autumn leaves. And they were at least double the size of any leech
Silas had had the misfortune to find in his boots. Where they sat, Pitch’s skin was the purple and
yellow of fresh and old bruises.
‘Gods, you are still here, aren’t you, Silas?’
‘I am.’
‘Clearly, you have gone deaf since I last saw you, then,’ Pitch huffed from beneath his pillow.
‘Do the akaname pain you?’
‘Of course they pain me, Silas. They have teeth like razors.’ Pitch pulled his head from beneath
the pillow. The movement set the creature nearest his right shoulder blade curling in on itself, and the
daemon hissed like an angry serpent. ‘Fuck.’
‘Are they helping at all?’ Silas asked, clutching his silly flowers. It struck him that no melody had
erupted on seeing the prince. No musical declaration Here lies a daemon. There was every chance
Silas’s new skill was as temperamental as his memory.
‘I suppose they are not making it worse.’
Silas decided to rely on Jane’s assertion that Pitch was improving. ‘Are these creatures from
Arcadia?’
Pitch snorted. ‘Gods, no. Lucifer refused to deliver me an antidote. I was not dying, which he was
no doubt disappointed about, and he didn’t wish to make another journey so soon for fear of drawing
attention. So I am to suffer through, as a woman does through her morning sickness.’
His irritation caused him to move a little too much, and his groan had Silas hurrying to the
bedside.
‘Try to stop moving about.’ He dropped the flowers onto the bedside table, next to the remnants of
the shattered vase which Jane had piled there. There was a damp patch on the fawn-coloured rug.
‘And you try to stop bloody fussing, Silas. Equally impossible tasks I’d say.’ Pitch kept his face
turned towards the window. ‘I want you to go away.’
‘The problem is I don’t wish to go. So here we are, at an impasse.’ Jane had been right to push
him. Silas should have shouldered his way in here before now, no matter the daemon’s tantrum. ‘I
really don’t care less if you throw up on me.’
‘Well, I bloody do,’ Pitch said, a little too emphatically, twitching in pain. ‘This is not about you.’
‘It is very much about me actually.’ Silas stooped to pick up a shard of pottery that Jane had
missed. ‘I fail to see why I must be banished. From my own room at that.’
‘You know why.’ So low Silas barely caught it.
‘Because you seem to think it a terrible thing if I see you in any distress, but that is exactly when I
am most concerned with seeing you.’
‘Gods, you are ridiculous.’
‘Not so much as you.’
That made Pitch laugh, which was not really a good thing at all. It caused him to jolt. The
akaname must have bitten in harder, for he released a furious yell.
‘Enoch’s fucking taint!’ The cursing went on for some time.
‘Easy now, stay still.’ Silas forgot his own rule about touching the daemon unless requested and
laid his hand on Pitch’s bare shoulder. The prince’s ribs flared with a deep inhale. ‘I’m sorry…for
what you are having to –’
‘Stop apologising,’ Pitch said, soft but curt. ‘If I have to move to slap you, I won’t be pleased.’
‘Nor will I.’
Pitch’s body shuddered with another stifled laugh. ‘Fuck. You are not helping at all.’
‘Perhaps I should go, and leave you be.’
‘You’re here now.’ He was short. ‘So you may as well be useful. You could do that…rubbing
thing you do to me.’
Silas’s brow lifted. ‘Rubbing?’ His mind went a tad feral. ‘You’d like me to…rub you?’
‘My dear fellow, where are your thoughts taking you?’
‘Nowhere,’ Silas croaked.
‘And Jane thinks me a terrible liar.’ A gentle chuckle came from the daemon. ‘When I can roll
over without heaving, you can show me exactly where you have a preference for rubbing me, but for
now I was hoping you might just tend to my back. Like you did in the carriage, and when that man
with his witch bottles vexed me.’
Silas nodded, face ablaze. ‘Of course. I wasn’t sure if it annoyed your or pleased you, to be
honest.’
‘It does both.’ Pitch was more teasing than unkind.
‘Oh.’
‘But I don’t hate it either way.’
 ‘I suppose that’s as good a compliment as I’ll hear.’
‘Yes, so do get on with it.’
With a smile, and a trembling hand, Silas ran his fingertips over Pitch’s shoulder and down along
one of the prongs on the pitchfork tattoo that had given the daemon his nickname.
He stayed well clear of the akaname as he went. There were not so many of them as to make it
difficult, five of the creatures latched on to pale skin, their bruising marks fanning around them.
Neither they nor the daemon moved as Silas traced his way over the hint of muscle and bone, keeping
well clear of the section where he knew the halo’s scars to be. Pitch sighed every now and then but
was otherwise silent.
Silas’s pulse thudded along as he worked, his chest tight with contentment. Bloody hell, the prince
was heavenly to touch. Velvet skinned with the jut of hard muscle hinting right beneath, an exquisite
mix of soft and hard that he wanted to drink in.
He had meant what he said to Pitch about having no expectations, that he would give the daemon
all the distance he required as he recovered from what had happened to him at Gidleigh House. But
how utterly wonderful it was to be allowed this close again. The nights on the couch had been lonely.
And his worries great.
The task assigned to the daemon prince was a lofty one. Destroying a cursed halo sounded like
anything but a walk in the park.
Silas would be by Pitch’s side, of course. A dozen Lalassu’s could not have stopped him, but he
feared he may not be able to lessen the load upon the prince’s shoulders as well as he hoped. Silas
may be Nephilim at his core, but he had much to learn…to remember…about what advantage that
could give him.
‘Will you do something for me, Sickle?’ The daemon was drowsy, as close to content as he’d
sounded in a while.
Anything, was what Silas wished to say. Anything at all. But it was far too soppy. He’d be
laughed out of the room, and rightly so. ‘That depends what it is you ask for,’ he replied, drifting his
fingertips down near the rise of Pitch’s arse beneath the sheet. Christ, it was difficult not to linger
there too long.
The prince turned his head, looking at Silas. It took effort not to inhale too sharply. Certainly the
daemon was pale, and his lips were stained blue by the foul Gu that had drenched them many times,
but his gaze was precise, focused, and breathtaking.
‘When you’re done…and there is no hurry…take the watch with you when you leave.’ He
gestured at Silas’s wardrobe. ‘I put it in the pocket of one of your coats so as to keep it away…but it
still bothers me.’
 ‘Bothers you? How so?’
‘Will you just keep it for me? Keep it at a distance?’
There was a note there in his tone, one that warned Silas about asking any more. ‘I will.’
Pitch glanced at the table, where the tiny pile of rubble and fresh flowers lay. ‘I shouldn’t have
done that.’ He tilted his head so that his hair flopped forward, covering his eyes. ‘I’m sorry I broke
the vase.’
‘I wasn’t particularly fond of it.’
‘It was hideous.’
‘I’ll not challenge that.’ Silas smiled, and the daemon relaxed beneath his fingertips. He traced a
path between two of the akaname, slipping his finger over the nub of Pitch’s spine, crossing the dark
line of the amuletum. ‘Will you tell me why you wish me to keep the watch? Surely it is important that
you have it safe with you?’
Pitch sighed. ‘Promise me you won’t get all bothered and fearful if I tell you why?’
Silas struggled not to show just how bothered and fearful he’d become immediately. ‘Pitch, what
is it?’
‘Gods, there it is. You have your wide-eyed-with-horror face on. You do adore that one.’
‘Tobias.’
‘Since when do you ever call me Tobias? I don’t like it at all.’
‘Tell me what is wrong.’ Silas was stern.
‘A small thing really,’ Pitch said. ‘Why did you stop rubbing my back? I didn’t tell you to stop.’
‘I wasn’t waiting on your orders, Your Highness.’ Silas felt the daemon tense. ‘Sorry. I didn’t
intend to…damn it, Pitch tell me about the watch, now.’
The prince waited a few moments in imperious silence, and then, ‘Having it too near…hurts. The
watch seems to stir the markings of the halo. It is…not pleasant. And as you are capable of carrying
death’s blade with no trouble, I figure you can carry Seraphiel’s token too.’
‘How badly does it hurt you?’ Silas was not sure he’d believe the answer but he’d ask.
‘Badly enough. But there’s every chance it won’t be quite so annoying when the Gu is out of my
body entirely. Perhaps I’m just more sensitive to such things at the moment.’ Pitch turned his head,
huffing. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Now I have to see that face of yours all bent out of shape.’
Silas shifted his jaw, as though that might rid his features of concern. ‘I’m grateful you told me,
and yes I’m worried, of course I am, but I agree. Let’s wait and see how you feel once the akaname
are done with. I will happily carry the watch for you until then.’
The watch that bade them to search for Edward Charters.
Pitch’s illness had been a distraction from Silas’s other great worry: the whereabouts of Charlie.
Yesterday, he’d nearly cried with relief when Tyvain told him the lad had been spotted at a pub near
the Charters’ residence in Mayfair just last week. Silas’s heart had lifted at the news and then sunk
just as readily when the trail ran cold. The soothsayer was out now searching. Jane too, when she
wasn’t tending Pitch.
Lady Satine had denied Silas’s repeated request to join them. ‘We must be discreet,’ she had said.
‘The maleficent sorcerers have you firmly in their sights, Silas. And it would do Charlie no favours
for them to know that you are so desperate to find him. If you would step into a magick circle to help
a stranger, what wouldn’t you do for a dear friend? Your kindness is rather your weakness too.’
He knew she spoke some sense, but it made it no less easy to wait behind.
‘We will find them, Silas.’ Pitch slid his hand over the covers to find Silas’s knee. ‘Charlie and
the lieutenant both.’
Silas nodded, trying to shake off his deep concern. ‘I’m sure we will. What do you suppose you
need to find Edward for? Have you had any time to think on it?’
‘Oh, it will be something trivial, I’m sure. He’s only human, after all. Likely I need something he
can give me, or show me. Perhaps Seraphiel hid instructions on how I’m supposed to destroy this
fucking halo somewhere in the Charters’ family library, and I’ll have papercuts from here to Arcadia
when I finally head off on this moronic quest.’
‘Well, I can’t help you with the reading, but I can turn a decent page –’
Pitch’s smile began to slide along his lips, only to turn sharply down. ‘Fuck, chamber pot, where
is it?’ He came alive, wriggling his way over to the other side of the bed, hissing bitter curses in
between wretches. The akaname on his back all curled in like snails balling themselves up against a
predator. Silas hurtled to his feet, snatching up the pot which was actually beneath the bedside table,
and raced around the bed, boots crunching on another stray piece of vase. He only just managed to
position the porcelain beneath Pitch’s head as the first wave came. The prince’s slender body jerked
with spasms as the Gu made its sudden appearance, with it a sour stench.
Pitch coughed something about the ankou leaving the fucking room. But Silas ignored every barely
distinguishable word. He’d not be chased away again.
He stayed on, holding back the daemon’s hair until all was said and, very messily, done.
 CHAPTER TWO

THE AKANAME, or filth-lickers, as Mr Ahari named them, had been purchased from a black
market stall down Croydon way. A market, according to Tyvain, that was run by naturals of some ill-
repute and with a reputation for selling poor-quality stock with a propensity for causing accidents and
ills. Their conversation had Silas in a fluster by its end, but Jane was adamant that Mr Ahari knew
exactly what he was doing.
The air elemental, thankfully, was right.
It took near on a hundred of the unfortunate creatures to make it so, but Pitch was much improved
by midday. And by the time Jane was finished taking her lunch, she had declared the treatment done
with. She stopped in to remove the last of the akaname from their tethered places upon Pitch’s back,
and despite the grunted demands by the daemon to do so, Silas refused to leave the room. He’d stood
by as Pitch gritted his teeth as tiny fangs were coaxed from his skin. The akaname had rounded
mouths, leaving small pinwheels of punctured skin behind. The bruises looked awful with their
mottled colouring but would disappear before long.
Pitch slept for hours after Jane was done, only stirring when the afternoon considered giving way
to evening. On waking, he seemed bright and restless enough that Silas suggested a short walk around
the grounds. The afternoon was mild, the fresh air would do the prince good, and Silas himself was
quite desperate to be outside. Nearer to the graveyard for a spell, if he could encourage the daemon
that far.
When Silas suggested the walk, Pitch rolled his eyes and declared that in Arcadia this sort of
carrying on would see his valet Forneus, the skriker’s namesake, lose two of his seven eyes for
insubordination.
In the end, it was the promise of strawberry tarts that drew the daemon from his sickbed, but it
took another half hour of infuriating coaxing and goading to have Pitch dressed well enough for a
stroll. The blasted fellow could not decide on which coat to wear, so in the end Silas thrust a purple
velvet number at him, told him he looked beautiful in it as he did most things, and ushered the
preening prince downstairs.
 For himself the choice was simple. Silas threw on his newly laundered and repaired-once-more
royal-blue Inverness coat and headed for the front door. Pitch took his time, making much of his limp
because it suited him to do so today.
‘I think actually my hip is too worrisome to bother,’ he announced, just shy of the door.
Silas had to take a breath before he spoke. ‘I could find you a cane, I’m sure.’
‘If you wish to be beaten with it, certainly.’
‘You are likely stiff for having been immobile so long. All the more reason a walk is just what
you need.’ Silas was determined to get at least one daemonic foot outside, even though his ears might
bleed soon from so much complaining.
He opened the door, and a jolly little tune played itself to him as Silas’s newfound musicality
returned. Quirky, spirited notes revealed the supernatural nature of the chap he had been hoping to
find outside his door.
Elemental. Earth.
Gilmore, grumpy and very gruff but marvellous in the kitchen, stood with balled hands on his hips,
glaring up at them both. His peaked cap of berry red was quite fetching, setting off the pale colouring
of his hair nicely.
‘Perfect timing,’ Silas said. ‘Have you brought the tarts, Gilmore?’
‘You’re about to put ya giant foot in them.’ The gnome jerked his chin. Silas peered down to find a
small wicker basket on the doormat.
‘Thank you ever so much.’ Silas swept up the basket and stepped out onto the porch, making room
for the prince to join him.
‘Gods, gnome,’ Pitch said. ‘What’s on your head? Did someone drop a tub of strawberry jam on
you?’
Gilmore snatched his cap away, revealing a head of pale hair that looked like it had never put a
strand out of place in its life. His deep-set eyes were filled with a quiet contempt.
Silas was not so happy himself as he turned to the daemon. ‘Really? You are going to be churlish
with the gentleman who has just made you his strawberry tarts, which I recall you saying once were
without equal?’
Pitch had the decency to look admonished. ‘Fine.’ He waved an airy hand. ‘Thank you, gnome.
Much obliged. But that doesn’t change the fact that your cap looks foolish.’
‘Not as damn foolish as your face,’ Gilmore retorted. ‘Pity you didn’t turn yourself inside out with
all that gagging.’
‘Even wearing my own entrails for jewellery I’d still be more pleasant to look upon than you.’
‘Christ.’ Silas picked up the basket, in no mood for the pair of them. ‘I’m going to go for a walk,
and I’m taking these. If you want to come along, Pitch, do. If not, I truly do not care. You can stay here
and trade juvenile insults.’ He tipped his head at the gnome. ‘Thank you for these, Gilmore. I
appreciate your haste with preparing them. Good afternoon, gentlemen.’
‘Afternoon, Mr Mercer.’ Gilmore smirked, casting a snide glance towards Pitch. ‘Guess even
your ankou has his limits with you, then.’
‘I’m not his bloody ankou,’ Silas muttered.
He strode away and followed his nose towards the dank, heavenly scent of the graveyard that was
drifting in on the easterly breeze. A place where he might find some momentary peace. Pitch’s issues
with the Gu were resolved, but that was not to say all worries were extinguished. Far from it.
Charlie’s whereabouts plagued Silas. He’d not slept well in days and was at times empty-headed
with fatigue.
Lost in his thoughts, Silas was almost across the green before he realised how quickly he was
walking. Far too brisk a pace if Pitch had followed.
Which, to his surprise, he had. He lumbered along in an awkward jog that fell to a casual walk the
moment Silas turned to look.
‘What?’ Pitch said. ‘You are holding the tarts for ransom. I shall have to endure your company.’
Silas kept the smile from his face until he turned about and the daemon could not see.
#
The late-afternoon air was more bracing than Silas expected. As they sauntered into the garden,
his nose was dripping and his ungloved hands ached from the cold. But there was pleasing colour in
Pitch’s cheeks, especially since he’d eaten several of Gilmore’s tarts. Edward’s watch had been left
behind, resting alongside the bandalore in the jewellery box on the mantel, so he was not plagued by
that discomfort at least.
But that did not seem to have made him any more congenial.
‘I understand your obsession for being outdoors now,’ the prince declared, licking at his pastry-
flecked fingers. ‘We are surrounded by dead things. You must feel right at home.’
‘Well, it may appear all is dead, but it’s not the case. Look here. These little buds on the
shrubbery here? This is a Christmas rose. This will be a blanket of white before long.’
‘Yes, because it will be damned well snowing. Gods, snow is tiresome.’
As though the garden were offended, Pitch tripped upon an exposed root. He would have gone
flying if not for Silas’s quick, steadying hand.
‘I’m quite all right. No need for that.’ Pitch adjusted his velvet tailcoat, despite the rich purple
fabric sitting perfectly well. ‘Pass me another tart, will you?’
‘No. Not yet. It would be foolish for you to gorge yourself.’ Silas pointed to a bush with bare
branches and creamy-white blooms with yellow stamen. ‘Winter honeysuckle. Lovely, isn’t it?’
‘Hardly the word I’d use.’
Pitch was not going to receive another tart for some time.
‘I think it’s beautiful.’
‘It’s not terribly ugly, I suppose.’ Pitch snapped a bloom free. He twirled it between his fingers,
and quite out of the blue, he said, ‘If we hear nothing from the hag by dinnertime, I’m going to take
matters into my own hands. I will go myself to search for your little friend and Mr Charters, whether
Satty permits it or not. I must. It is as simple as that.’
Silas thought Lady Satine allowing such a plan unlikely, considering all they had told her of the
Morrigan’s exploits at the greensward, but his heart lightened to imagine it.
It was Pitch who had informed the Lady of what the sorcerers were calling themselves. He had
learned the name from the Alp daemon. Pitch said very little else to the Lady about what happened
between him and Onoskolis. Silas would guard that secret forevermore, if that was what the prince
wanted.
Pitch touched at the flower’s stark-white petals.
‘Whatever plan you have in mind to find them,’ Silas said, ‘I’m going with you, of course. If
Charlie has been harmed in any way…’ He couldn’t finish that train of thought. ‘Tyvain should never
have sent him off on such a foolish task.’
‘Now, now, Sickle. I’m sure your little friend is quite well. Mr Charters is hardly one for
dangerous pursuits. He’s dreadfully sensible…most of the time. Perhaps Charlie has chosen to
disappear.’
‘Absolutely not.’ He shook his head, his fingers curling about a flower-laden branch of
honeysuckle. ‘You saw for yourself how keen he was to remain with Old Bess at Harvington Hall. He
wouldn’t simply disappear.’ If only he could speak to Pitch of the connection he had with Charlie’s
family line, the ancient blood that somehow bound them to Silas and the bandalore. But he could not
speak of such things without revealing too much of his Nephilim origins. And the prince had far too
many concerns weighing him down as it was.
‘Fine,’ Pitch said. ‘Then maybe it is Tyvain’s carrier pigeons that are to blame. That is how the
messages from your lad were coming, was it not?’
‘Yes. I believe so.’ Silas nodded, clinging to the idea that Charlie was likely fine but the bird
carrying his message was not. Caught by a farmyard cat perhaps, or in the sights of a hunter’s gun.
‘But, Silas, I have to admit, I do not care much about the whereabouts of your lover –’ The prince
raised his hand at Silas’s attempts to protest. ‘Well, you fucked, did you not?’
‘Once only –’
 ‘Apparently that was more than enough for you to develop an unseemly softness for the lad.’
Silas blinked. Pitch’s words were spiked with a strange accusation. ‘I care for Charlie’s welfare,’
he said. ‘Yes, of course. And this is not an easy world for him.’
Pitch fluttered his fingers as though the conversation bored him. He tended to act this way
whenever Charlie was mentioned, and yet it was often he who brought up the lad to begin with.
‘Whatever the case may be,’ he said. ‘He is not who is important here. Edward is, according to the
watch my dear old papa shoved at me. If there is ever to be an end to all this, I need to find him.’
‘We need to find him,’ Silas said, pointedly. ‘I’m terribly worried about Charlie, but I fear for the
lieutenant as well. He was such a troubled man when I saw him last. The angel’s possession had left
him in a terrible state.’ Silas actually bit his tongue. ‘I did not mean to be so –’
Pitch traced a finger over the petals. ‘Truthful? Edward is a wreck, and I made it far worse by
continuing to see him. That is the way of it.’
‘No, that is not the way of it at all.’ Silas shook his head, angry all at once. ‘How were you to
know? You had troubles of your own. If it brought you some comfort to…to go to Edward’ – Silas
swallowed – ‘then you should not feel guilty for that. He is unsteady because of Seraphiel. The angel
toyed with both your lives. I was there when Lucifer said it, I heard it clearly. Seraphiel used you,
and he stole the life of a man you…had some care for. That angel made you a prisoner in that bloody
Sanctuary it seems, and now you are to run about cleaning up a mess he made thousands of years ago.
Christ, if I had the chance to meet him, I’d…well, I’d…’ His heated words lost a little of their steam
when he saw Pitch’s bemused smile. ‘What?’
‘Slap his wrist and tell him what a naughty boy he was? You are quite a dolt but a fetching one at
that.’ The prince raised the blooms to his nose, the petals glancing at his cheeks. ‘Can I tell you
something though, Silas?’
‘Of course.’
Pitch cleared his throat. ‘If I ever reach this Blood Lake, wherever it may be, for Satty seems
content to let me wonder…’ He paused, shaking his head, verdant gaze distant. ‘I fear she and Lucifer,
and Seraphiel, are expecting a miracle from me when I can only deliver ruin. It is lunacy, sheer and
utter lunacy, to believe I am a deliverer of any kind.’
‘One step at a time,’ Silas said. ‘And I will take each one of them with you.’
Pitch lowered the blooms, the air between them white as warm breath met frigid air. ‘You are
quite set on staying with me?’
‘I am.’
‘It won’t be a lark to the seaside, you know.’
‘I’m aware.’
 ‘Fine.’ Pitch’s gaze traced the collar of Silas’s coat. ‘But I should tell you that if you manage to
get yourself killed…again…for the sake of my foolish little quest, I shall be most pissed off at you.’
Silas’s ribs thrummed with his quickened heartbeat. ‘Well, if you dare saddle up Sanu and seek to
ride off to handle things on your own, there will also be consequences.’ That had Pitch’s gaze lifting
to him, and Silas hurried on so he would not do anything foolish, like kiss him. ‘I know you consider
it. But if you try to run off without me, don’t think for a moment I will not hunt you down, pull you off
your horse, and throw your royal arse over my knee because I…’ Bloody hell, where was he going
with this? He busied himself with the flowers, wondering if there was a badger hole he could crawl
into.
‘Do go on, tell me how you shall punish me.’ Pitch’s lips twitched. ‘Would you spank me? With
your hand? Or with a paddle, perhaps?’
‘Stop it.’ Silas battled to stop the images that came to mind.
‘Tell me, I truly would like to know.’
‘I don’t…well, I’m not certain. I fear I’ve not given my threat true consideration.’ But bloody hell
he was considering it now.
Pitch dissolved into a bright fit of laughter, the sound chasing away the ever-growing chill. Silas
shook his head but struggled not to smile. He took another tart from the basket, the treat managing to
still retain the oven’s warmth.
‘It’s really not that funny.’ Silas shoved the pastry at the prince. ‘Here, stick this in your mouth,
and do shut up.’
Pitch did half of what he was told, biting into the tart but still chuckling. They continued their
stroll, heading towards the gate that allowed a view of the graveyard. The heady waft was thickening
with the darkening evening, brushing at Silas’s skin like fine cobwebs.
He breathed in deeply.
‘You truly relish the graves, don’t you?’ the daemon said around a pink mouthful.
‘I truly do.’ And he’d not apologise for it.
‘I’ve known men with stranger fetishes.’
‘I’m sure you have.’
The vines that had concealed the gate when he’d first discovered the exit were now trimmed to
fall neatly around the archway. The ivy, an evergreen, was a pleasant dash of colour in the winter-
sore garden. He stared out across the open space to where Highgate Cemetery lay, with its blocks and
pillars of stone, its crypts and mausoleums. As much as the place called to him, soothed him, he did
have some unwelcome memories of it.
Of the open grave that had swallowed him whole when he’d sought to evade the harpies.
 Silas shivered, gooseflesh tracing his arms.
‘I told you you needed your jacket under that coat,’ Pitch said, scrutinising the piece of golden
pastry he held.
‘I’m not cold. I’m just remembering the harpies.’
‘Here or the greensward? They can’t get enough of you it seems.’
‘Both, really.’
Pitch was in the mood for saying things out of the blue today. ‘I’m sorry I did not get to you
sooner, Silas, when they had you in that greensward.’
‘What?’ The sincerity in the daemon’s voice pained him. ‘Pitch…honestly, you must not think –’
‘I’ll think what I want. And what I think is that I will not let them hurt you again that way. Now go
and stare longingly at your graveyard and give me another damned tart.’
Silas would rather stare at other lovely things. He held out the basket. ‘Can I say then that I am
sorry, too.’
‘You usually do –’
‘That I did not search harder for you that day.’
Pitch snatched at the basket. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You weren’t to know. You had no reason to
think I was being anything other than the prick I am. I’m sure you just assumed I had abandoned you to
take my pleasures elsewhere.’ He tried to take hold of the wicker handle, but Silas covered his hand,
squeezing gently.
‘And because I was being petty and petulant, I let that assumption blind me. It was a mistake I
shall always regret. And is not one I shall make again. I promise you.’
The basket was all that separated them. Pitch was watching him, gold hinting beneath the emerald
in his eyes as though his flame stirred. The silence was thick with something indefinable. The
daemon’s lips parted as though he were about to speak. He leaned forward, and Silas wondered if the
kiss that had been so violently interrupted by Pitch’s illness was finally to be realised.
But the fading afternoon’s light glanced against beating wings, drawing Pitch’s attention.
‘Shit,’ Silas muttered low beneath his breath.
A tawny owl landed upon the stone seat near the gate, grand talons clacking against the hard
surface, enormous dark eyes wide and unblinking, fixing on Pitch as it landed. It held a mouse in its
curved beak, the critter clearly no longer living.
And the bird was not alone.
Another shape descended, wings spread wide. Another owl, though this one was mostly white as
fresh-fallen snow, with a little dappling upon the wings, and much larger than the first. It had not yet
landed when Silas heard the first notes. A serpentine tune reminding him of wind whistling through
treetops. He found himself thinking of moonlit nights, the scent of cedar, and rain on moss-carpeted
soil.
Djinn. Snowy owl shifter.
At least one part of the melody’s naming was obvious enough.
The creature flapped its wide wings, stirring a wind towards them that had Pitch pushing errant
strands of hair from his face and muttering unhappily.
‘Always so dramatic.’
There was a rustling, like a wheat crop caught in a breeze, followed by a flurry of white, as
though the owl had suddenly come apart, feathers threatening to scatter in all directions. But the
sudden blur of white settled like a blizzard easing, and there in the place of the owl stood a willowy,
very naked man. His skin held an odd tinge of grey, as though there were storm clouds beneath the
surface. Between his legs there was the barest hint of a cock, nothing of balls, and instead of pubic
hair, he had downy feathers. His hair was long, falling nearly to his waist, and hanging in heavy locks
that resembled an actual bird’s nest, twigs and feathers and hair intertwined.
‘Ankou…daemon.’ The djinn’s voice was raspy as a parrot’s. His eyes had not shifted to
resemble anything remotely humanlike, far too round and far too big to be anything but disconcerting.
And his lips were dark grey as though rubbed with ash.
‘Marcus.’ Pitch slipped the wicker basket from Silas’s suddenly slackened grasp. ‘I thought you
must have been hibernating, it’s been a while.’
‘Owls don’t hibernate.’
‘Well, you’re not an average owl though, are you?’
‘I have been in Devon.’ Marcus’s head turned, or rather swivelled, to face the other owl, which
still stared at Pitch. ‘The tawny wishes to thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘Saving his son. At the witch-bottle house. You released him from a cage.’
That comment pulled Silas from his mannerless stare. He recalled the owl in the cage very well.
And this bird might not be so pleased to know his son had witnessed Silas sticking his tongue down
the daemon’s throat and his hands down his pants.
The tawny owl spread its wings and glided to land at Pitch’s feet, where it dropped the mouse
before him.
‘He thanks you,’ Marcus said.
Pitch wrinkled his nose. ‘Oh…all right, then.’
‘You need to accept the gift.’
‘Yes, yes, I accept it.’
 ‘You need to pick it up.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’
The djinn managed to look angered without narrowing his enormous eyes. Silas decided to put a
quick end to things. He went to one knee before the tawny owl and scooped up the still-warm body of
the mouse.
‘This is a generous gift.’ He bowed his head. ‘We are glad to hear your son is well, and very
happy we could set him free.’
He glanced up at Pitch. The prince was giving him a quizzical look. ‘You do grovel well, don’t
you?’
‘It is a generous gift. This is a decent meal he has parted with.’ Silas curled his fingers about the
dead mouse. It did not irk him to do so. In fact, it felt entirely natural to hold the dead critter.
The tawny owl swung its head to look up at the djinn. It released a call, soft hoots that varied in
length.
‘The tawny is pleased,’ Marcus said. Silas wondered if the djinn was cold, for it was a very cool
evening and the shape-shifting gentleman was very unclothed. ‘He wants me to tell you that although
the daemon’s flames were very pretty and he was right to burn that house, the ankou is far nicer and
should not waste his time playing with the daemon’s –’
‘No, no.’ Silas’s skin burnt to a crisp. ‘I will stop you right there.’
‘Marcus, why are you here?’ Pitch said. ‘I doubt Satty sent you just to deliver a mouse’s corpse
and judge where Silas should bestow a hand job.’
Marcus shook his head, and his knotted, matted hair rubbed his chest. ‘The Lady has sent me to
summon you to Holly Lodge. She wishes to see you. Now.’
‘You really could have started with that.’ Pitch’s irritation prickled. ‘Instead of the mouse, you
daft fu–’
‘Thank you, Marcus,’ Silas said. ‘Please tell the Lady we will be there at once.’
 CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS not a long nor a particularly strenuous walk up the hill to where Holly Lodge perched,
but as the journey went on, Pitch’s limp grew more obvious. He refused to take Silas’s arm and was
breathing heavily by the time they finally reached the Lodge’s impressive portico. The imposing
columns that supported the structure were spread wide, right out over the driveway, allowing coach
passengers to avoid foul weather as they alighted. Silas had waited, impatiently, in a coach right here
for Tobias Astaroth before they had begun the train journey that would take them to Black Annis.
He offered his arm to the daemon to aid him up the short flight of stairs to the double doors.
‘I can manage a few steps.’ Pitch waved him off. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Silas was not insulted by the curt tone. He too was nervous. But he decided Lady Satine would
have come to them directly if anything dire had happened to Charlie…or Edward. Tyvain, at the very
least, would have screamed the bloody village down if the news were terrible. She didn’t like to
show it, but she too had a fondness for the lad.
The double doors swung wide, though no butler was evident behind them. They entered into a
surprisingly plain foyer. Silas had been expecting far more elaborate trims and intricate tiling than the
contrasting black and white upon the floor and the bare, dull brown walls.
‘Down here, gentlemen. Quickly if you don’t mind.’
Lady Satine’s voice came from a ways down the hallway. The passageway had no floor runners,
and the pine floor was in need of a restain, with patches of the teak colouring worn away in places. A
paltry number of gaslights, flickering behind rather dirty panes of glass, lit the way. There was a
sense of emptiness to the place. Silas glanced back to make sure he’d not drawn too far ahead.
‘I’m coming,’ the daemon grumbled.
‘Move along, will ya?’
Tyvain’s voice guided Silas into a room that was again startling for how plain it was. The parlour
was quite bright with natural light and the air not so stale as in the hall, but there was little in the way
of furniture, or at least furniture that was being used. There were a great many items hidden under
white sheets; a large shape Silas suspected was a piano rested over towards a set of lovely French
windows that were as in need of a clean as the sconces; a hulking sheet-draped form against the back
wall was a buffet perhaps; and towards the centre of the room, a lumpy muddle was likely a set of
chairs and a small table.
There were no paintings here either, and no fire in the hearth, but the room was pleasantly
temperate.
Silas took two steps into the room and was rocked back on his feet by the heavy scent of the sea,
of salt and brine and ocean life. A melody played, the whistling notes of the wind as it punished the
waves into a frothy frenzy.
Silas’s focus was drawn to the Lady Satine, the music taking him there. She lounged upon a chaise
at the centre of the room. The sudden smack of ocean scents faded, but her melody rose. Great and
tremendous as a tsunami, her tune was astonishingly loud, a grand orchestra of notes, soaring,
magnificent for the most part, with an undercurrent of whimsy and delicacy but plagued with irksome
off-notes that pained him to hear.
Djinn. Shifter…
There was more, he knew, but the melody lost its way. Silas frowned. The tune of the other djinn
he’d met had been clean, precise. Untroubled. Not so here. The very notes themselves seemed
uncertain of how to play.
Leviathan.
The high squeal of a violin at its limit, stretching on, breaking. Silas winced, touching at his ear.
‘Something wrong, Silas?’ Pitch’s voice sliced through the unpleasant tune, cutting it free.
Bringing blessed silence.
‘No, no. I’m fine.’
‘Afternoon, gentlemen.’ Lady Satine wore the same physical guise as when Silas had seen her
with Lucifer: rich brown skin, unmissable violet eyes, and a shock of curly white-grey hair. Her
gown, the sepia of a river after heavy rain, spilled around her. She lay along the length of the chaise,
her bare toes peeking from beneath the gown’s folds.
‘Afternoon.’ Silas greeted her with a dry throat, feeling strangely unsteady. He tugged at his
earlobe, still hearing the echo of the Lady’s enormous song. He knew her to be djinn, but what else
did it take to be Lady of the Lake?
Silas found a welcome reprieve when regarding Tyvain. There had been talk once of her having a
minute amount of djinn blood, but evidently it was so small as not to trigger Silas’s newfound
detection. He’d keep that to himself, he decided. The soothsayer would not take the news well that he
heard nothing at all with her.
‘Took ya time. Not so speedy on ya feet these days, are ya, daemon?’
 Tyvain’s auburn hair was pinned back in a severe style that lifted at the edges of her eyes. She
was clad in a prim and proper gown of sensible navy blue, with a high neck and a row of pearl
buttons that ran all the way down to her waist, complete with delicate lace gloves. Never had an
outfit suited a person less.
‘Oh, I am really not in the mood for you, hag.’ Pitch had barely made it into the room, but now
looked set to turn about and leave right away.
Silas stepped in, blocking his exit. ‘Don’t pay her any mind, Pitch,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sure she
is just placing her worries for Charlie on you.’ He prayed, to no one in particular, that it was worry
and nothing worse than that. ‘Come now.’ He spotted the only other uncovered chair in the room, a
wide armchair of a well-worn leather that had faded in some places and cracked in others. ‘Take a
seat.’
He touched a light hand to Pitch’s elbow, fully expecting a slap in return, but the daemon allowed
himself to be guided. Silas quickly turned the chair about so that it was facing the chaise instead of the
barren hearth and the soothsayer with her oddly unreadable expression. A tightness held Silas’s ribs.
Let this be good news and not bad.
‘Well, we are here. What’s this summons for, then?’ Pitch said.
If Silas was not mistaken, the daemon made a small grunt of discomfort as he lowered himself
into the seat.
‘You seem much better, Tobias.’ Lady Satine toyed with one of the tight spirals of her peppered
hair.
‘I’m as well as I’ll be, I suspect. Now can we get on with things? What do you have to say to us,
Satty?’
‘It is not me but Tyvain who shall do the speaking.’
Pitch glared at the soothsayer. ‘Get on with it, then.’
‘Did ya know there is such a word as please? Ya little shit.’ Tyvain waved a lace-gloved hand at
the prince. Silas wondered if she knew exactly who it was she was treating with such disdain. He
highly doubted it. No one would be that reckless with their safety.
‘Did you find them, Tyvain?’ Silas hoped he did not sound as desperate as he felt. ‘Is Charlie all
right? The lieutenant?’
‘Nah. That’s the thing, ya see.’ Tyvain’s gaze fell to her hands, where she rubbed at the too-
delicate seams of her gloves. ‘Last I ’eard from Charlie, ’e was thinkin’ of strikin’ up a conversation
with Charters at some pub near Berkeley Square. Now I can’t find the lad, and it’s like Edward
Charters vanished plain off the face of the map. Friends don’t know nothin’ of note, save for ’im being
unwell, which no one seems surprised about.’
 ‘Berkeley Square?’ Pitch said. ‘That’s near his residence. I’m presuming your superlative
detective skills involved knocking on his door?’
‘Of course.’ The soothsayer scowled. ‘I tried to get in ta see ’is mother. It’s just ’er and some
sour-faced butler livin’ there. But I couldn’t get a foot past that old bastard, Thomas. Made the
mistake of sayin’ I was from the Order. Thought they might be ’ankerin’ for a seance like the rest of
society is. That went down like a feckin’ charm full of shite. Might as well ’ave said I was a whore
come lookin’ for me payment. Thought about mentionin’ you, Astaroth.’ She jerked a thumb towards
Pitch. ‘But that didn’t seem like a grand idea. Just thinkin’ about it ’ad me bloatin’ up like I’d eaten a
rotten egg. Then I realised why that was. You and the lieutenant was flirtin’ all season. Had London
society buzzin’ and puttin’ bets on ’ow soon it would be before you got your dick in Mr Charters’s
arse.’
‘Good god,’ Silas coughed. ‘Tyvain –’
‘All’s I’m sayin’ is there’s ’istory between ’em. The sort the lieutenant’s ma wouldn’t like ’earin’.
Nor that fella Thomas neither.’
Silas studied his hands, trying very hard to keep the image of Edward and Pitch at the Moon Inn
from his mind.
‘Probably the most sensible thing you’ve done in years, hag, not mentioning me, I mean.’ Pitch
crossed his legs, smoothing at his thigh. ‘Thomas is not overly fond of me since he copped an eyeful
of Edward and I in the study, with my tongue between his master’s arse cheeks. But I say that will
teach the old cunt not to spy on others.’
Lady Satine’s chuckle was throaty, while Tyvain’s disdain mingled with amusement, but Silas had
heard more than enough.
He folded his arms and paced away from the daemon, scowling. ‘As delightful as this trip down
memory lane is, I fear the point of this conversation is far less amusing. Tyvain, what your gut is
telling you, in summary, is that you don’t believe Edward is at home convalescing, and you still have
no idea where Charlie is?’
Pitch was watching him. Silas felt the graze of emerald upon him, but he could not look at the
daemon. He feared if he did so, Pitch might see how talk of his dalliances with Edward had stung.
And such petty jealousies were embarrassing and ill-timed.
‘That’s what I’m sayin’.’ Tyvain sighed. ‘I tried a few other of me own contacts. A scullery maid
in Baron Faversham’s place, who I thought might ’ave ’eard some whispers. But I got nothin’. With
winter ’ere, some are sayin’ ’e’s likely gone to the Continent. Others said ’e’s run off with a new
paramour so as to get away from ’is mother, who ’e don’t much like. But a week ago ’e was out and
about. Not lookin’ fit as a fiddle mind. Word is ’e’s been moping about for a while, but ’e was still
keepin’ in touch with ’is circle of friends often enough. Until suddenly ’e ain’t, and I ain’t got no
carrier pigeon comin’ back to me from Charlie. We need to get into that ’ouse to ’ave a proper look
around, I say.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe the lad got ’imself locked in a cellar or somethin’ pokin’
about…and all this worry is for nothin’.’
‘There’d be no need for worry at all if you had not sent him on such a dangerous errand.’ Silas’s
anger warmed him.
‘Weren’t meant to be dangerous, in me defence,’ Tyvain returned. ‘Besides, the lad’s capable of
undertakin’ a dangerous errand, Mercer. ’E was by ’imself on the roads a long while before you met
up in those woods.’
‘But he should be safer now,’ Silas said markedly. ‘I asked you and Old Bess to keep him close.
To keep him safe.’
Tyvain had the decency not to protest. ‘Yeah…I know ya did. I don’t feel good about this, all
right? I’m so sick to me gut, I don’t know what is worry and what is a bloody sign.’
‘You and your gut can stand down, hag. Silas?’ Pitch waited until Silas turned around to look at
him. ‘We will find them. I promise you that.’ Silas gave him a grateful nod. ‘We need to do more than
sneak around their house, though. Just because Edward’s not to be seen here in London doesn’t mean
he’s disappeared. Mr Charters’s family has houses all over the country, and all have cellars perfect
for a lad to get locked in while he’s sneaking around. Now it is true that Mr Charters has been unwell
for some time.’ Pitch’s resolute manner faltered. ‘He’s prone to a dark mood. It’s likely he has just
spirited himself off to one of the country houses, or is indeed on the Continent.’
‘And not a one of his friends knows about it?’ Silas remained uncertain.
Pitch did not look convinced of his own theory. ‘Perhaps?’ he said. ‘Maybe he wished to be
alone. What we need to do is speak with Edward’s mother.’
‘Well she ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to nobody.’ Tyvain scratched at her neck, dragging down the high
collar to reach the spot.
‘Nobody like you.’ The daemon ran his finger along one of the cracks in the leather seat, his brow
furrowed.
‘What are you thinking, Tobias?’ These were the first words Lady Satine had uttered in some time.
‘What day is it?’ Pitch asked. ‘Tell me it’s not Tuesday.’
‘It’s not Tuesday,’ Lady Satine replied. ‘It is Sunday evening.’
Pitch’s smile was a pretty swing of full lips. ‘Marvellous. I seem to recall that Mrs Charters was
partial to a soirée on a Tuesday night. She has an insatiable appetite for baccarat. It is invitation
only.’
Tyvain snorted. ‘Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, but Tobias Astaroth ain’t got no chance of
gettin’ an invite to that place.’ The soothsayer cracked her knuckles, ruining the veneer of refinement
her stiff clothing gave her.
‘Of course.’ Pitch was smug. ‘But the woman that Mr Charters was courting briefly this summer
will be welcomed with open arms.’
Lady Satine sat up, her skirts bunched about her, one sleeve slipping from her shoulder. Her hair
was mussed at the back by the cushions. For someone Silas suspected was altogether far more
powerful than he imagined, she looked a right mess. ‘What are you up to, Tobias?’
Pitch shrugged. ‘Mr Charters and I were very near to being affianced at the beginning of summer.’
That gave Silas cause to stop his pacing. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Pitch laughed, no doubt relishing the confusion in the room. ‘Mrs Charters is very aware that
Edward has always had a preference for a pretty boy and is not so fond of a skirt. It causes her no end
of grief, what with the need for heirs and all that, but it made for lovely sport for a while there. For a
short time, I became Miss Margaret Cargill, just to mess with her sensibilities. A lovely American
visitor to British shores for the summer, and a member of an astonishingly rich family. An heiress, no
less. And one who thought Edward a dream. Mrs Charters nearly blew her wig off when he first
introduced me. A rich and suitable child-bearer.’ His gaze slid to Silas. The ankou did his level best
to keep his expression smooth. ‘It was a way to amuse myself, pass the time. They were all falling
over themselves to impress me, which brought me no end of pleasure, and Edward was free to
indulge his predilection for a cock whilst I could wear corsets to my heart’s content. It didn’t work
out for us, of course. I got bored with being gawked at like a prize bird in a cage. So I returned Miss
Cargill to American shores, just a few weeks after the affair began.’
‘I do recall that phase of yours.’ Lady Satine’s laugh was brittle. ‘You had my seamstress thinking
I’d gone mad for corsets, the tighter the better, and preferably near to works of art.’ She cupped her
hands beneath her breasts and wriggled them about in a manner that had Silas glancing away. ‘But it
has always astonished me why you prefer to wear these confounded things. I truly don’t know what I
was thinking when I made this form. It’s an inconvenient sex at times.’
‘Well, you are not so prone to coming apart as I am,’ Pitch said. ‘You’d understand then why I
adore a decent lacing up.’
Silas glanced at him, hearing the dry, tangled note of self-loathing in the words. He tried to catch
Pitch’s eye, but the daemon would not look at him.
‘So you reckon this Cargill woman can get an invite to this party, then?’ Tyvain said.
‘Certainly,’ Pitch said smoothly. ‘We should request one immediately, advise her that I’m in town
and would like to attend. If he is just ill, Mrs Charters will soon have Edward on his feet if she thinks
he’s in with another chance to turn his seed into an heir.’
 Silas looked to the Lady Satine, hoping he’d see her shaking her head and casting out the idea as
foolish. But instead she pursed her bottom lip and nodded slowly.
‘Come now,’ Silas said. ‘It’s all very well to put on a dress and some rouge to deceive the
purebreds, but do we not have greater things to concern us? The Morrigan for one. Should we not be
worried about Pitch’s natural state being noticed?’
The natural state Silas’s new musicality had apparently not noticed enough to declare.
‘We can deal with that,’ Lady Satine replied. ‘There is an elixir I’ve concocted, capable of
concealing a natural’s aura, though the results do vary. For me it was a day, perhaps a day and a half,
but it worked much better for Sybilla when she tried it. Four days I think she was concealed. Trouble
is it loses efficacy with each use until it does not work at all. I’ve not found the time or inclination to
fix that.’
‘Lucky Cinderella only needs to go to one ball, then,’ Tyvain declared.
‘I’ll take anything, so long as it doesn’t make me throw up.’ Pitch rubbed at his chest. ‘I’ve had far
too much of that of late.’
The Lady shook her head. ‘Nothing like that. But I do have concerns about how effective it will be
for one of your…shall we say, unique calibre?’
‘Oh by the feckin’ saints.’ Tyvain scratched at her armpit. The dress did not agree with her at all.
‘’E’s vain enough as it is. Don’t give ’im any more reason to feckin’ prance about like one of them
princes from the House of Windsor.’
Silas studied his nails very closely. At least he knew for certain Tyvain had no clue who Pitch
truly was. He doubted even the bold and very brassy soothsayer would be so boorish if she knew the
truth.
She also did not know when to shut up. Tyvain jerked her head at Pitch. ‘I can’t see those auras
you lot talk about, but I’ve ’eard yours looks like a shit stain.’
‘That’s enough, Tyvain.’ Lady Satine got to her feet, stretching her arms overhead. ‘You are hardly
in a position to cast aspersions. If you’d told someone, anyone at all, about your premonition
regarding Mr Charters, we’d not need this meeting to begin with.’
‘Figured I’d find ’im first, see if ’e was actually important later.’ Tyvain sulked into her chair.
‘Didn’t seem ta make sense ’e was truly worth a damn, so I assumed me signs were all fecked up as
usual. Thought I’d save ya all lookin’ at me like I’m shit on a wheel like you usually do when I tell ya
me guts are swirlin’.’
‘Because it’s normally the beans you ate the night before and nothing more,’ the Lady said. ‘You
must admit, your strike-to-win ratio is rather high for the strike. I do sometimes wonder if you are
truly your mother’s daughter. But at least there is a plan now. We shall see where this leads.’
 ‘And where do I figure in this plan?’ Silas demanded. ‘I am going with him, surely?’
‘No.’ Lady Satine and Pitch were in unison.
‘You stand out a feckin’ mile, you daft cock.’ Tyvain lifted her chin to fiddle with the tiny pearl
button right up under her chin. ‘You could ’ide your aura all you like, and chances are they’d still
know the giant from the Order ’ad arrived.’
Silas despised her choice of words. ‘My lady, you yourself said he’s likely become even more of
a target after…’ He faltered, glancing at Pitch, who was far too interested in the rich purple velvet of
his sleeve. ‘Well, you are a master of disguise, are you not? Perhaps you should go?’
‘I’m quite busy on Tuesday nights, and I do recall just telling you that the elixir no longer works
on me,’ Lady Satine said smoothly. ‘We’ll hire a purebred driver and carriage, but Isaac shall travel
with him. There will be eyes in every fire in every hearth in the house –’
‘Would that not be noticeable…’ Silas said, ‘to those who know how to look?’
The Lady shook her head. ‘Highly unlikely. The elementals are changeable and unpredictable, like
the elements they command. Trying to catch a glimpse of Isaac in a flicker of flame would be like
trying to make out the patterns on a hummingbird’s wings as it flaps them.’
‘Unlikely is not impossible. I don’t like this plan at all.’ Silas balled his fists. ‘I should go too. I
can wait in the carriage –’
‘You are not going, Silas.’ Lady Satine fixed him with a glare, and he shrank from his own protest
like she’d doused him with cold water.
‘If you are as dreadful at cards as you are at billiards, my dear Silas,’ Pitch said, ‘then it is better
for the Order’s coffers that you stay away.’
Silas was in too much of a mood to even dignify that with a response.
‘Now we should start thinking about what Tobias will wear,’ Lady Satine declared. ‘I must deal
with your eyes as well. They can’t stay that shade. We’ll have you take the elixir early so as to ensure
it is working. Be warned, it’s cold as ice and not very pleasant in the ear canal.’
Silas had been summarily dismissed. Like he was nothing more than a servant whose services
were no longer required. He had no wish to be here a moment longer than need be. He turned and
headed for the door, well aware that all eyes had shifted to him the moment he moved.
‘Mr Mercer?’ Lady Satine called. ‘Is everything all right? We’ll be serving dinner in a short
while.’
‘Thank you but I’m not very hungry.’ He strode out of the room and made his way back towards
the front door.
A sublime sound, a chorus in perfect unison, bloomed in his head. An ethereal tune that spoke of
strength and fortitude, and a world of things beyond his understanding.
 Angel. Valkyrie.
Sybilla entered, flicking the hood of her cloak from her head. Her short, tight stark-white curls
seemed to glow in the gaslight. ‘Silas, it’s good to see you in one piece.’
His mood lifted to see the familiar face. ‘A pleasure to be in one. I didn’t realise you were
around.’
Now he knew the angels at least, were not beyond his detection. Only the daemons apparently.
‘I wasn’t.’ Sybilla discarded her cloak. She tossed it towards the wall beneath the stairs. A panel
in the wood swung open revealing a cavity with a neat line of hooks. The cloak flew of its own
accord to settle upon the one nearest the door. ‘I’ve just returned from up Shrewsbury way. Gods,
what I won’t do for a decent bath right now.’
She flicked her fingers, and the panel closed. Silas had never really stopped to wonder if the
Valkyrie held any divine magick of her own. But of course she did. Pitch had said it was the gift of all
angels. With only a select few, like Samyaza and Azazel, powerful enough to cultivate that magick in
unique ways.
‘And did you have any luck finding the tosher on your travels?’ Silas was uncomfortable with
remembering why Sybilla had set off to begin with. He had learned about the tosher in Shrewsbury
paying good money for fresh dead through some rather unfortunate means. Silas had flown into a rage
when he’d discovered a gravedigger in Bishop’s Castle digging up corpses, and the poor man had
parted with the details in fear of his life. It was not Silas’s proudest moment.
‘I found our tosher, yes.’ Sybilla nodded, though did not look too pleased. ‘It was Old Bill
Toggins. They dragged him out of a well about three days before I got there. He’d been buried not a
day before I arrived.’ She sighed. ‘Locals weren’t saying much, too bloody scared, I’d wager. But I
shared a few wines with a very chatty night flower one evening, and she’d been on her back for Old
Bill a couple of times since he came into the money. He’d told her someone at Birmingham Medical
School was paying the coin for corpses. Had a name too, but when I followed it up, no one had heard
of the man. The secretary was most put out when she understood what I was investigating, and said
I’d be better off sticking my nose in over Oxford or Cambridge way. Seemed to think there had been
talk of coin being paid for body snatching for years at those universities.’
Silas lifted his shoulders, trying to shrug off the sickening feeling that came with hearing of the
desecration of graves. ‘And did you find anything?’
‘I headed straight for London when I heard what had happened to you and Tobias.’ She touched
his arm. ‘I am sorry I was not closer by, Silas. I hear you have endured a terrible time of it. You and
Tobias both. Are you all right?’
‘It’s not pleasant to know that others wish you well and truly dead. And Pitch…what they did…’
He pressed his lips, taking a moment to stifle the rage that came with thinking of it. It was not his tale
to tell. ‘We survived, but it was awful. And I’ve gained a few extra worries certainly…’
‘Here stands one of those worries, I’m afraid.’
Silas started. He’d not heard Pitch come up the hall behind him. The daemon leaned against the
wall just a few paces away, arms folded, head tilted so that his hair fell in fetching gold-tinged waves
across his cheek.
‘Well that is hardly a surprise.’ Sybilla’s smile was genuine. She pulled off her gloves, finger by
finger. ‘I suspect you rather enjoy troubling our fair ankou, don’t you, Tobias?’
‘It is not so amusing as I expected,’ Pitch said quietly. ‘Will you come and have dinner, Silas?
Your rumbling stomach will keep me awake all night otherwise.’
Silas felt Sybilla’s gaze shift between them, making assumptions. But she’d be wrong. They
weren’t sharing a bed, not even the same floor of the cottage when it came to sleeping arrangements.
There was Pitch’s illness of course, but Silas was also waiting for sign from the daemon he was
ready for such intimacy once more. Now the prince’s suggestive comment had him awash with hope.
He stood, rather pathetically transfixed by the jade-touched gaze that was levelled at him.
‘The soup perhaps,’ he said.
‘Excellent.’ Pitch sidled up and, after a very brief hesitation, looped his arm through Silas’s,
hooking him in close. ‘Will you take me to dinner?’
‘Just be sure you can afford to pay that bill, Silas.’ Sybilla winked at him, pushing past to make
her way down the corridor. Her leather trousers creaked as she walked.
‘No need to make such theatre of it,’ Silas mumbled. ‘It’s just a meal.’
Pitch patted his arm. ‘And Tuesday is just a soirée, where my talent for the theatrical will be most
useful. I shall be beautiful, and tongues will be loosened, and I will learn the whereabouts of our
missing pair. Then I shall bore you senseless with all the gossip when I return. Be prepared to be
woken in the early hours and made to listen to all the scandals.’
Silas chuckled. Damn, it was infuriating how often this creature made him laugh when he should
be scowling. ‘So long as you bring good news, I dare say I would even listen to you sing.’
‘In that case, my sweet Silas, I’ll find your little friend if it is the very last thing I do.’
 CHAPTER FOUR

PITCH ADMIRED the view in the floor-length mirror, turning this way and that to take in the flow
of taffeta he wore. A row of diamante buttons ran up the front of his bodice, where a lace-ruffled
collar sat high, concealing the bump at his throat. Raven-black ringlets bobbed against the tops of his
shoulders, and subtle amber eyes stared back at him. His usual viridian was hidden, courtesy of some
stinging eye drops Satty had produced along with her foul-smelling aura-concealing elixir.
The cloud-grey taffeta swished about him, and the diamond-and-sapphire earrings clipped to his
ears dangled and swayed, their facets catching the light. His corseted waist was narrowed down to a
curve that bordered on insensible. Jane had used all her considerable strength to pull in the laces, and
Pitch’s ribs, nearly to the breaking point. Breathing was definitely an issue. He’d have to keep his
inhales short and sweet, but not too quick or he’d be liable to faint. He refused to allow Jane to
loosen the lacing. He did not tell her of the contentment that came with being strapped up to within an
inch of his life. She would not understand what it was to feel so secure, held tight, and less fearful of
breaking apart as mad inner turmoil sought release.
She added a dash more colour to his lips before she stepped back to set away the assortment of
toiletries she held, her own azure gown spreading like a pond around her. ‘Right, you are done. A
little perfume, and your gloves.’ She indicated the lengths of white satin that were draped over the
edge of the vanity as she dabbed her finger over the top of an open bottle of Fleurs de Bulgarie. ‘By
Royal Appointment. If it’s good enough for the Queen, it’s good enough for you, I say.’
Jane pressed her damp fingertip behind Pitch’s ears and under his chin. He offered up his wrists,
barely accessible due to the tightness of the fabric. The sleeves were full length and tight all the way
up to mid upper arm, where they exploded into a superb bulge of taffeta. He couldn’t deny it; the
dress Jane had chosen was perfection. And he a work of art beneath it. He rubbed at his left ear, his
hearing still a bit muffled after the Lady had put the drops of elixir in an hour or so ago. The
immediate effect had been total deafness for that eardrum, which was unpleasant but bearable when
Satty had declared the elixir a success. He could not see it himself. A natural could not see their own
hue, but he was assured there was not a trace of his supposedly rain-washed and twisted aura about
him. Satty likened the elixir to bottled camouflage. The djinn were creatures born of the animalistic
power of nature, and nowhere else but in the wild were there more splendid displays of camouflage
to be seen: from the chameleon to the mountain hare changing its colours for the winter.
‘Careful though,’ she’d warned as he shook his head, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable sense of
movement in his ear canal as the elixir filled it. ‘The eye tint will hold till tomorrow at least, but I’m
not confident about the elixir for you. I think it best you are back as soon as possible. By midnight if
you can.’
Pitch smoothed his skirts, finding it hard to look away from the sultry raven-haired beauty that
stared back at him in the mirror.
‘Gods, you are vanity on legs, aren’t you?’ Jane said.
‘Well, look at me.’ Pitch gestured to the vision. ‘Tell me that is not a beautiful example of
humanity.’
Jane rolled her eyes, but she nodded. ‘You do look quite fetching, I can’t deny it. But I know what
lies beneath, and I have no interest in going there again, I’m afraid.’
‘Nor do I, my dear elemental.’ Pitch adjusted the lace that spilled over the edge of the high collar.
‘I’m rather partial to balls presently.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
Jane laughed, not in the least bit insulted, and he liked her all the more for it. He’d never say so,
but she was not terrible company to be around. Silas certainly enjoyed her presence. A weight
seemed to lift from the ankou when she was around, and that smile on his face when Jane had first
come to the cottage on their return? Pure joy. Not irritating to see, in the least.
Not at all.
Jane fussed about in one of the many drawers in her bureau, searching for something. She loosed a
little cry as she withdrew a tiny bottle. The glass was the colour of amber with a neat silver stopper.
‘I was looking for another pin for your hair, but you might like this even more. Rose oil. In case you
and Silas have run your supply dry.’ Her grin was wry, but Pitch’s own smile struggled to stay aloft.
Gods, Jane would choke on disbelief to know that he, a veritable whore when he so chose, was
sleeping alone. And by choice. Silas had kept a subtle distance, undemanding of any repeat of their
intimacy in the carriage, asking nothing from a pathetically fragile prince. Pitch had woken several
times now in a sheer panic, mistaking his tangled sheets for an Alp daemon and the ceiling rose for
magickal runes. His cries would bring Silas at a run, the ankou taking long, patient minutes to
convince Pitch that he was not being held down and controlled. That he was safe and would not be
forced where he did not wish to go.
The nightmares that used to hold visions of Seraphiel were now full of horns and knives and
pinned-down fear.
Pitch continued working the gloves on. ‘The oil might prove a boon this evening, should I need to
go to greater lengths to get the information I need.’
Let the illusion hold. Let them all think he was just as he’d been before Gidleigh House. He’d not
told Lady Satine of the full extent of the Alp’s assault, and did not intend to change that. Silas alone
held the secret with him, and so long as the ankou never dared look on him with pity, Pitch could bear
it.
Jane gave him a puzzled look. ‘Oh. I thought…never mind. Here you are, then.’
While Pitch finished pulling on the second glove, Jane tucked the rose oil into a cleverly sewn
pocket that was hidden among the folds of the smoke-grey skirt.
‘I’ve not seen Silas around,’ Pitch said, casual and careless. The silly dolt had been in a temper
ever since he’d learned he was not allowed to attend the soirée. ‘Is he off picking me a corsage?’
Considering it had been dark for several hours, it seemed unlikely, even for the garden-obsessed
ankou, to be out. When he’d told Silas he was off to Jane’s for the dressing, the oaf had waved him off
with an absent farewell and wished him a successful evening before picking up his book and burying
his nose in the pages. When Pitch had pointed out the fact that Silas could not read, he’d blustered
about there only being one way to learn and that was by doing. Pitch was not sure that was how
learning to read worked. But he’d been gifted with the aptitude for it when he’d created his human
form, so who was he to say?
Jane glanced up at him as she tidied up her dresser. ‘I believe he went to the Lodge with Phillipa
to see what the ghost thought of his ideas to refit Lady Howard’s carriage. He’s quite keen to use it, I
understand.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Pitch interlaced his satin-covered fingers. It hardly mattered that the ankou wasn’t
going to see him off. But really, could he not have spared a minute for a goodbye? Offered up a good
luck kiss or something menial like that?
‘We are done here, are we not?’ Pitch pressed his palms into the severe curve of his waist. The
room was overly warm. The least the air elemental could have done was stir a cool breeze.
‘You’re ready, yes.’
Pitch followed after the elemental as she breezed, quite actually, from the room. Her azure gown
showed off the stunning contrast of her warm brown skin against a white lace trim.
Pitch’s shoes were sensible. Jane had given him a pair of lace-up boots in soft black leather, but
even wearing those, it was a task to move down the stairs after her, his hip stiff and unhelpful.
They were almost at the foyer when the door swung open. The one dismal candle that Jane had lit
– the elemental refused gaslight, gods knew why – fluttered and barely managed to stay alive.
 ‘’E gone yet?’ Tyvain caught sight of Pitch and gaped like she’d just seen one of Silas’s lost souls.
‘Jesus feckin’ wept. You look…you look…’ The soothsayer, for once in her life, was lost for words.
‘Stunning, beautiful, gorgeous,’ Pitch added helpfully.
‘All of ’em, but ya know it. Get on, will ya? We’ve wasted enough time as it is. Isaac is across
the street waitin’ for ya.’
Tyvain led the way, out through the main gate to where a purebred driver waited with a dark bay
and black brougham. The fellow would remember nothing of where he had picked up his passenger
nor where he delivered them at the end of the evening. He didn’t even look at the vision of loveliness
alighting his carriage now. Pitch squeezed himself through the narrow doorway, muttering about the
rudeness.
Isaac was seated with his back to the driver, in all his surly glory, more so because he’d been
made to wear a suit of charcoal grey rather than his layers of nondescript black. The whites of his
eyes seemed to blaze against the darkness of his skin in the dimness of the cabin. His aura, usually a
trim of clementine, was gone. He ran his gaze up and down Pitch’s made-up length and, without a
word of greeting, turned to stare out the window.
‘Hello to you too, Isaac,’ Pitch said, sweet as can be. He was fairly certain he heard the unhappy
elemental growl.
‘Carry on, driver,’ Isaac called, and they were underway.
 CHAPTER FIVE

JUST ON twenty minutes later, Pitch walked up the front steps of the Charters’ residence, a grand
and well-situated house just off Berkeley Square in Mayfair. All the gaslights were blazing. Mrs
Charters had been most proud, according to Edward, at having them installed and was likely to be the
reason why British Gas would run dry before the end of the decade. A piano was being played
somewhere indoors, and the heat from the interior ran up against the evening chill like a bull squaring
off against a matador.
There, just inside the foyer, stiff and proper and with a portlier belly than Pitch recalled, stood the
butler, Thomas.
Pitch smiled his most alluring smile, the one that teased just a glimpse of teeth between blossom-
pink lips. The butler regarded the new arrival, his gaze delivered down the length of his rather
bulbous nose. Pitch could see no hint of recognition.
‘Hello, dear Thomas. It has been some time.’ Pitch’s voice was soft and feminine, edged with an
American twang. He added some breathlessness to the mix. ‘You may not remember me.’
He saw the moment recognition dawned, a subtle tug at the butler’s eyelids, the merest hint of a
twitch of his lip that might be a smile.
‘Miss Cargill. How wonderful to see you again.’ Thomas stood aside to allow him entry. ‘Have
you been long back in London?’
‘Not at all. We came off the boat only a few days ago. I was so excited to learn that these
wonderful evenings were still occurring. I simply had to fit it into my schedule.’
‘Mrs Charters will be very pleased to see you,’ Thomas said. ‘You are here alone?’
There was a whisper of disapproval there, whether due to the lack of chaperone or husband, Pitch
was unsure, but he was no virginal young thing that required escorting. No doubt there would be much
gossip about the American’s unmarried state, at such a ripe old age. Pitch didn’t look a day over
twenty-five, but he’d be marked for spinsterhood.
‘I wonder, Miss Cargill, are you aware that Lieutenant Charters shall not be in attendance this
evening?’
 Pitch pouted his disappointment. ‘Tell me that isn’t so, Thomas. It has been so long since I’ve
seen him, though we do write on occasion. I hope he is not unwell again? I do know he struggles with
his health.’ It took focus to keep his words smooth.
Thomas cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid, ma’am, that the colder weather does not agree with him.
He decided a sojourn to the Continent was in order.’ The butler was many things, but a decent liar
was not one of them. He shifted back and forth on feet normally stuck fast to the tiles.
Pitch fluttered his fingers against his chest, where bandages and folded rags beneath the taffeta
gave the impression of breasts. ‘How wonderful for him. Spain? Italy perhaps? What wonders the
waters of the Mediterranean can do.’
‘I’m not sure it is for me to say. Perhaps Mrs Charters will see fit to tell you where he is
convalescing.’
Pitch would wager every one of the jewels that dripped from his ears that the butler knew exactly
where Edward was. Thomas had been with the family a very long time. Since Edward was a boy.
This dreary, stern man was as close to a father as the lieutenant managed. And what a pity that was,
for Edward deserved far better.
‘Of course, I’m so looking forward to seeing her.’ Pitch tilted his head in a way he knew to be
beguiling. His smile was demure and oh-so ladylike, and Thomas beamed beneath it.
He was a crotchety old bastard but no less a man. And men weren’t so hard to manipulate, even
without incubus charms. Especially those men keen to see their master produce offspring and thereby
ensure continuing employment. The butler knew firsthand where Edward’s preferences lay, of course.
As most certainly Mrs Charters did. But so long as Edward brought home something with tits that
could suckle, it hardly mattered whether they were a mousy schoolteacher or a sparkling heiress.
Pitch’s smile threatened to slip, but he was well-versed in keeping up appearances.
‘Enjoy your evening, madam.’
‘Oh, I do intend to.’
Thomas nodded and swept his hand towards the foyer, giving Pitch a sharp nod and moving away
to tend to the next carriage as it arrived.
Pitch glanced at himself in the grand gilded mirror that dominated the foyer, making a few
adjustments to ensure his breasts were set as they should be and that the ringlets framed his face in the
most fetching way before he headed on.
The foyer itself was a wide, echoing affair of pristine white tiles which surrounded a central inlay
of indigo and cream and black, a natural motif of flowers that Silas would have stopped short at
seeing, no doubt.
Pitch tugged at his earring, chasing away thoughts of the ankou, focusing on the task at hand.
 He exchanged names and niceties with the Honourable Ronald Piggleton, once likely a handsome
man but now taxed by age’s fine scribbles. He introduced his auburn-haired wife, Mrs Piggleton,
whose smile was locked to her lips. She appeared ready to burst out laughing at the slightest
humorous moment. The pair were energetic in the way of those who had indulged in a glass or two of
Vin Mariani, with its heaped spoonfuls of cure-all cocaine. Pitch had gone a long while without a
touch of snow on his gums or up his nose. Tonight may well be the night for it. Why the blazes not? He
could not shake the disquiet that came with thinking about finding Edward. The sense of finality he
felt when he did so.
There would be a change, he was sure. An end to the life he had here, for what that life was
worth. A pity. He’d just begun to enjoy some parts of being a Horseman. One in particular took his
fancy, but he’d not even bothered to wave him off at the gates. Pitch pushed aside his annoyance and
swept into the hub of the evening’s activities in the drawing room.
The room was clad in wallpaper of cloying shades of orange and blue, an eyesore Pitch had
always abhorred. Usually the room was overstuffed with couches and armchairs of all designs, but
most of them had been removed to accommodate for an assortment of card tables, two large, round
mahogany tables at the centre, with seating for six at each, with smaller setups at the perimeter of the
room, nestled in between display cabinets that held all manner of items: everything from dried flower
arrangements beneath glass domes, to delicate sculptures of ballerinas and shepherdesses with their
crooks. Mrs Charters thought herself a collector. Pitch had always thought her more of a hoarder who
had no idea of what a pain it must be for the household staff to keep dust away from all her
knickknacks.
All the seats at the tables were full, players deep into their glasses and hands. They sat beneath
hanging paraffin lamps on pulleys, lowered so that the light was most concentrated on their cards.
From the next room, a smaller sitting room if he recalled, came the vigorous thumps of piano keys,
someone singing along rather loudly with the music. The louder the better for Mrs Charters, who
tended to drown her sorrows in parties and idle chitchat. The wealthy widow did not enjoy focusing
too much time on her woes, which included her son. Edward was a disappointment to her. He was not
robust like his father, capable of making a valet quiver as he bellowed unhappiness about the creases
on his trousers. Edward’s father had been a bit of an arsehole by all accounts but was dead by the
time his son was ten. It was Edward’s mother who had pushed him towards the military, an attempt to
toughen him up, apparently. Gods knew how soft he must have been before, for Edward was still, in
Pitch’s mind, like butter sat too close to the stove.
A footman offered a tray of bubbling glasses, and Pitch took one readily, gulping down half the
contents before he remembered he was in a skirt and such greediness would see him judged badly.
The Honourable Ronald’s gaze undressed him as Mrs Piggleton asked as to how Margaret knew
Edward.
‘Mr Charters and I spent time together in the summer,’ Pitch explained. ‘Rather a lot.’
‘Lucky bloody chap.’ Ronald might as well have dribbled. Mrs Piggleton giggled, eyeing her man
in such a way that it was clear she rather enjoyed seeing him hot and bothered over another woman.
‘I’m terribly disappointed he’s not here this evening.’ Pitch took another sip. Gods, he’d missed
champagne. The very different warmth it put in his belly, how quickly his head buzzed with it. ‘I’ve
heard he’s on the Continent?’
‘Is he just?’ Ronald disappointed Pitch with his reply. ‘Well, I dare say he’ll be kicking himself to
learn he missed seeing you.’
‘You are lovely.’ Mrs Piggleton’s lips seemed to be fighting her control, wiggling about. ‘What
part of America did you say you were from?’
‘Oh, I call many parts home. Would you excuse me?’
The couple’s shoulders sagged almost in unison.
‘Perhaps we can play a round later?’ Mrs Piggleton asked.
Pitch brushed his fingers over her arm. ‘Absolutely. And after that perhaps some cards too?’
His sly smile nearly killed the poor woman, who was in danger of dying from the fit of giggles
that consumed her. Half the room peered their way.
Pitch sauntered off, leaving the salivating couple in his wake and doing his utmost to make his
hips sway nicely. The stiffness in his muscles ruined it a little, but he thought he did quite well, even
without the bloody cane. Silas could take that suggestion and shove it up his very lovely arse, Pitch
decided.
He was fully aware of all the eyes upon him. The room was filled with purebreds, so far as he
could see, the good lighting showing clearly the shadows that clung to their heels. He acknowledged
the greetings and nods that came his way. A chap he did not recall at all certainly remembered Miss
Margaret Cargill. Red-cheeked, his monocle lifting one thin brow, he spent a moment too long with
his lips upon the back of Pitch’s hand, decrying what a shame it was not to have seen her for so long.
His companions, a trio of serious-faced older men, crowded around for their turn at flattery. Pitch
was uneasy at being so pressed in upon. There was a distinct disadvantage to being the loveliest in
the room. Worse still, these men were of no use to him. They too thought Edward to be away. Taking
the sun in Africa, according to the chap with a crooked nose.
‘Good thing too,’ he said. ‘Poor chap’s been mixing with the wrong type of company. Dreadful
business, all that. How he passed over you, my dear, in favour of hanging about with Feversham and
his vile crowd, none of us can understand.’
 ‘Now, now,’ Mr Monocle said. ‘The lady certainly doesn’t need to hear any of that.’
Pitch put on a suitably demure expression, lowering his head and managing to bring a blush to his
cheeks. But inwardly he fumed. Could they all not stand back just a little? If Silas were here, he
would have sent them scattering, knowing in that interminable way of his when his daemon was
unhappy. Pitch gripped his glass tighter. Oh, for the gods’ sake. Since when did he need a damned
dead man to send unwelcome suitors running? If he wished, Pitch could have this entire room
fornicating on the tables, using the champagne bottles in scandalous ways.
Settling his shoulders, Pitch asked, ‘I wonder if you might know where Mrs Charters is? I haven’t
seen her yet, and I’m longing to say hello.’
‘In conversation upstairs with Mr Fothergill. Some paperwork to be signed, I understand.’ Mr
Monocle’s hands twitched, sensing that his beloved Miss Cargill was about to abandon him. Astute
man, he was.
‘Mr Fothergill?’
‘Her business man. Been handling the family’s affairs for years, since just after Graham Charters
died.’
‘Handling a good deal else, I’d wager.’ The crooked-nose gentleman guffawed, his breath reeking
of gin. ‘Nothing like a fresh wealthy widow to whet a man’s appetite.’
His companions feigned horror at such indelicate talk in front of a lady. Odd, Pitch thought, how
they were so careful with their language around fragile females but did not think twice about hemming
her in like a prize cow at a sales yard. Pitch ground his teeth behind his smile. He was fairly certain
one of the men’s hands had found its way to the back of his dress and dug in, looking for a pair of ripe
peaches.
‘There’s some unsavoury talk going around, that’s true. But I don’t believe a word of it,’ Mr
Monocle insisted. ‘Fothergill’s kept things in order with the factory, and the estates. Edward would
do well to take lessons from him.’
‘Ed’s too busy playing with rakes and listening to the fairies… Odd boy, that.’
Pitch smiled, joining the laughter with a delicate titter and blushing where necessary. This Mr
Fothergill may prove useful. And if he and Edward’s mother were together, now was the perfect time
for a stroll upstairs.
‘Gentlemen, it’s been lovely, but I must be moving on now. We’ll speak again, I’m sure.’ Pitch
spied an approaching footman with a fresh tray of champagne-filled glasses. ‘Excuse me.’
He pushed from the dinner-suited cage with a sharp inhale, feeling a fool for allowing the press of
bodies to unsettle him. He’d been in orgies with more people, buried under bodies, held down with a
cock in both orifices and a lady’s mouth on his pillar, and not been troubled in the slightest.
 Curse the Alp for making a fool of him even here.
Pitch waggled his empty glass at the waiter. ‘Might I trouble you for another?’
The lad nodded eagerly. He had lovely amber eyes, full lips, and teeth that were very cutely
bucked, but he was far too slight. Pitch had a taste for a larger man now, bearded and uncommonly
thoughtful.
He snatched the glass off the tray and downed a very unladylike mouthful. Perhaps if he had
curbed his taste for such a man sooner, he’d not have been so vulnerable to those infernal Gidleigh
House éclairs.
He took another substantial swig, appreciative of the footman’s turn of the head that afforded him
some privacy in his gluttony, and doubly thankful that the lad did not wander away, waiting until Pitch
downed the empty glass and took another.
‘Good boy.’ Pitch winked from behind his raised glass. That did send the man scurrying, his neck
blooming red.
Gods, Pitch had missed champagne and all this pointless frivolity and flirtation, the laughing at
nothing. The gossip and lies and general vapidness of society was really quite wonderful. Far better
than angelic quests and maniacal sorcerers. He was as nearly invisible here as he would ever be.
Tobias Astaroth was buried beneath taffeta and Prince Vassago beneath Satty’s elixir.
He was…dare he even think it…quite free.
Well, as near to free as this was, compelled to wear a disguise and sneak about in an old lover’s
house at the behest of a bloody piece of jewellery gifted to him by a dead angel.
Pitch swallowed down his irritation with another mouthful of bubbles. Mrs Charters and Mr
Fothergill were likely to be upstairs in the study, where all the business was done. He’d go through to
the sitting room and take the smaller staircase at the rear of the house.
It took a little while to travel even that short distance, for every few steps there was a pause to
offer up a how-do-you-do to a variety of people. A few he recognised from about town. He was fairly
certain the brunette with jewels the size of plums in her hair was the same one who had watched on,
one bright spring evening, as Pitch was sucked off by her husband in their marital bed. An earl, if he
recalled. Pleasant evening that one. Very satisfying assortment of mint chocolate after dinner.
Pitch took a sip from his champagne and found it empty again. He was scowling at it when the
buck-toothed footman appeared, filled tray at the ready.
‘Madam.’ He was breathing a little harder than tray-carrying warranted.
‘Goodness, what impeccable timing you have, my dear.’ Pitch beamed, and the lad lit up like the
blazing fire in the hearth. Isaac must be intolerably bored with watching all this, which was one small
highlight of the evening out.
 An exuberant older woman with wide-blown pupils and a faint shadow of hair upon her top lip
pushed herself in between the footman and Pitch. The servant, appearing a little glum, took his leave.
‘Oh my, you’re as lovely as I recall, Miss Cargill. I’m Daphne…Daphne North…I don’t know if
you recall? Lovely, lovely to see you again. What a night that was, eh? We’d all had rather a lot of
wine when we last met.’ And a good deal else, Pitch would wager, which may account for why he had
absolutely no recollection of this woman. ‘And can I just say what a delightful couple you and Mr
Charters made. I’ll not hold back in saying, I was most disappointed we did not see an engagement
between you two.’ Her eyes were glassy, her jaw working hard, and she stood far too close. ‘Such a
pity the lieutenant can’t be with us, isn’t it?’
‘Terrible pity. I haven’t heard yet where he’s gone off to.’
‘I’m hearing he’s sunning himself in India.’
‘Really?’
She nodded, so hard she was in danger of losing her pearl earrings. Her drink sloshed over the
sides of her glass as she lifted it too quickly to her lips. Daphne giggled at the damp spots she’d made
on her satin bodice. Once, Pitch might have decided her a worthwhile target for an enchantment.
Already half-gone, it would be an easy slide into the bedroom. But instead he just found her irritating
and was ready to shove her aside if it looked like she’d stain his dress with her carelessness. The
crowd was bothering him, the air a fraction too stifling, and he was surprised to realise he did not
wish to be here at all. But be here he must, for a while longer at least. Clearly, he needed more than
the champagne to make it endurable.
Perhaps this woman could be useful after all.
‘I say, might you know of where I could find something more…’ He indicated his glass. ‘More
stimulating than this, shall we say?’ Pitch wiped a crooked finger slowly beneath his nose, hoping she
was not too inebriated to read the signal.
Wide pupils widening further, the woman nodded heartily. ‘Oh my dear, of course. Come, come.
I’ve some in my purse. Let us go to the powder room.’
Daphne linked her arm through Pitch’s and led them through into the sitting room. It was almost as
busy as the parlour, but thankfully with this woman at the helm there was very little pause in their
journey. Evidently, she was very eager to share her tincture. She kept him on a firm path, dragging him
along as his hip slowed him, moving too quickly for anyone to think of interrupting them.
They were a step shy of reaching the open doorway that led out into the hallway when someone
passed by in the corridor. Pitch nearly tripped over his own feet. Not because he was partly invalid,
but because the man he’d seen was very familiar.
‘Everything all right?’ The woman patted his gloved hand.
 ‘Yes, yes, of course. Just a little tired.’ Down to the very bone at times.
‘Well, we shall soon fix that.’ His guide grinned. ‘Can’t have you leaving the party too soon. I’ve
a nephew arriving shortly who you really must meet. He is a delight, and terribly good company.’
Of course he was. Pitch might have been more irritated discovering the woman’s friendliness
reeked of ulterior motives were he not trying to decide if he should disappear back into the parlour or
call out to the man who was striding down the hall, the oil on his bald head shining beneath the
gaslights.
‘There, there, my dear.’ The woman patted his hand a second time, and Pitch considered stepping
very hard on her toes. ‘You must have seen Orientals in the United States, surely? Aren’t they just
dreadfully exotic and wonderful? Not as wonderful as my nephew, mind.’
Sweet gods. He was scowling deeply before he remembered he was a godsdamned lady.
‘They are precious, aren’t they?’ He smoothed his features. ‘But it’s not that. He seems familiar,
that’s all.’
‘Oh, should we call out to him? Here, I’ll do it.’ Daphne had best have the world’s most sublime
cocaine because she was testing his patience truly. ‘Yoohoo! You there…stop where you are.’
The man did as he was ordered, but not with any happiness. He grunted and turned on his heels,
clearly annoyed at having his journey interrupted.
That pockmarked face, flat cheeks, and all-too-familiar scowl could belong to none other than
Kaneko, The Atlas’s insufferable bartender.
Pitch’s breath caught. Lady Satine’s elixir was about to be much tested.
‘How can I help you?’ Kaneko demanded, hands clasped behind his back.
A good thing Kaneko’s skills in The Atlas kitchen were above reproach because he was abysmal
when it came to being pleasant company. He barely glanced at Daphne’s companion, and when he did,
seemed utterly disinterested in the vision of loveliness that Pitch was. Barely spared him a blink.
Mildly insulting, but pleasing. Pitch knew the hues of his aura were rather unique, patchwork and
drained as they were. If they had been visible to the tsukumogami, he doubted Kaneko would have
shown no sign of seeing it.
Pitch was fucking invisible. He could barely stifle his grin.
‘Dear me, no need to be so rude,’ Daphne declared.
‘I’m not a servant, if that’s what you are thinking.’ Kaneko turned side on, readying to leave. ‘Just
delivering canapes for the lady of the house, and I’m late back to where I need to be. So, good
evening to you, ladies.’ He managed to roll the word like gristle between his teeth.
‘Wait, it’s just that –’
Pitch stayed Daphne with a light touch. ‘Never mind. It’s not who I thought. Let the man go.’
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