The Bandalore

by D K Girl

  They moved closer to the heart of the city, travelling along York Way. It was near to midday, and despite the drizzle the streets were busy. Ladies in their finery walked quickly alongside stiff-suited chaperones who held dainty parasols over their companions. Dirty-mouthed children in their soaked rags darted bare foot into alley ways, or across the path of strident horses, earning the bellowed curses of drivers who did not slow despite the human obstacles. The stench of horse manure and woodsmoke was heavy upon the air. On they travelled. Silas rode through the world, both a part of it and yet utterly distanced. Searching the shadows of those they passed. But in the strained light of a rainy day, it was difficult to note either the lack of or presence of, those shadows.

  Pitch snorted, muttering something in his sleep, a coy smile playing at his lips.

  ‘Come back?’ he whispered.

  His smile collapsed and his eyes fluttered madly behind closed lids.‘Why not? Sarah…not my fault…Sarah…Serafeel!’ Pitch’s eyes flew open, his chest rising and falling as though he’d chased after the carriage all the way from Holly Lodge. His gaze darted about, and though it fell upon Silas he had the sense Pitch did not see him at all.

  After a few moments of breathy silence, Silas asked. ‘Are you quite all right?’

  Pitch coughed, pressing a curled fist to his chest. ‘Of course.’ He shuffled along the seat, settling himself against the opposite side of the carriage, folding his arms tight in front of him, eyes closing once again. ‘Why do you ask?

  ‘Well, you seemed upset,’ Silas couldn’t help the question. Curious about anything that would disturb Tobias Asteroth in such a way. ‘You were calling to someone, rather urgently.’

  Pitch stiffened and his eyelids slid open to reveal just a hint of emerald. Silas could not help but feel he was being regarded by a viper. ‘Is that so? And who pray tell did I seek so desperately?’

  Silas’s curiosity was fast being overtaken by trepidation. He waved off the question. ‘Oh I couldn’t be certain.’

  ‘You’re a fucking dreadful liar.’ Pitch snarled. All at once the confines of the carriage were entirely inadequate in size. Pitch’s seething temper crowding in upon them. ‘Speak. What do you think you heard?’

  ‘You said…something wasn’t your…fault.’ Silas eyed the floor, eager for a hole to appear. ‘And some names…Sarah, was one…and another…Serafiel, I think.’

  Pitch stared at him for a long, long moment. He passed his tongue over his red chapped lips. ‘Do me a great favour and don’t think.’

  He tugged up the collar of his jacket so that a good portion of his face was covered, huddling tight not his corner.

  Quite clearly the tense conversation was over. Which was fine by Silas. A singular question had often nagged at him since his first encounter with Tobias Asteroth. What was the man? Supernatural, of course, but what particular kind? There had been opportunity to enquire, certainly, but as well as being rather caught up in his own peculiarities Silas would admit to himself that he was rather afraid to know.

  The rest of the journey to St Pancras Station passed by without conversation and only one significant incident. There was considerable traffic, with an overturned milk cart causing issue near the canal, and forcing Isaac, with much cursing to alter their route. This saw them arrive in a fluster at St Pancras a mere fifteen minutes before the train’s departure. Pitch proved interminably hard to rouse from slumber, and the throng of people moving about the station set multiple obstacles in their hurried way. They settled into their first class compartment only a few minutes before whistles blew. Station attendants called for all passengers to board, and all non-travellers to leave the train. With a great, heavy hiss the train pulled from the station, and they were on their way.

  Chapter 15

  They were not ten minutes out of St Pancras station, the clack of the train’s wheels hypnotic, when Silas had a rather depressing realisation.

  ‘Blast,’ he cried. ‘The luncheon basket. It is left beneath the seat in the carriage.’

  And contained the wine, the precious wine. A juice that might ease Silas’s nerves.

  ‘By the gods, man, that is hardly something to lament,’ Pitch said. ‘You have dined on the gnome’s gastronomic disasters, surely? I would bet all the diamonds upon me that he spat into every morsel packed, and included not an ounce of sugar among the ingredients, just to vex me. The only loss is the wine, I can assure you.’

  Pitch rose to his feet, and Silas shrank back into the cushioning of his seat, heart thudding. Would the man strike him so easily? But Silas’s fears were without warrant. Pitch pushed open the door to their compartment. ‘You there.’ He called to someone in the corridor. ‘We would have some red wine and a selection of all the cakes and slices on offer.’

  There was a muffled reply, and Pitch slid the door closed and returned to his seat. Once again he had taken the forward facing seat. Granted, there was another on offer alongside him, their cabin able to accommodate four travellers, but Pitch had taken the preferable window seat and Silas would not entertain the idea of requesting a swap. Wishing to admire the passing scenery, Silas resigned himself to travelling in reverse once again. It was warm in the cabin, too much so for the heaviness of his coat. Silas hung it upon the hook provided, slipping the bandalore into his trouser pocket before returning to his seat.

  ‘Should I fear to sleep, lest you strike me again with your little sickle?’ Pitch’s grin fought with a snarl. ‘Go ahead, train journeys are rather tiresome anyway.’ The man took such clear delight in irritating his fellow man.

  Silas glowered. ‘Of course not. And I’ve told you once already, it is not a sickle, it is a scythe.’ Had he spoken with a note of pride just then?

  Pitch made a dismissive sound. ‘You can hardly lay claim to the greatness of death when you barely survived four measly harpies.’ He clapped his hands with a sudden and startling slap. ‘But how brilliant am I? For there is your new name. Sickle!’ He giggled at his own jest. ‘It’s perfect. A lesser name for a lesser servant of death.’

  ‘That is quite ridiculous.’ A sudden and quite fervent brush of anger came upon Silas, pressing his hand to the bandalore.

  ‘It’s barely different to your name now, you won’t even notice.’

  ‘I believe I very much shall. Why must you mock me?’

  ‘Why ever not?’ Pitch swung his legs to rest his shoes upon the seat beside him. ‘And besides, I think it has rather a nice ring. Pitch and Sickle, esteemed members of the Order of the Golden Dawn.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Rather long though, might have to work out something else for our calling cards.’

  Silas did not laugh as Pitch did. ‘I don’t expect there will be any need for calling cards. I suspect they will be rather disappointed with my performance, or lack of.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, old chap. Resign before you begin. Well done.’ Pitch blew a noisy breath at the luggage rack above him. There had not been enough room for all his cases, the rest being stored elsewhere on the train by displeased porters. ‘Gods, you are a bore.’

  ‘Why do they call you such a thing?’ Silas ignored the slight. ‘Pitch, I mean. Is it for the tattoo upon your back? For I would say, it rather resembles a pitchfork.’

  It was a jibe borne from Silas’s smoldering temper, an attempt to irritate Tobias just as Tobias irritated Silas. So he was rather surprised—and mildly relieved—that the look that swept the man’s delicate features held no sign his mercurial temper was roused. There was another, gentler expression there instead. Melancholy, perhaps? Whatever it was, Pitch quickly wiped it clear.

  ‘Aren’t you adorably perceptive, Mr Mercer. It is indeed the reason for my name.’ His gaze shifted to the passing scenery and Silas was quite certain he saw it again. A wistfulness utterly uncommon to the man. The crass words that followed though, were far more expected. ‘Once, I knew a man who fucked me rather well and did not bore me at all. I rather indulged him for it, and did not protest when he bestowed the nam
e upon me, foolish as it is.’ It was the gentlest smile Silas had yet seen upon Pitch’s face, softening the wildness that usually clung to his features. And although Silas squirmed at the thought of two men so intimate, he could not help but wonder who such a lover might have been. ‘But tell me, Sickle.’ Pitch’s smile drowned beneath the sly rise of lips. ‘How have you seen it? The tattoo? Have you been watching me sleep, Mr Mercer, for I do so naked. I cannot think where-else you might have gazed upon me. When I bathe perhaps? Gracious, are you quite taken with me, sir? You only need ask and I’ll bend for you.’ He dropped his hand to rest it between his thighs.

  ‘Of course not,’ Silas bristled, cursing the heat that came upon him. ‘What nonsense you speak. Clearly you were too intoxicated to recall that you cast yourself into my bed, entirely naked—’

  Pitch gasped. ‘Are you saying you took advantage of me when I was intoxicated? I did wonder why I was so tender—’

  ‘Stop! You are truly an incorrigible man.’

  ‘Incorrigible I shall allow, but kind sir, my manliness is only skin deep.’

  A light tap at the door interrupted any reply Silas may have had. An attendant entered the cabin pushing a silver cart bearing a plethora of cakes and slices, at least half a dozen set upon plates of the most delightful patterned china. On a lower shelf a bottle of red wine sat with two glasses. The attendant, a youthful man with a complexion almost as dark as Isaac’s, wheeled the cart into the narrow space between the facing seats, and Silas could not help but notice how his eyes found their way to Pitch and seemed unable to shift.

  ‘Would you like me to pour the wine for you?’ He lifted the bottle with shaking hands. Silas could hardly blame him for his nervousness. Pitch regarded him with that viperish stare he held, one that seemed to devour a person whole.

  Silas sought to put the young man out of what he assumed was misery. ‘No, that will be quite fine, thank you.’

  But the attendant did not scupper away as Silas thought he might.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?’ The question was quite clearly aimed at Pitch who now regarded the man with a lazy grin.

  ‘Yes. There is actually.’ He waved the man closer. ‘Lean down, I have something for your ears alone.’

  The young man set down the wine, rather too heavily. ‘Sir?’ But he did as Pitch bid, and being rather stocky and short, did not have to lean far to find himself face to face with the man addressing him. With whip-like speed, Pitch’s hand wrapped around the man’s neck and pulled him forward. Pressing his lips against the attendant’s own. The younger man made light of a struggle, and then seemed to grow limp, bracing one hand to the back of the seat to prevent himself from collapsing onto Pitch’s lap entirely. There was the dreadful, intimate sound of lips seeking one another, air making its way between hungry teeth and tongue. Silas knew he should either look away, or attempt to extricate the man from Pitch’s hold. But he did neither. In truth, the attendant did not appear to desire saving. After excruciating minutes, or perhaps just a few seconds, everyone inhaled. Silas included. The attendant stumbled back, knocking against the cart, struggling to catch his breath.

  Pitch waggled his fingers at the unfortunate boy. ‘Goodbye then.’

  The man’s legs did not seem to want to hold him, and he staggered, sweat visible upon his wide forehead. His hand trembled as he pulled the door closed. Leaving Silas and Pitch alone once again. The thundering clack of the wheels upon the tracks the only sound for a short while.

  ‘Pour the wine will you, Sickle.’ Pitch helped himself to a huge slice of vanilla creme cake, adding an extra dollop of cream upon the heap. Silas did as he was bid, but not through any sense of servitude. He too required a drink, and required one now. He poured himself a generous glass and set the bottle down, leaving Pitch’s glass unfilled. Pitch eyed him with a bemused smile.

  ‘Something wrong, Sickle?’ he asked.

  Fingers tight around his bolstering drink, Silas nodded. ‘That was unseemly, what you just did.’

  Through a mouthful of sponge, Pitch replied. ‘What? Taking such a big mouthful?’

  ‘Attacking that young man.’

  Pitch laughed, and flecks of cake escaped his mouth. ‘Did he look under attack to you?’

  He had Silas there. The attendant had not struggled long or hard. But Silas was quite sure that did not equate with full consent. ‘You…bewitched him…’

  ‘Dear gods, man. You think me a witch?’

  Silas indulged in another generous sip of wine, for this was a conversation that both filled him with dread and overwhelming curiosity.

  ‘Is that not possible?’ Silas said at last. ‘If ankou, and elementals and harpies exist. Why not a witch or a sorcerer? For clearly that man was beguiled beyond his control.’

  Pitch dug his finger into the centre of a bright pink tartlet. ‘He was quite willing, his desire was there beneath the surface. I simply removed his inhibition. Don’t tell me you could not see the want in him? Are you that chaste and delicate?’

  For some reason Pitch’s accusation irked him, and Silas shook his head firmly. ‘Of course not. But it is hardly the done thing to impose yourself like that.’

  ‘We are hardly the done thing, sweet Silas. Let go of that world, and you’ll enjoy yourself far more. Humans and their rules, their etiquettes, are tiresome not to mention tedious. I have my needs, and I will fulfil them, it is really quite as simple as that. Who would stop me? A fool perhaps, but none that would prove a real bother.’ He sunk his finger again into the rich pink filling, gouging a portion free, before running his tongue slowly along the length of his laden finger. ‘I used to frequent this world on occasion, you know. And it amused me, I would even go so far as to say I rather enjoyed it once, but that was in different times, and with far different company.’ His words were gossamer soft. Pitch sucked at his teeth, and continued. ‘The human world is rather less attractive when one is forced to stay in it, so I do what I can to amuse myself.’ He kissed the tips of his fingers. ‘Cakes and carnal knowledge. What point existing without them? They bring fire to my blood, and I do so enjoy the warmth.’

  ‘That is quite apparent,’ Silas muttered.

  Pitch’s laughter held a note of surprise. ‘What an odd creature you are. Afraid of your own reflection mostly, yet every now and then a braver spirit appears. I know I frighten you, Sickle, but don’t worry you are not the only one.’ The pink tartlet suffered a most vigourous bite with white, perfectly aligned teeth.

  The conversation lulled, and the monotonous clack of the trains wheels on the rails proved quite hypnotic. The rain pounded down heavily, slanted against the glass by the speed of the train, obscuring the view of the outskirts of the city beyond. Silas took a long sip from his glass. The wine was pleasant, fruity at the back of his throat. He waited until it warmed his stomach before he dared speak again.

  ‘If you are not a witch, or sorcerer,’ Silas said. ‘Then might I ask what your true nature is, and why you are made to stay here?’

  He felt rather ill as the questions left him, as though one stood upon a dark precipice and might soon fall.

  Popping a syrup-soaked blueberry into his mouth, Pitch regarded him through lowered lashes. ‘They would prefer I did not say, so as not to frighten their precious new ankou.’

  Silas adjusted his seat, absently patting at the bandalore in his pocket. ‘Is that so? Are you that frightening, Mr Astaroth?’

  ‘What would you say?’

  Pitch was frightening in the way the dark of night was, but if Silas did not take a hold of his trepidation, this partnership would dissolve into a nightmare he could not wake from. He could not be afraid of the dark. ‘I would say that you aim to be quite a horror, and achieve it very well.’

  Pitch tipped his chin and nodded. ‘Quite astute, Sickle. Though to be fair, that is exactly what was intended for me, from the very day I was birthed.’ He moved on to a stacked jelly of the brightest orange, the gelatin wobbling with the
movement of the train. ‘How ironic, that when one is made for violence, they are then punished for a job too well done.’

  Silas’s hesitation gave way to rapid curiosity. ‘And that is why you were banished from Arcadia? Gilmore spoke of this place.’ He was acutely aware that his first question was yet to be answered.

  ‘Gilmore should keep his tiny mouth shut.’

  ‘Where is this Arcadia?’ Silas set down his glass. ‘I’m quite sure I’ve never heard of such a place.’

  ‘I’m quite sure of that too.’ Pitch sucked back a glob of jelly, and said no more. ‘Fear not, it is not somewhere you will be forced to endure.’

  ‘Was that person you spoke of in Arcadia as well?’ It was a terrible long shot, but as much as he dreaded answers, Silas craved them. ‘The one you called for, in your dream…Seraphiel, was it?’

  Perhaps the reason for Pitch’s expulsion lay here. Hadn’t he cried out about something not being his fault when the bad dream shook him?

  A spoonful of jelly came to a sudden halt at Pitch’s parted lips. ‘You truly heard that name from me?’

  Silas swallowed. ‘I believe so…yes, though I’m not certain I heard correctly, that does not seem a proper name……perhaps my—’

  ‘Overly large ears deceived you? Highly likely, you are quiet inept in all else, why not hearing?’

  The man’s composure had slipped, and Silas could not read the signs so well now. If he was angered the usual caustic air was absent, but nor was Pitch entirely at ease, the muscles in his jaw flexing with tension. He appeared rather confused, if Silas were to name it. He breathed carefully, quite as the proverbial mouse, and waited. After an interminably long time Pitch shoved the jelly into his mouth and threw the spoon down onto the plate.