Page 15 of Song of the Hell Witch

Nine

Blood trickling into his eyes, head pounding with what might be the worst knock-about he’d ever had, Puck Reed couldn’t think of a worse time for a Watchman to confront him on the riverbank.

In fact, Puck couldn’t think much at all.

Every time his mind formed a coherent sentence, the pain jumbled all of it back up again.

Unfortunate, given that he needed to explain exactly what he and his daughter were doing alone on the river in the middle of a citywide manhunt.

“Evening!” The Watchman’s voice barely carried over the deluge and the rush of the river.

The gas lamps behind him cast his broad, potbellied figure in silhouette, so Puck couldn’t see his face.

What he could see, with perfect clarity, was how he kept a hand pressed to the pistol on his hip. “State your business.”

He scrambled for something to say. The longer it took, the faster his heart raced, which sent more blood rushing to his head, which made everything that much worse.

Don’t look toward the boat’s bow—don’t you dare.

Pru was probably panicking inside the hold, terrified at the boat’s sudden stillness, but he couldn’t do much about that. He turned to his daughter, determined to at least keep her calm.

The sight of her, slouched and shivering, forced his thoughts back together.

“My daughter’s sick!” By some miracle, the rain began to taper off. “Didn’t wanna wait till morning. We’re headed to Dr. Scruggs, just down that way.”

“Is that so?” The Watchman’s hand stayed firmly on his pistol.

“Yeah, it’s—”

“Dr. Scruggs’ flat is in the opposite direction,” the Watchman shouted, a punch to the gut. Leave it to Puck to find the one Watchman in the entire Hodgepodge District who knew the name of a poor man’s doctor.

“Wha … are you sure?” Puck dragged his fingers through his hair, and the knot on his forehead punished him for forgetting. “Damn storm’s got me all turned—”

The Watchman stepped closer to the embankment, leaving nothing but a ribbon of river between them. “What’s that gash on your head?”

“Oh, this?” Puck’s hand trembled as he touched the wound. “Must’ve bonked myself with the oar. Slipped right out of—”

The Watchman pulled the pistol, pointing it right between his eyes, and Bea gasped so loudly, it almost counted as a shriek.

She grabbed hold of Puck’s shirttails and tugged three times, her meaning crystal clear: Careful.

Puck raised his hands in the air and refused to look at her.

He couldn’t afford to fall to pieces, not right now.

“Please, sir.” He softened his voice, tried to play on sympathy. “It’s the storm, it just got me all turned around. You know how the Whip can get.”

“I do. And I know the kinda scum that likes to come down it.” He kept the weapon aimed as he nodded toward the hood, and Puck’s knees turned to jelly. “Why don’t you open that smuggler’s hold there, Mr. Reed?” Fuck. “Let me take a look inside.”

Of course he was one of those Watchmen, the kind determined to clean up the city, rid it of its criminal element.

Puck would bet the guy knew every book in the Epistle of Light, every line of the scriptures.

Probably served in the war and thought he was doing the Lightbringer’s good work, killing non-believers.

Maybe he could use that to his advantage. After all, Puck knew the scriptures too. Maybe he could talk about the Lightbringer’s will, how He wouldn’t want a young girl to die because her father got them lost in a storm.

But lying to a man with a loaded gun pointed at his head didn’t feel like the brightest decision.

“I swear on my life, on my wife’s life …” Sorry, darling. “I’m just trying to—”

The Watchman lifted the pistol three inches and fired. The bullet whizzed over the top of Puck’s head, ruffling his hair. His legs gave out, but he locked them in place at the last second, catching himself before he crashed onto the boat deck. A sharp whimper escaped Bea.

“That there’s your warning, Thief Lord,” the Watchman grumbled. “Open the hold. Now.”

If you hand Pru over, Bea will be safe. You can both go home and forget all this.

He might even win the people of the Podge some respect, get the Watch to pull their men out of his district so they could breathe a little easier.

You’re not that man, love. You’ve never been that man. Ever since Jocelyn’s death, his most righteous thoughts came to him in her voice, deep and smooth and always calm except for in those last few days.

He couldn’t disappoint her.

“Sorry,” he said, cursing himself. “Can’t do that.”

The Watchman cocked the hammer back. But this time, instead of aiming the gun at Puck, he pointed it at Bea’s head. The remaining warmth in Puck’s body drained into the wood beneath his feet. He started to lunge, but the Watchman whistled, freezing him in place.

“You move anywhere other than that hood, I shoot her.”

“She’s got nothing to do with this.”

“She your kid?” the man asked.

Puck nodded.

“Then she’s River Rat scum, isn’t she? Probably better off without her.

From what I hear, you and your lot tend to cut and run when it really matters.

” Puck knew he was talking about the war, about all the draft cards that mysteriously disappeared between the House of Lords and their intended address, or the houses that were always empty whenever the army came marching through to collect the latest recruits.

“Best to root out the weeds while they’re young, eh? ”

The rage was lit whale oil in his veins. If he lunged, he might be able to knock the Watchman down before he had a chance to fire. The old Puck would do it in a second, pound his face into the cobbles.

Except he couldn’t take the chance. The second he moved, the Watchman could fire and send a bullet straight through Bea’s brain. The thought paralyzed him—and for the hundredth time in his life, he was reminded of what Standish had said in the days before he died.

“Do you know why I don’t have a family of me own?” His voice was thin by then. “’Cause family makes you slow. It makes you think in the moments when you can’t afford it. And thinking can get you killed as fast as not thinking.”

“Please …” Puck begged the Watchman.

It was a blur of motion. A woman in a pale-blue cloak tore out of the alleyway behind the Watchman right as the hood of the boat exploded.

Splinters of wood flew through the air, and the force knocked Puck off his feet.

He slammed against the right side of the hull, tipping them toward the water.

Skull pounding, he hung on to his wits long enough to launch himself to the other side of the boat before he and Bea toppled into the river.

A gunshot. Puck rushed at Bea, pulling her against his chest. His hands shook as he checked her over, caught in a refrain of “Are you okay? Are you okay?” as he searched for a bullet wound, a spot of red spreading over her nightgown.

She was fine. Trembling like a leaf in a storm, but fine.

“I’m here, Bumble.” He cupped her head in his hand and curled himself around her. “I’m right here.”

Air fluttered behind him, and he heard the sound of claws scraping against wood.

He whipped around, and there was Prudence—no, there was the Vultress , reigning supreme as she perched on the edge of the boat and fixed her sharp eyes on the bank.

Her silver-and-gray–feathered wings, three times larger than the last time he’d seen them, spread wide.

Her hands and feet had morphed into sharp, flesh-shredding talons.

Silver feathers climbed up her neck, ringed around her face.

The only thing missing was her black beak.

Her face was still hers, porcelain and creased with an anger he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

She’d learned how to better control her form, how to hide the parts of herself she loathed. How very … Prudence of her.

“Get off me!” the Watchman shrieked on the riverbank.

“Get—” But his cries cut off as the woman in the blue cloak straddled him.

He writhed beneath her like a man on fire, and when he made a weak attempt to punch her in the face, Prudence took off, gliding over the water.

She released a wild caw before she landed beside the woman, circling her with her talons spread wide.

Puck couldn’t tell if she was readying herself to help her or attack her.

Bea clutched him tighter, her shaking growing worse.

“We’re safe, Bumblebee. We’re safe.”

But the trembling turned violent. She thrashed against him, her head knocking into his sternum.

“Bea?” His heart twisted. Beneath her soaked nightdress, her skin was ice.

No, please no, not here, not now.

Her eyes had rolled back in her skull, her limbs and spine contorting like her bones were trying to escape her body. Pink foam frothed from her mouth, bloodied from her bitten tongue. Gurgling sounds echoed deep in her throat, like she was choking on her own spit, fighting to stay alive.

Fear knocked Puck out of his body before wrenching him back inside it, the impact bruising his lungs, blurring his vision.

He wasn’t sure where he was, what was happening, only that time itself had come apart.

And then it all crashed into perfect, petrifying clarity: his daughter, seizing in his arms.

“Don’t do this to me!” Should he hold her tighter, keep her from hurting herself? Or should he loosen his grip and let her writhe freely so he didn’t pull or break anything? “Bea, please!”

“Puck.” Somewhere, a voice called his name, but he couldn’t answer. All he could do was say the same four words over and over again: “Bea, open your eyes! Open your eyes!”

“Puck!” Something sharp dug into his back, painful enough to bring him back to how dangerous it was on the river, out in the open.

Pru.

She pulled her taloned hand back, hugging her arms in tight. Crouched on the stern, with the tips of her wings skimming the water, she was something out of a dream. With her silver feathers gleaming in the waxing moonlight, it was easy to mistake her for a goddess.

But her eyes were still hers, full and wet, as mesmerizing as they’d been the first time he ever saw her. Their power pulled him out of his spiral, kept his fear from bubbling over. “Can I help? Can I—”

Finally, Bea stilled. Puck held his breath, waiting. Please.

Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open. When she looked up at him, her pupils were huge, the blue all but replaced by a deep, penetrating black. It should have frightened him, but she was reaching up, thumbing a tear off his cheek. Alive. She was alive.

For now.

Forgetting the gash on his forehead, he fell against her, breathed her in, that faint smell he’d never been able to describe except that it was the perfect blend of sweet and sour, his baby girl.

She curled into his chest, and he closed his eyes, listened to her breathing.

Slowly, it grew stronger, less wet. Once he was sure she wouldn’t die in the next ten seconds, he let his mind wander back to the problem in front of him.

On the riverbank, the woman in the blue cloak dragged the Watchman into the alleyway. His legs hung useless in front of him, boots stuttering along the cobbles, his head slumped onto his chest. He didn’t look unconscious. He looked …

“Pru, you didn’t.”

“Not me. But Puck, listen …” She trailed off as the woman emerged from the shadows, her gaze fixed on the boat. “That woman, she’s …”

He moved without letting her finish. Nothing she could say about this woman was going to interest him. What he wanted was to get off this river. Get Bea inside. Make her warm and safe, nurse her back to some semblance of herself.

“Puck.” Pru grabbed hold of his collar, her face as stern as it had been back at the manor. “She’s a succubus. A Hell Witch. From Stormlash.”

He blinked at her, confused. “Stormlash?”

“The place on the card!” Her smile was a bit unhinged, a bit mad. “Can you believe it? The luck!”

“Luck?” She was calling this luck?

“She says she can help us.”

He didn’t understand. Outside of finding shelter, what else did they need help with? Bea needed a doctor. That was it, that was all. Pru was going to have to handle the escape on her own. “Help us with what exactly?”

She looked at him like he was a complete dunderhead. “Everything.”