Page 17 of Song of the Hell Witch

“Let go of me!” Imogen barely managed to keep her shout hushed.

Her eyes bulged as she glared at Prudence.

In the dim light of the gas lamps, the woman’s pupils shrank into snakelike slits before swelling wide again.

“Do you know the kind of trauma that turns a woman into a succubus? The conditions that must be present for the power to change me into this exact creature?” Her nostrils flared in rage.

“Never surprise one of us like that again, do you understand?”

“Tell me.” Prudence pictured the freckles dusted across Beatrice’s nose, her shy smile. “Is that what’s wrong with her?”

“Of course! Mother’s mercy, you really know nothing about who we—”

Ignoring the weight in her legs, Prudence took off down the alley, wincing as her boots clicked on the stones. Every sound was a chance to draw the Watch’s attention.

At the end of Hopswitch Row, Puck stood waiting in front of a door, Bea limp in his arms. He bounced on his heels, looking lost and scared, like a boy who had just discovered he was an orphan.

At the sound of her step, he turned, and everything inside her went cold. How was she supposed to do this?

“I know what’s wrong.” She gulped down air.

He shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“Beatrice. She’s—”

The door opened, and she decided the explanation could wait until they were warm and safe. Maybe he’d hear her then. Maybe he’d understand.

She was so busy scrambling for a fake name to give the woman in the doorway, it took her a moment to realize she knew the face staring back at her.

The woman’s hair was tucked up in a white head wrap accented with gold stitching.

The smudged black kohl mixed perfectly with golden eyeshadow to accent the jeweled tones in her brown eyes—eyes Prudence should have recognized back at the manor.

She recalled afternoons spent on the hill outside the Rusted Gate, bemoaning her pale skin and her flat brown hair, wishing her eyes sparkled like that.

“It’s simple, Pru. All suns are stars, but not all stars are suns.

You and Puck, you’re stars. Me? I’m a fucking sun.

” Bathed in sunlight, with his foot propped up on a rock and his hands thrown behind his head, it was always easy to believe anything Marlowe Wood said, even easier when he sang in that falsetto of his.

But he’d so rarely let himself shine, tried so hard not to be noticed by people he didn’t know or trust. When Prudence asked him why, he’d reverse his ravings about being the sun, clapping back with a sharp “What’s worth seeing here? ”

But Marigold Wood was effervescent, radiating the grace and confidence of ten countesses in her glittering golden robe—until she saw Bea cradled in Puck’s arms.

“Oh no.” Marigold flattened herself against the wall as Puck threw himself inside, his boots pounding against the freshly polished hardwood. In the back room, lamps flickered in their sconces and a fire roared in the hearth.

Marigold turned back to Imogen. “Who are—”

“Let’s save the introductions for later, dear one.” Imogen slid past Marigold, following Puck’s lead.

Prudence inched over the threshold, uncertain of what to do with her hands. “Hi.”

“You know I’m—”

“Of course.” She needed to get to Imogen before she told Puck what was happening to his daughter, but she couldn’t help it. She threw her arms around Marigold’s neck, nestling her chin in the slope between her shoulder and her neck. “God, you’re beautiful.”

“And you’re drenched.”

“Right, sorry.” Prudence wasn’t sure if she’d been expecting warmth or hatred or a What in the Dark Mother’s hell are you doing here?

The silent indifference scalded more than hate ever could.

Marigold led her silently down the hallway. Prudence noted the spice tickling the back of her throat, nutmeg or clove maybe. The walls were a soft cream, unremarkable—but then they were merely a vessel for the mural stretching from the front door all the way to the living room.

It was a portrait of a woman, her crimson gown catching in the wind.

Her skin was the same lustrous brown as Marigold’s.

Beneath the red top hat on her head, her black hair fell in tight coils around her face.

She glanced behind her, hand outstretched, red-, pink-, and plum-colored rose petals scattering from her fingertips.

And out of her back burst a set of golden wings more spectacular than Prudence’s could ever be. They were painted to look like they were fluttering.

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?

” Marigold demanded as they approached the couch.

Puck pulled a blanket up to Bea’s chin, arranging and rearranging the pillows behind her to make her comfortable.

The gash on his forehead was clotting, but it would definitely scar.

“Maybe start with the stranger lady and go from there?”

Ignoring Marigold’s question, Puck stared at Prudence. “She’s dying, isn’t she?”

“Dying?” Marigold shouted. “What—”

“I’m afraid she is,” Imogen said before Prudence mustered the courage, and it took everything in her not to scratch her eyes out for her blunt, bladed delivery. She turned, glaring at her. Imogen shrugged in response. “What were you going to do, lie to him?”

“Pru?” Puck’s voice was ragged, trembling.

She knelt down beside him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “She’s not dying tonight.”

It wasn’t her promise to make. She’d devoured every book on Hell Witches in every library from Leora to Belacanto.

There were whispers about how braiding one witch’s power with another could revive a sick or injured witch and a few tales about how covens could forge telepathic connections between one another and enhance each other’s magic.

But Prudence didn’t know the first thing about any of that, or if it would even be helpful in fighting Subversal.

Good thing you’re not the only Hell Witch here, then.

“Imogen,” she said, “can we heal her? You and me, together?”

“Heal her?” Every line in Imogen’s face was taut. “I’m afraid this case of Subversal is too advanced. We can maybe stave off the effects for a few days, but in terms of actually curing her, no. The two of us would not be enough.”

“I don’t …” It had been a long time since she’d had to think so fast on her feet. It was petrifying.

And invigorating.

“Stormlash.” The plan clicked into place as she said the name out loud. “These Ladies of Leora you talked about. Could they help her?”

“She’s a sister, so of course we’d try.” A shadow passed over her face as she studied Bea. “But I’m not sure she’ll make it that far. And besides, I know there was talk of—”

“A sister?” Puck interrupted. “Does that mean … Pru, please, I don’t under—” Bea whimpered once, and he lost whatever he was saying and squeezed his daughter’s hand. She took a stuttering breath but slept on. In the space of a blink, Prudence watched Puck age ten years.

“There has to be something we can do,” Prudence pleaded with Imogen.

“Please,” Puck begged, watching Bea’s chest rise and fall. “Anything.”

Imogen’s eyes narrowed in thought. “There is something we can try. It won’t be a permanent fix, as I said, but it’s better than nothing at all. You’re going to need to give us some space there, Mr.…?”

“Reed,” Marigold answered for him. “Puck Reed.”

“Just for a moment, Mr. Reed, can you do that?” Imogen asked. Prudence began to move, but the succubus shook her head, and she stopped.

Puck shifted over, and Marigold caught him in her arms. He leaned back, clinging to her like a scared child might cling to a mother, locked inside what had to be a parent’s living nightmare.

Prudence couldn’t bear to look at him. Focusing all of her attention on Imogen, she waited for instructions.

“Roll up her sleeves,” the succubus said, kneeling at Bea’s feet.

Prudence obeyed. “You’ve done this before?”

“Twenty-five years ago. Subversal is rare, after all. Here, put your thumb in the crook of her elbow, then press down.”

Prudence did as she was told, pushing until she felt Bea’s blood swim in the nest of veins.

“Now, find your tune.” She said it like she was telling her to pick up a book or toss her a lyran.

“My what?”

“Your magic’s rhythm. Its song?”

“Oh.” Now she felt ridiculous. “I didn’t know it had a proper name, I—”

“Find it,” Imogen snapped, reminding her of the urgency—an army looking for her, an entire city on alert, and a dying girl to save. “Then force her to feel it. To hear it.”

“How?”

“That you’ll have to answer for yourself.” Imogen slid a hand up onto her arm. Prudence gasped as a new vibration, fast and energetic, pulsed through her, buffering her confidence, insisting Your body knows what to do, even if your mind doesn’t.

Taking a deep breath, she sank past the aches in her muscles, the cold in her bones, until all she could feel was the itch at her center, the gnawing need to escape the confines of her human form. To be free.

The hum— the tune —grew louder, a steady beat of release me, release me, release me that filled her from head to toe.

Marigold’s flat and the fear disappeared. There was only her own heartbeat pounding against her edges, Bea’s pulse leaping up to kiss her thumb, and the heat blooming in her shoulder blades.

Static energy licked up her spine, the desire to transform battling against her need to stay present, to teach Bea’s trapped magic to listen .

Gritting her teeth, she envisioned her own power.

She’d always imagined it as threads of amethyst light woven through her veins, her nerves, her bones, forever dancing to the melody that had called to her through the darkness the first time she’d changed.

A series of branches and rivers and streams, it extended into her wings, forming a separate creature of raw power and rage.

This was the Vultress, and she yearned to spread her wings, to take flight.

Help me, Prudence asked her, still believing some twenty years later that they were two separate entities. Help me save her.