Page 21 of Song of the Hell Witch

The Zeraph had Imogen pinned to the street, his foot pressing down on her sternum.

Prudence waited for her to use her magic, to become the succubus that could bring him to his knees.

But her attempts to escape him were feeble, her flailing arms growing still at her sides, like she couldn’t fight the pressure Prudence still felt crushing in, his power threatening to silence her own tune.

Imogen tilted her head toward the sky. Her tune faded, a song coming to an end. Then, in its place, Imogen’s voice thrummed through her mind: Save the girl. Save yourself.

Prudence’s breath hitched. She’d never believed in the telepathy between Hell Witches, that they could read each other’s minds. But then, she’d never had reason to try it. Tears pricked her eyes.

To flee was to condemn Imogen to the pyre. To a painful, public death. But her heart was a drum, insisting go, go, go .

More men reached for their weapons, drawing pistols out of hidden holsters, taking aim at the sky.

Perhaps she was wrong about the people of Leora.

Perhaps they were as gullible as Paris, willing to follow him and Hale and a god that couldn’t exist, Zeraphel be damned, because what kind of god condemned half of his creations to a lifetime of blind obedience and suffering?

Survive, survive, survive. The rhythm of her life pulled her out of her reverie, took hold of her body.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to Imogen, praying that maybe the connection between them would carry it down to her. “I’m so sorry.”

Another bullet split the air over her right shoulder. Heart in her throat, she thrust her wings wide and flapped hard, racing toward the river.

She dodged chimneys, clipping one or two clotheslines.

The laundry floated to the ground, the nightgowns and cotton shirts like ghosts in the dark.

The exhaustion and guilt were lead in her muscles, and she was tempted to let gravity win, to plummet to the earth and land hard enough for nothing to matter anymore.

But if that happened, Imogen’s sacrifice would mean nothing.

“Get a crossbow!” someone shouted from an open window. “Alert the Watch!”

Survive, survive, survive.

She climbed higher, using the clouds as cover. Cold mist grabbed at her face, veiling her hair. Numbness tingled in her cheeks and across her scalp, and she willed it to wrap around her heart, slow her pulse, freeze the guilt before it could settle in.

“Come on, Puck, where are you?”

Finally, she spotted a man running along the river—and ahead of him, a wall of Watchmen gathered outside the North Gate.

Puck obviously wasn’t thinking about how the whole city was barricaded.

He wasn’t thinking at all. His feet carried him, but she could see he was fading, falling forward to keep himself going.

She tapped into her rage. At Paris and the Zeraph for their scheming. At Frederick for being naive enough to marry her in the first place. At her thiefmaster, Standish, who’d taught her she could become anything so long as she was willing to sell her body.

More than anything, she was furious at every man who had ever penned a law or holy book or sentence aimed at shrinking a woman’s power, who made women believe they needed to make themselves small.

Get to him, come on.

“Take aim, men!” a Watchman shouted. They pointed their muskets, bayonets fixed on the end. They’d spotted Puck. They’d spotted her. And as a unit, they split their attention, ready to fire on both of them.

She bound her energy to her fury and dove, hooking her elbows under Puck’s armpits. The muscles in her back and arms screamed in protest as she lifted him off the ground. He yelped, and she pressed her mouth to his ear and said, “It’s me.”

“Easy on the shoulder.” His breaths were short, panicked. “Old stab wound.”

She decided that was a conversation for later as she turned toward the city walls, out of the range of the Watchmen’s guns. A few shots rang out behind them, but the immediate danger was gone.

They flew over the stone wall surrounding Talonsbury, then coasted over the clover fields on the outskirts of town, following the river as it wound toward Kingston Wood. Her wings stuttered once, but she held fast to the anger. If the Zeraph was coming after them, she needed to be ready.

The silence behind them was deafening.

Maybe Imogen stopped him. Maybe you’re safe.

“Where’s—” Puck started.

“She’s gone.”

The regret crept in, hollow and dry, carving out more space in her chest. Imogen joined the ghosts of a withering Emmaline and a blood-soaked Frederick. Between blinks, their faces swirled at her, eyes slack in death. Her heart tightened.

“What …” She refused to sink into the void. “What should we be looking for?”

“Two lanterns. They’ll be out on the river.”

“Right, I’ll—”

“I’ve got it. You keep us in the air.”

She counted her heartbeats, trying to find distraction. One. Two. Three …

“Pru?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I left her there,” she said, voice straining with every word. “I left her there to—”

“You saved me,” he continued. “And you’re gonna save Bea, yeah?”

She didn’t want to make a promise she couldn’t keep, but he needed hope right now. And so did she. “Yes.”

He reached up, squeezing her arm, and there was a hint of warmth, an ember breathing in the wind. “Think I caught a glimpse of old Spitfire back there.”

“Yeah?”

“Just a glimpse.” He yawned, and the gentle movement of his body made her tense. “Enough to miss her.”

She thought about the woman she’d been that morning; how different she was from the woman she’d become in the last few hours.

How this woman, new as she was, felt familiar, shaped like the ghost of a girl she used to know.

A girl who knew the face of the Zeraph on that rooftop. How do I know that face?

Prudence was too tired to search her memory, but not too tired to reply, “I think I’ve missed her too.”