Page 22 of Song of the Hell Witch

Paris might not have noticed the dull roar of the crowd outside the Sanctuary if not for the deafening silence within.

Father Sewell’s body lay sprawled on the stone steps that led up to the abbey’s large silver doors, the ones that opened out into Whitefire Square.

The blood flowing out of his throat had slowed down, and Paris wondered when his stomach would stop churning.

He wasn’t opposed to righteous murder, and Father Sewell had failed in his duties to protect the people of Talonsbury from evil.

Still. He’d been a holy man.

It will take time, Paris thought, to see the world as it should be. To truly appreciate Hale’s justice.

Meanwhile, the four acolytes who’d served the Father knelt on the floor of the nave. He and Brom had bound their hands behind their backs and gagged them with black cloth. Brother Orwell, the one who had escorted Father Sewell to the estate that evening, trembled like a flame caught in the wind.

“Worry not, child of Light,” Paris said to him, cringing at how soft his voice sounded even inside the Sanctuary’s open space. “Soon, you shall be remade in the Lightbringer’s image.”

But how soon?

Truth be told, Hale had been down in the bowels of the abbey for too long.

Why waste his velvet words on some Hell Witch they were preparing to burn on the pyre?

By some miracle—a fated mistake, as Paris had reported to Hale—the circumstances surrounding Frederick’s death had roused the citizens of Talonsbury from their beds.

Now, rather than relying on his idiot brother’s influence to win them favor in the region, Hale and the Zeraphel could use something far more powerful to seize Groundling and Silk hearts: fear .

But given his family’s experience with the public and public events, Paris knew it was unwise to keep a riled crowd waiting. Sooner or later, they would lose interest and head to their beds.

Sooner or later, the window of opportunity would close, and their devotion and faith would continue to wane until the Lightbringer was even less of a memory than the Dark Mother.

He clasped his hands together, fidgeting with the obsidian ring he wore on his thumb. It was new, a token gifted to him by Hale as a reminder of his promise: “Win for me the city of Talonsbury, and I shall transform you into a true warrior of God.”

True power. He’d craved it ever since he was a boy, after that first elk hunt with his father when he fell wheezing from his horse and smacked his chin on the ground. He remembered blood dripping from his split lip, red beads on the white snow. He remembered how his eyes had watered.

And he remembered the horse hooves beating against the earth as his father rode up beside him.

Frederick had been off stalking some twelve-point buck, the one whose head still hung in his late father’s study.

“Such an honor it is, to have an heir worthy of the Talonsbury name,” his father had said later that night, raising a glass in Frederick’s name.

But earlier that afternoon, as Paris had tried to get his lip to stop bleeding, Edmund Talonsbury had stared down at his second son, his face forever inscrutable.

Paris had expected pity, kind words like those his mother offered on the nights when he woke drenched in a cold sweat, his stomach tied in inexplicable knots.

Instead, his father had clutched his horse’s reins tighter, lips pulling into a hard frown. “Get up,” he’d said, voice bitter as the winter air. Paris recalled springing to his feet—and the ragged cough that followed. “Tell me, boy. What good is a weakling second son with no muscle for men’s work?”

What good is a whoring father bound for an eternity on the she-demon’s pyre? These words had come to him in that moment, but he hadn’t dared to speak them—not until much later, as his father lay on his deathbed.

“The Lightbringer punishes all sinners, Father,” he’d whispered in his ear. “Enjoy the fires of eternity.”

No matter, Paris thought, even as the sounds of the crowd continued to grate at his nerves. He’d found a new father now, one he would follow into any storm, any battle. Hale not only believed in him but needed him, and he would reward him for all that he was, all that he did.

Soon he’d have the strength he’d coveted for so long. Hard-won. God-given.

Footsteps echoed in the far corridor, and Paris pitched up onto his toes ever so slightly, pushing up to the height he wanted to be.

Hale cut an imposing figure as he stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlit Sanctuary.

The blue light played across his pale skin, which glowed white as bone.

His hair, dark gold and oil slick, fell in curls around his broad shoulders, and his jaw cut a near-perfect triangle, like the head of a viper.

But it was his black wings, folded around him like a cloak, that made Paris’s breath hitch.

Like all Zeraphel, the wings marked Hale as an agent of the Lightbringer, an earthly general chosen to be God’s general as well, come to purge Leora of ridiculous notions like toppling the nobility and electing prostitutes, street urchins, and thieves into houses of government.

Such depravity would only tip Leora into chaos; everyone knew that.

The succubus they’d captured while chasing Pru hung limp in Hale’s grasp, her legs barely strong enough to carry her across the stone floor. She was pale as death, her mouth lolling open, but Paris saw her eyes flutter. So he hadn’t drained her completely.

Dead women could not scream, and how could the people imagine the flames of Hell without screams?

Paris wondered if perhaps Hale had given himself a little taste, recharged his power by stealing a taste of her blood.

He’d created the Zeraphel by combining the essence of a Hell Witch’s blood with the light and energy of Spectabra crystals.

From what he understood, a Zeraphel—after ingesting the elixir and right before he transformed—would hear a melody similar to the song Hell Witches heard.

It was the song Hale’s own blood produced, a sound that connected him to both his High and Low Zeraphel so they could always hear and understand his commands.

Hale’s melody also rendered a Hell Witch’s tune obsolete. Once Hale cast the Thrall, as he called it, even the most powerful of Hell Witches became nothing but weak, weeping women.

Only Hale and High Zeraphel could cast the Thrall, and a man could become a High Zeraphel only if he drank both Hale’s blood and the blood of a Hell Witch.

You’re going to be a High Zeraphel, Paris told himself. And then you’ll be a second son with more power than any man.

“Sir.” Paris bowed his head as Hale approached the doors. “Many in the city have gathered outside the Abbey. They’ve been roused by the duchess and her escapades in the night.”

Hale scowled at him. “The duchess you and Brom let escape? The duchess who shall delay my journey north and slow our progress down?”

It was like being back in the forest, bleeding in the snow. He felt so small.

He’s just tired from his journey east, Paris told himself. He was expecting Frederick’s loyalty, not all of this madness. You’ll prove to him this is better. You’ll win his favor once more.

“I assure you, General, this is a victory in disguise,” Paris promised.

“I will find her, I will bring her back here, and the entire city will watch you punish her like the abomination she is.” How else can I use it?

What else can I say? It came to him in all in a jumble, one he had to work to untangle.

“B-but first, why not let her stir a little fear? Show these people you are the only one who can protect them against the Dark Mother’s influence.

You are the only one who can deliver them. ”

Hale grunted once, then turned back to the doors.

The Hell Witch in his grasp moaned, and he tightened his grip on her arm, his eyes cold and unyielding.

Paris could all but see the flames that would devour what was left of her, envisioned Hale lashing her to the pyre waiting at the front of the abbey.

“Come, witch. I’ll start delivering Talonsbury by first delivering you. ”