Page 30 of Song of the Hell Witch

He took off at whatever counted as a sprint after five days of very little sleep, elbowing his way through the slowly diminishing crowd.

When he reached the end of the street, he followed the girl’s direction to the letter, darting left.

As the square came into view, Bea gasped, either in wonder or fear.

Upon seeing the hotel, he decided it was a bit of both.

Talonsbury was lousy with hotels, especially in the Silk District.

They were beautiful in the way nice things were, with glorious white pillars and shining rosequartz walls, pleasant to look at until you started to think that the money used to build them could have fed every starving child in the Podge for three whole years.

But the Great Borealis was different. Matte black with pointed arch windows and two towers capped by jade spires, it looked less like a place for wealthy mortals and more like where the Dark Mother would stay if she decided to climb the pyre up from her bone-ridden Hell and walk the earth for a few days.

A crowd of suffragettes and fellow protesters had gathered outside, their cries echoing through the square.

Their signs were more imaginative than the ones he’d seen in Talonsbury: bold black letters proclaiming We Gave You Our Labor, Give Us A Voice and, in crimson paint that looked like fresh-spilled blood, Our Sons Did Not Die For You to Deny Us Our Liberty .

It was nice to see that unlike the South, the women in the North had a bit more fight in them.

He figured it was only a matter of time before the Apostles adopted the same backbreaking strategies as their brothers in Talonsbury, identifying where the suffragette leaders lived and then raiding their homes, arresting them in the dead of night to crush sedition.

He noted the pistols dangling from some of the protesters’ hips and wondered if it was the dangerous conditions out in the wilds that gave them more tenacity.

Puck wound his way through the crowd, pulling Bea in closer. A few of the women smiled at his daughter. Others shot him brutal looks that made him feel like he was treading through enemy territory.

Finally, they reached the crimson doors, and Bea’s grip on his collar tightened.

Through his shirt, her skin was as cold as his wife’s in the hours before she died.

He turned, peeking over the protesters to see if Marigold or Prudence was anywhere close.

As far as he could tell, they hadn’t even rounded the corner.

They’ll catch up. He was out of patience, and Bea was running out of time.

He set Bea down and tugged at one of the doors. A rush of incense-scented air blew his hair back, and Bea slipped through the crack he’d created. He kept shoving, the exhaustion and the ache in his shoulder holding him back. Eventually, he managed to shoulder his way into the lobby.

A chandelier carved out of polished ivory spilled silver light across the black-and-white-tiled floor.

Ghostly white flames, an illusion Silks created by lining wicks with a special powder, danced atop the candlesticks.

Ahead of them, an onyx desk with clawed feet stood in the center of the room, and behind it an incredibly tall, incredibly thin human being.

They were dressed in an all-black suit, and their black top hat was decorated with a huge white feather, a stark contrast to their ebony skin.

An obsidian monocle obscured one topaz eye.

“’Scuse me,” Puck started. “We’re looking for a Madame Florence. I was told she’d be here.”

The hotelier’s available eye pressed into a squint.

“Welcome to the Great Borealis, named for the magnificence that is the Leoran North. My name is Arcadie, hotel owner and your gracious host.” Their gaze drifted to Bea.

“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of this Madame Florence before; can you be more specific? ”

Their dark, full lips pulled into a coy smile. Thinking fast, Puck thrust his hand into his pocket and plucked out the card Pru had given him, amazed it was still legible.

“A woman named Imogen, she told us to come.” He shoved the card at them, and their eyebrow arched high as they read the words. “My daughter, she’s …” He squeezed Bea’s hand, and when she squeezed back, his heart threatened to burst. “It’s Subversal. We need help.”

Arcadie waited, their head tilting to one side as they studied Bea. Their chin, cut like an arrowhead, eventually tilted upward, and they clicked their heels together.

“Our guests typically enjoy drinks prior to the evening meal.” They thrust a skeletal hand toward the marble archway to the left of the staircase. “Occasionally, esteemed guests like to spend their time in the back of the lounge.”

“Thank you.” Puck tugged Bea along.

“But, sir, you’ll—”

The words echoed up into the ceiling, lost to him.

He strutted through the archway, expecting a long corridor, but found a wall of black columns instead, the entrance to a restaurant.

A long, L-shaped bar with an obsidian countertop stretched from the entrance all the way down to the stained-glass windows.

Behind it, a bartender outfitted in all black poured a glass of wine for the man hunched over the countertop.

Puck pushed in, heading for the black booths upholstered in red velvet cushions. He and Bea strutted past the few patrons enjoying glasses of braceberry wine and cutting boards brimming with soft cheeses and fresh-cut sausage. He didn’t know how he was going to find her, had no idea where to start—

Bea grabbed his arm, digging her nails in.

He stopped to look at her, and she pointed to the last booth.

A woman with honey-gold hair and rouged apple cheeks sat facing the window, sipping on a glass of whiskey.

Her lips were a deep crimson, pulled into a subtle, fascinated smile.

The stained glass that bordered her booth reflected the colors on her pale face.

Puck pulled Bea along until they reached the table.

“I’m not sure what about my sitting here suggests I want company,” the woman said, keeping her eyes focused on the window, “but even if I was offering assistance at the moment, I don’t speak with men.”

“Please, I’m not here for me.” Puck nodded at Bea to sit on one of the barstools, then slid into the seat opposite Florence. The woman’s spine went rigid, but she didn’t turn. “My name’s Puck Reed, this is my daughter—”

The woman’s head snapped toward him then, and whatever words he was going to say disintegrated. His brain became a sieve, unable to hold any of his own thoughts or memories. He didn’t know where he was, what he wanted. He wasn’t even sure he knew his own name.

All he knew was the hypnotic pull of her eyes, golden like specks of sunlight on water. And her voice. Her voice was a melody radiating through his body, telling him he was safe. Warm. Loved.

No. Not just loved. Forgiven.

It doesn’t have to be your fault. Her lips didn’t move, but he could feel her voice radiating through his body, a pleasure unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Not here, with me. Don’t you find me beautiful?

He wanted to tell her yes, but his tongue wouldn’t move in his mouth.

In fact, all of his muscles felt like they were made of cotton.

Some part of him knew he should be terrified, but he wasn’t.

A pleasant tingle washed away his fear, promising that if he stayed exactly where he was, staring into her eyes, he’d never be afraid again.

He didn’t feel his legs going numb. He didn’t feel his blood thickening in his veins. His heart slowed, his head growing heavy.

Why don’t you rest, good sir? He wanted that voice to wrap around him, hold him forever. You look so very tired.