Page 31 of Song of the Hell Witch

Sixteen

Prudence thought Marigold might actually murder Puck once they found him. “This is just like him, you know?” She pushed up onto her tiptoes, peeking over the heads of the crowd. “Rushing into things without thinking them through. It’s what got his shoulder all fucked, why he got arrested for …”

Pru held her breath, waiting for Mari to finish the sentence.

But Mari’s mind had caught up with her mouth. “You know, the whole burning-draft-cards thing.”

It was definitely more than burning draft cards, but who’s got time to press that right now?

“People go mad when they’re desperate,” she said to fill the space, then took a passing glance at the skies, ever prepared for Brom and his bat-like wings to appear over the rooftops.

She raked a hand through her hair, still shocked by its short length, how boyish it made her feel. “But he always has a plan, right?”

“Things changed after Jocelyn died. He’s … I don’t know, scattered or something.”

They turned the corner—and gawked up at the hotel. With its black spires and blood-red doors, it was both beautiful and terrifying. Prudence wondered if the architect intended for it to be the antithesis of an Apostle’s abbey, dripping with colors associated with the Dark Mother.

“Can you feel anything?” Marigold asked as they approached the entrance, reminding Prudence of the tune, the connection she’d shared with Imogen.

She pushed deeper into her body, listening like she had back in Marigold’s townhome.

There was something faint, similar to the whistle Silks used to summon foxhounds.

She couldn’t quite make out the melody, but the power flirted with her own, like fingertips brushing the surface of a pond.

If the other Hell Witch could sense her, she didn’t show it.

Her magic was concentrated on a single point, dedicated to another task.

Prudence’s stomach plunged into her toes.

“We need to get inside.” She charged ahead, Marigold at her heels. Bursting through the front doors, they rushed into the lobby and headed for the front desk.

“Welcome to the Great Borealis, dear ones.” The stranger behind the desk caught Prudence by surprise; their thunderous voice didn’t match their thin, elegant frame. “I’m Arcadie, the owner of this establishment. May I help you?”

“A few minutes ago, a man came in.” Prudence forgot her deep voice, the whole pretense of acting like a man. The words tumbled out one after the other, and she willed herself to slow down. “A man with a young girl.”

“Real pushy,” Marigold added. “Bit panicked.”

The hotelier’s eyes darted left and right before settling on Prudence once more. “Was he a hyper-looking gentleman? With a redheaded girl suffering from Subversal?”

“Yes, that one!” Prudence said.

“He said he was looking for a Hell Witch, though I myself don’t use that particular term.” The hotel owner hinged at the hips and tilted the monocle toward Pru. “Are you all looking for one as well, good sir ?” Prudence could hear the jest in their voice.

Marigold squeezed between them, pressing herself against the desk. “Look, we’re in a bit of a hurry. The girl, she’s—”

“Not well,” the hotel owner finished for her.

“That much was obvious.” Straightening the collar of their magnificent blazer, the hotelier lifted their chin and straightened up.

“I directed your friend to the restaurant.” They gestured to the left.

“Heed my warning, though, please. The lady in residence today, Madame Florence, gets particularly annoyed when she is interrupted, either while working or at leisure. And your friend seemed determined to … interrupt .”

“Stubborn bastard,” Marigold huffed.

“Come on.” Prudence pulled Mari left, ignoring her weak legs, the hollow feeling in her bones, all signs she was too tired to take on much of anything.

Together the two of them half sprinted, half shuffled under the leftmost archway, which almost immediately opened out into the restaurant. They raced along the side of the bar.

“Puck?” Prudence ignored the bartender barking at them to slow down. They dodged servers who came around the corner carrying trays of fresh-baked bread and olive oil, imported from Belacanto, no doubt.

“Pru, can’t you just feel—”

They rounded the corner. At the end of the bar, Bea stood frozen beside the last booth, arms hugged in tight, rocking on her heels.

Her mouth opened and closed, like she was trying to scream but kept choking on the sound.

Her head jerked up, and the vein in her neck, putrid green, throbbed as if to burst. Then, as violently as it tilted up, her chin snapped back down, the beginnings of a convulsion.

“Bea!” Mari shouted, but Prudence stayed her arm. Something was wrong, terribly wrong—and unless they wanted their journey to end right here, they had to be far more careful than Puck had been.

The back of Puck’s head poked up over the booth. He didn’t turn when Mari called his name, his focus trained on the woman opposite him. She sat with her elbows propped up on the table, her round chin resting atop steepled fingers.

This close, Prudence felt the woman’s tune in her own marrow, slow and seductive, a blend of the lullabies she’d heard as a child and the sweet nothings of a lover, safety and desire wrapped into one.

It invited her in, promising her there was nothing to see, willing her to turn away.

But Bea clawed at the back of her nightgown as though she wanted to rip it from her back, and Prudence found her strength again.

“Puck!” she shouted, rushing toward the table.

He sat slumped in his seat, mouth open in apparent awe as he stared at the woman, his eyes glossed over. His face was white, but a web of mottled purple broke along his cheeks, spread down his neck. His fingertips and lips were a deep, bruised blue.

“Mari, take Bea and go,” Prudence commanded. “Don’t look at her.”

“Ah, so you’ve dealt with a succubus before, then.” The woman’s words vibrated in Prudence’s teeth. Her painted lips spread into a cruel smile, and something between a croak and a laugh escaped her. Marigold tried to pull Bea away, but she was rooted to the spot, odd sounds hitching in her throat.

“Puck.” Prudence took his arm, determined to pull him out of the succubus’s spell. He continued to stare, completely enthralled.

“Tell me, Sister, how often do you allow men to interrupt you while you’re enjoying some hard-won peace, hmm?” The succubus turned to Prudence, and a peculiar memory came back to her.

Once, in Belacanto, she’d met a man with a pet viper.

He was a mercenary from Rainier, one of the countries on the continent’s southern coast that was almost entirely rainforest. As they lay naked in her sweltering room, he’d told her he’d smuggled a creature across two countries’ borders because it was too beautiful to let go.

“It’s here with me,” he’d said. “Would you like to see it?”

It wasn’t good business practice to tell a client no, so she’d waited under the covers, curious and apprehensive, as he reached for his bag.

Slowly, he drew out a basket secured with a golden lock, and he opened it to reveal a snake coiled at the bottom, its scales the color of Vivichi market limes, its eyes red and horned and slit by soulless pupils.

The snake had reared its head, opened its mouth to bare its dripping fangs, and a heart-rending fear took over, paralyzing her.

That fear seized her again as she stared at the succubus.

Imogen had been stunning, but this woman, Lady Florence, looked even more like the succubi depicted in paintings, with lustrous skin and elegant curves that filled out her crimson dress.

When she pried her fingers apart and set them on the table, Prudence noted her onyx nails, glossy in the restaurant’s candlelight.

Prudence balled her hands into fists at her sides, her own nails digging into her palms. She wanted to attack the woman, wrap her talons around her throat, but she didn’t want to incur more of her wrath.

Not with Puck’s life on the line.

“Please,” Prudence started. At least Florence looked intrigued.

“He wasn’t trying to spite you; he’s just desperate.

Look.” She gestured to Bea, still lost inside her fit, her jaw hinging and unhinging.

“This is his daughter. You can see the Subversal, you can feel it, I know you can. Please, we’re just asking for your help. ”

“Perhaps if he’d listened when I told him to come back later, I might have entertained the thought.” Florence leaned back in her chair, pressing her spine against the seat back. Her face softened a little. Prudence didn’t dare to hope. “Bit late for that now.”

Puck sucked in a strained breath and fell forward. Prudence moved without thought, catching him before he could fall. She pushed him back, pinning him against the booth.

“Puck? Puck!” Straddling his lap, Prudence slapped him hard across the face. His skin was ice. “Come back,” she begged him, using the words he’d said to draw her out of the nightmare. “Come back to me.”

Florence lifted the wineglass off the table and took a sip, popping her lips as she set it back down. “Difficult to rouse them when their hearts get that slow.”

“Puck, you listen to me …” Prudence had started to lift his chin off his chest, to slap him again, when Marigold shouted behind her.

“Bea!”

Prudence whipped around. Against the bar, Bea doubled over, her hands pressed tight against her ears. Her knees collapsed and she fell to the floor hard. Mari dropped down beside her, eyes wide, completely lost for what to do, how to save either of them.

The succubus sipped her wine.

“Let him go,” Prudence demanded. She felt the succubus’s tune, and rather than bristle against it, she invited it in, allowed it to feed her own power. “I’m one of you.”

“Yes, I know. And your power’s exhausted.” Florence smirked at her. “I can tell.”

“And what about helping your Sisters, hmm? What about that ?”