Page 39 of Song of the Hell Witch

Twenty

The sensation woke Prudence first, a vibration that started in her ankles and rang up into her skull.

At first, she thought it might be another Lady, arriving at the hotel to help guide her and Puck to Stormlash.

But as she blinked her eyes opened, she realized it was nothing like her tune, melodic and relaxing.

This was atonal and harsh, grating at her nerves.

And its familiarity flooded her veins with cold.

The taste of sour milk coated her tongue. She sat straight up in bed and seized hold of Puck’s shoulder.

He moaned, still half asleep. “What …”

There was barely time to grab hold of him before the window glass shattered and the Zeraph and Paris crashed into the room, Paris dangling from the winged man’s arms.

“Down!” she screamed, tugging them both onto the hardwood floor.

Her elbows and hips screamed at her, bones aching with the impact, but she didn’t have time for pain.

Beside her, Puck grunted, his movements still sluggish and weak.

Worry threatened to pull her into a panic storm.

How could he fight if he could barely move? How would he survive?

Focus on the threat in front of you. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to stand.

On the other side of the bed, shards of glass scattered at their feet, Paris and Brom both grinned like wolves who’d cornered a doe.

There was no time to think. Rage fused with instinct, and her wings shredded the back of the nightgown. Her talons and beak sprang forth, and while she wanted to tear into Paris, rip him limb from limb, she lunged at Brom instead.

The Zeraph was ready for her. His feet left the floor, and as she collided with him, he caught her around the waist and knocked her back to the ground.

She used the momentum in her hips to push them into a roll, and pieces of glass bit into the bare skin on her back as they barreled through the open window.

Prudence’s head spun. She tried to kick away from him, to regain control as they fell toward the street. But Brom grabbed both of her wings at the place where they met her shoulder blades. With a force unlike anything she’d ever felt before, he wrenched the joints up, then pulled down hard.

Pain cut a jagged line down her back, branching into the tip of her wings.

She couldn’t fly, couldn’t think, she could only scream as together they plummeted to the cobbles.

Her wings broke her fall, and fire erupted through her body.

One wing was bent the wrong way, pinned beneath her weight and the weight of the creature on top of her.

Out of her periphery, she watched people crowd against the sides of the buildings and gather on the steps of the hotel, frozen in fear and fascination.

“Is that a Zeraph?” she heard one man ask. “One of the Lightbringer’s soldiers?”

“God,” a woman uttered. “He’s … he’s real ! The Lightbringer’s real!”

Brom hovered into view above her, his hands crushing her wrists to the street.

His teeth clicked together in a straight, white line, an all-too-perfect smile.

His halo of curls shone golden in the sunlight.

The boy he’d been no longer existed. This creature was too perfect—exactly like an angel crafted by the Lightbringer to smite the Dark Mother’s Daughters and purify the world.

Yet even now, with her at his mercy, he didn’t reach for the ivory blade tucked into the sheath at his waist.

“What … what do you want?” Each word was a stab of pain spearing through her back.

“Come now, Hell Witch.” He bent slowly, pressing his mouth to her ear. “Show these people what you are.”

Face down on a remarkably soft rug, Puck Reed knew he was going to die. Through the space under the bed, he watched Prudence sprint toward Brom. She plowed into him, and his pale, bare feet left the floor. There was a crash, glass raining down on wood. Stray pieces sliced at his face.

But it was the steady thud of boots that frightened him the most. Someone else was in the room, someone moving at a snail’s pace, content to take their time. After all, in his current state, Puck wasn’t much of a threat. Why rush?

Come on, mate. Move. Fucking move.

“Puck Reed. The infamous Talonsbury Thief Lord.” Paris Talonsbury sounded more like a puff adder than a man, each word a high-pitched hiss.

Puck had never respected Frederick, exactly, but Paris?

Paris was lower than a worm, a weakling second son with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove.

“Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised a criminal like you has defied the Light in favor of an abomination.

But fear not. After today you will be a vessel for the Lord. Redeemed and remade in His image.”

Puck wasn’t sure what any of that meant, but he knew it couldn’t be good. He lifted his head, and while he was stronger than he’d been yesterday morning, he still felt like his muscles were threaded out of wool.

Ahead of him, the black door’s lacquer gleamed like some kind of savior.

There was no way he could get there fast enough, no way he could beat Paris there.

Still, he wasn’t going to die without trying.

Grunting, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, then scrambled to his feet.

He made it three steps before his knees gave out and he collapsed back down onto all fours.

“Such a tragedy. A legend like you, laid so low.” Paris inhaled like a man seduced, creeping ever closer.

“But then the second chapter of the Epistle’s second book says that in our darkest hour, the Lightbringer will reveal us for who we are, strip us of those qualities we thought made us invincible so that we might know our true strength and find salvation in His glory. ”

Puck released a tired laugh, forcing his reply out in huffs. “You … realize … that makes … no sense, right? I got attacked by a succubus, not damned by God.”

And like some miracle, his exhausted heart began to pound, each pulse a sucker punch to the back of his ribs. Blood flooded his ears, and with it came adrenaline, reviving him beat by glorious beat. Copper coated his mouth. Light burst in front of his eyes.

He thought of Bea, her sweet smile, her freckled cheeks, her bright-red hair. His healthy little girl, waiting for him. There were too many things left unsaid. Too many things he still had to see her do.

He wouldn’t let her become an orphan.

Maybe he couldn’t make it to the door in time. But he could fight back.

Shouting with his whole chest, he pitched onto his back.

Paris’s black marble eyes went wide with surprise, and he stumbled, flipping the dagger in his right hand. His thin black hair curled like a helmet around his head, which looked all too big for his skinny neck.

His righteous grin quivered once, like it was about to collapse. Then, to Puck’s horror, it spread wider. “Good. I want you to stare me in the face as I bring you your salvation.”

He gripped the dagger in a closed fist, the blade pointed straight down. Amateur. But Puck noticed Paris had swapped his loose black garments for one of Hale’s sleek black cloaks. Black leather boots hugged his scrawny calves. His riding pants were fresh ivory. He’d bathed. Changed.

Which meant he and the Zeraph had stalked them with ease, biding their time. Puck shuddered; had they seen Bea skulk off with Mari and Florence? What exactly did they know?

It didn’t matter. They wanted to wipe out women like Pru, women like Bea . Rage splintered through Puck’s body—and then the light caught on Paris’s ivory blade, and he remembered how much danger he was actually in.

“If you’re gonna kill me, you better do it.” His heels scuffed against the floor, his wool socks never gaining purchase. “I’m a quick bastard when I need to be.”

“Oh, this isn’t about killing you,” Paris said.

“This is about deliverance. About rebirth and redemption. Even Groundlings like you make excellent cannon fodder in an army controlled by one mind. What good are you dead when you could make us stronger? Become one with our force?” He made the sign of Galahad’s sword across his chest, a sign only zealots used anymore.

“May He bathe us in His mercy and His Light.”

Then, with the speed of an avenging angel, he lunged, catching Puck around the throat.

And before Puck could move, kick, fight back, Paris brought the blade down.

The torn tendons and ligaments in Prudence’s left wing shifted as the Zeraph bore down harder.

Her beak and talons peeled back as the power retreated inside her, but the wings stayed, like her body couldn’t take back what was broken.

Warmth fled her fingertips, her cheeks, all of her heat retreating into her chest, where it set her heart on fire.

Beyond the Zeraph’s shoulder, the rooftops cut a jagged pattern into the stark blue sky. Around them, blurs of muted color reminded her they had an audience. All of East Welling, come to witness Brom’s little horror show.

She knew now that this was what he wanted.

To capture the Faithful’s fear and make it swell.

To lay ground for Maximus Hale to come in and proclaim that not only were the Apostles not doing enough, but he had the power of the Lightbringer’s true warriors on his side.

Only the Zeraphel could deliver them from the evil threatening to take Leora over, laid bare as it was by both the suffragettes begging for liberty and the resurgence of murderous Hell Witches like her.

No one dared come closer. They all stood on the periphery, transfixed, as though this were a performance and she a player, the production’s villain laid low by the hero.