Page 40 of Song of the Hell Witch

“Citizens of Welling, bear witness!” Brom’s voice rumbled through the gathering crowd.

“I am here before you, miracle made flesh! I am one of the legion of Zeraphel, a soldier in the Lightbringer’s glorious army, and I have come to cleanse your city of its filth.

My brethren, led by the God-fearing General Hale, are here to rid this world of the evil that has long infected it! ”

Murmurs. Gasps. A few women chuckled, those who no doubt understood how terrible life would be should zealots take over. But then Brom shot them an intimidating glare, and they zipped their mouths shut. The street plunged into silence as he studied them one by one.

Then, with a cruel smile, he gestured down at her. “Behold the Hell Witch, the monstress , come to drag us all into the pit with her.”

Prudence’s magic crackled, an electric ball of humming yarn suspended inside her rib cage.

For the first time in years, she wanted it to fizzle and die.

She wanted to shift back into the helpless girl, if only because the crowd might pity a trapped woman, might forget the wings and see her for what she was: a human being, pinned beneath a monster.

Except a lifetime of starving and thieving had taught her what people did when they saw a desperate soul crying out with their entire being: not a damn thing.

In the end, it wasn’t the Zeraph who ignited her fury but the memory of all those faces who’d passed her by the night Emmaline died. Hungry, shivering, she’d cried out to them, muttering please , praying one of them, just one, would see her, feed her, hold her.

And the only one who had was a boy a few years older than her, with nothing to give except himself and a smile. And that boy was in the room upstairs, weakened and alone.

If she didn’t move, if she didn’t fight, he would die. He might be dead already.

No. He isn’t dead. And he won’t die. You won’t let him.

The tune crescendoed in her ears, drowning out all other sound.

Then, like the stars the Dark Mother had supposedly called down to help her fight the Zeraphel, the ones that had combined with the Spectabra crystals and birthed the first Hell Witches, the heat and light and energy rushed outward, surging through her body until she was convinced it was all she’d ever been.

Her wing was still injured, but the pain revived her rather than limiting her. Her talons curled over her nails, and while the beak knocked behind her nose, she refused it. She wanted him to remember her face.

The face of the woman who would destroy him.

“You want a monstress?” Teeth bared, heart pounding, she dug her talons into the Zeraph’s chest. He cried out, wings beating at the air, lifting her onto her feet. “I’ll show you a monstress.”

The knife punched through the muscles of Puck’s ruined shoulder, and he learned exactly how much he didn’t know about pain.

Unbearable heat sizzled through the wound.

The agony, centered around the edges of the knife, rippled through his chest and down his arm.

The black at the edges of his vision closed in, then exploded out, fading into a golden confetti that rained down in front of him.

Paris heaved on top of him, like he was caught between wanting to laugh and needing to vomit.

Puck’s mind teetered back and forth: Pull it out. Leave it in. Pull it out, leave it …

Away. You need to get away, right the fuck now.

He scrambled back, his legs still gaining strength. Eventually, he hit one of the white-paneled walls. Using it as support, he kicked himself to his feet. His knees threatened to collapse, but he braced himself against the wall.

“That … that monster you’re protecting, she’s unholy. Unclean. ” Paris circled wide, like he believed he could beat Puck to the door, block his way out. “Not only did she kill my brother, she condemned him. Are you really willing to risk your soul for a creature like that?”

“Oh, mate.” Puck’s laugh was shallow but sincere. “If the Lightbringer’s the one and only, my soul was forfeit a long time ago.”

And like the Lord Himself wanted to send him a sign, to tell him he was right, a halo of white-hot pain erupted from the blade.

Puck screamed and seized the hilt, his head a constant refrain of get it out, get it out, get it out .

He knew pulling it out might kill him, that the blade was acting as a plug.

But the pain was unbearable.

He wrested the knife from his arm. Blood bloomed on his shirt. Sick bubbled in his throat, and the room tilted, the black and white teetering up and down, as if he were stuck on a storm-caught ship.

Paris found his nerve right as the world snapped into clarity.

The man ran at him, a caged beast set loose.

He grabbed Puck by the collar, sending another shock of pain through his shoulder.

But it jarred something awake, a primal sort of energy he’d never felt before.

He embraced it as Paris dragged him away from the wall.

Tightening his hold on the knife, he leaned in with his good shoulder and drove the scrawny Silk forward, catapulting them both onto the floor again.

The injury screamed on impact, and every nerve in Puck’s body burned, finally warning him he was in danger three minutes into the fight.

Puck squeezed the knife with everything he had left. Don’t you lose it, Puck. You lose the blade, you fucking die.

Shrieks rang out from below the broken window, and both men froze.

“It’s true. All of it is true!” one voice shouted. “Praise Him!”

“A Hell Witch! Ellie, run home, now!”

“They’re back! Lightbringer save us all …”

A wild caw. A shadow, playing across the room.

Pru.

“He’s done it. Just as Hale predicted. Just like in Talonsbury.” The zealotry burned bright in Paris’s eyes as he looked down at Puck. “This is the beginning, Brother. The beginning of a new world order, born here in Leora.”

A world without Pru. A world without Bea. A country cleansed in fire.

A strange, paralyzing hum spasmed down his spine. He didn’t think he should move. Or … no, it wasn’t that he shouldn’t move, it was that he didn’t want to move. Did he?

Do you?

Bea. He imagined her dancing through Silk Square when she was four, her patchwork skirt lifting up as she twirled beside her mother.

The image knocked him free of whatever had taken hold of him.

Determination reinvigorated, he bucked his hips, hitting Paris hard in the groin.

Shoulder shredded, head swimming, he stumbled to his feet and broke for the door.

He was there, good arm reaching for the handle, when fingers clawed at his hair. His neck strained as Paris wrenched him backward. At first, he wanted to give in, to surrender to the pain and the fatigue. To let go.

But Pru was somewhere outside, fending off a creature imbued with some sort of magic amidst a mob baying for blood.

Get to her, Puck. Help her.

Gripping the dagger, he turned—and as he plunged the knife in the direction of Paris Talonsbury’s neck, an invisible lash struck him down.

It wasn’t a voice but a feeling, one that lit up the nerves in his brain, his spine, his arms. His hand spasmed like it had a mind of its own, and the blade clattered to the floor, useless. He moved to pick it up, but it was as if he were soldered to the floor, his entire body frozen in place.

Paris scrambled out from underneath him, his back slamming into the door, his face caught somewhere between confusion and relief. His gaze jumped to the knife.

“Extraordinary,” he whispered, and Puck didn’t like how his lips pulled into yet another smile, one that resembled the smile a child wore the evening before Apostletide when they knew they would wake the next morning to cinnamon cakes and a smattering of gifts and butterscotch cocoa for breakfast. “So quick. He’s worked God’s will, he truly has. ”

Without another word, Paris grabbed the knife. He pressed the tip of the blade into his palm, calling up a bloom of blood.

“Now, he will see my value. He will deem me worthy.”

Puck wanted to move, to chase after him as he walked out the door like a man who’d come for some pleasant visit. But his legs were fixed in place. His muscles wouldn’t respond as he begged them Please, please, if I don’t stop him, things will only get worse .

And as Paris’s footsteps faded down the corridor, another, more terrible thought entered his mind: He did something. Something’s wrong.

With me.

Groans and shrieks drifted up through the open window.

He tried his pinkie finger first and found he could finally move it.

But it wasn’t until minutes later—minutes Paris had probably used to disappear into the crowd—that his body relaxed.

He could move again. As much as he wanted to sit for a moment, to figure out what was going on inside him, he knew he didn’t have time.

Paris had escaped. Prudence needed his help.

And so, even as the pain tore through his shoulder, even as the dread weighed him down, Puck rose to his feet and raced for the stairs.

Despite the magic singing in her veins, Prudence couldn’t fly.

She dug her talons in harder, her only line of defense against Brom.

The Zeraph howled as the two of them ascended over the rooftops, but he was stronger than she was.

Closing his hands around her arms, he shoved her away from him, jerking himself free of her grasp.

She flapped her wings, tried to stay aloft, but the pain was too much.

She plummeted back to the cobbles and landed hard, biting her tongue, scraping her elbows before coming to rest in a heap.

Hot blood filled her mouth, and she spewed crimson onto the stones.

The townspeople, at once frightened and fascinated, pressed against the sides of the buildings. Some plopped down on the hotel’s marble steps, huddled together in clusters, pointing at her like she was some kind of spectacle.