Page 46 of Song of the Hell Witch

Paris Talonsbury had never doubted he was made for a greater purpose, but now he knew . Many would have called his brother’s death—and every event that had transpired since—blind luck. Others simply would have called him a fool. But he knew all of this was divine intervention.

He gave thanks to the Lightbringer as he flexed his new wings, relishing the wind on his cheeks, the sense that he was part of some higher plan.

He circled the city of Welling once, then perched atop the abbey’s bell tower to look down at the shadow-draped streets.

What a wonder mankind was, to have designed such a tremendous city.

Blasphemous thought, he reminded himself. What a wonder the Lightbringer was, to have created a creature so capable of order and imagination.

Duke Talonsbury. General Hale’s voice rang clear as a bell through his mind. You are needed in my quarters.

The command traveled through every sinew and fiber in his body, weaving into a desire so strong he didn’t have to think at all.

His wings lifted him off the rooftop on their own, and he coasted down into Welling’s main square.

A few late-night stragglers clinging to the storefronts startled, and while some lingered to stare at the marvel of him, others sprinted off in fear.

“Be not afraid,” he told those who chose to stay. “We are God’s warriors, and we fight for you.”

He watched them toy with the thought. A woman who’d grabbed hold of her son let the boy go, her face brightening at the concept that the nightmare of postwar Leora, with its protests, its uncertainty, its weakness, was over.

Yes, he wanted to tell her. Your saviors have arrived.

As he marched toward the abbey, a prickling sensation crawled up and down his spine. It was Hale’s frustration with him, the unspoken demand: Heed my order.

He quickened his steps, his bare feet numb to the cold, rain-soaked cobbles.

Another unexpected consequence of his transformation: He’d lost some of his more human sensations.

His skin felt more like marble than flesh, and while he could still taste some foods, the flavors had dulled.

He could only discern whether something was salty, sour, or sweet.

He marched past the stone pyre that stood outside every abbey in the country, the centerpiece between the two scaffolds he and some of the other Zeraphel had built. Most of his Brothers were gone now, scattered to other parts of the country so they could bring Hale’s good news to the people.

He approached the abbey’s double doors, and with a strength he’d never possessed as a human, he grabbed hold of their iron handles and wrenched them open.

The Sanctuary burned amber with candlelight, the new recruits seated in the first few pews.

Their heads were bowed in prayer, and Paris had half a mind to walk in, to speak of the glory that would be their transformation.

Granted, they would be Low Zeraphel, with little ability to do as they wished, their thoughts and feelings tied to those of their commander and General Hale.

As a High Zeraphel, Paris answered only to Hale—and still had the ability to make his own decisions, so long as they were in service to the Lightbringer and the people of Leora.

Paris. His name echoed off the walls of the Sanctuary.

The new recruits paid it no mind, unable to hear it just yet.

Their transformation would happen that evening, when Hale would bring forth the pair of young Hell Witches they’d found in some nothing village outside of Welling.

He’d conduct the ritual in the Sanctuary, purifying their blood before extracting it to create the elixir that made Zeraphel possible.

His own transformation had happened courtesy of the Hell Witch they’d captured in Talonsbury.

Paris hurried down the corridor that ran alongside the Sanctuary, drawing his wide wings in so as not to brush the pillars guarding the main room.

He hadn’t expected the wings to be so large—and he’d thought he’d be able to retract them, tuck them away.

Then again, he didn’t need to hide what he was.

The wings marked him as a warrior. One of the Lightbringer’s chosen.

But they were a bit unwieldy.

He passed through the doors and entered the cloisters, which bordered the abbey’s courtyard.

At its center was a rather beautiful garden the Apostles had cultivated over the years, bursting with winter roses, snowbells, and indigo thistle, seasonal flora probably planted a few weeks before Hale arrived in the city.

Hale planned to turn it into a training yard for new Zeraphel.

At the end of the cloisters, an archway led directly into a stone staircase, far too narrow to fit through even if he pulled his wings in tight. He did as Hale had instructed, forcing his wings to drape over his shoulders like a traveling cloak.

As he wound his way up the steps, he could feel Hale’s influence taking hold, his tune—the Thrall—ringing through his ears, down his spine, into his arms and legs. It quelled a little as he pushed open the door to the chamber.

The general wasn’t alone. One of the former acolytes, devoted to the Faith enough to join them but too sickly to become a Zeraph, was administering a serum through a syringe similar to the one Hale had used to turn Paris only hours ago.

“Duke Talonsbury,” the general said, bowing to the acolyte in thanks.

The boy drew the needle out of Hale’s arm and quickly fled the room, leaving the syringe resting on top of the desk.

Hale remained perfectly still, the candles’ tiny flames dancing in his dark eyes.

“I thought perhaps you’d gone rogue on me. I do not enjoy waiting.”

“My apologies, sir. I was merely surveying the city. Testing my abilities. I …” Could he lie to the general? Now was the time to test it. “I did not realize how far I’d drifted from the abbey.”

Hale nodded once … which meant the lie had worked. “And how do you find your … evolution ? Is it everything you hoped it would be?”

“Oh, everything and more, sir. And I’ve had a thought.

” He peeked over Hale’s head, where a giant map depicting Leora, the Spindle Isles, Visage, and Belacanto stretched out across the once-sterile wall.

Welling, centered in the northern part of the country, was the focal point of a web Hale had begun to sketch, with charcoal lines stretching out to the towns and villages they’d claimed for the Lightbringer.

In the south, Talonsbury sat waiting, circled but not yet brought into the fold. That was the role Hale needed him to play. The duke who could bring Leora’s most important city to heel.

But Paris wanted to show him he could do more than deliver Talonsbury to him. He’d created an opportunity with Puck Reed, one they could use to cleanse the country of the Hell Witches’ influence once and for all.

“Yes. I’ve heard your thoughts,” Hale said. “And I’ve summoned you here to tell you to stand down.”

No, you … you didn’t hear that right. “Sir, Puck Reed gives us a chance to—”

“It is not the right time.” The general didn’t move.

He didn’t raise his voice. And yet Paris had never felt more terrified in his life.

“Make no mistake, the time will come when we need to root out these demons and show the people of Leora we have delivered them from evil. But there is not enough fear yet. You’ve done well, making the duchess an enemy.

But it would be a waste to attack the Hell Witches before we have the forces to not only eliminate them but use their deaths as a rallying cry. ”

“What do you mean, sir? We have the new recruits, recruits I can prepare—”

“Have you ever fought a Hell Witch?” For the first time, Hale leaned forward, his eyes pulling into snakelike slits.

“Do you know what it is to come up against that kind of power? Yes, we have the Thrall, but they are cunning. Evil. Designed to kill all that is good in this world. And you, dear Duke, have only just learned how to glide through the air. So do not come to me with grand schemes when you’ve yet to prove yourself capable of anything more than stumbling into opportunity and giving street sermons to scared women . ”

Suddenly, Paris was that boy in the snow all those years ago, the one who had tumbled off his horse and proven to his father he would never be a man. “I … sir, you said yourself, you’ve been hunting this coven for ages.”

“Yes. And you’ve managed to give me the tools I need to finally locate them.

I thank you for that.” Hale pressed his hands flat against the desk and pushed himself to standing.

“But I am telling you, once we discover where they are, you wait for my command. I have a vision. And you will execute it to my liking, is that clear?”

“I …”

It was swift. One moment, Hale was behind the desk. The next, he clutched Paris’s jaw between his hands. The Thrall struck every thought in Paris’s mind silent, numbing him until he thought himself a black void, designed only to wield this man’s will.

“Heed me, boy .” The general spat the word in his face. “I am your commanding officer, and you will fall in line, or so help me, I will mark you a traitor to your God and punish you as such.”

The weight in Paris’s tongue eased up enough for him to mutter, “Y-yes, sir.”

Hale released him, his face inscrutable. “My will is not to be questioned, Duke Talonsbury. For it is the will of the Lightbringer. He is the one who speaks orders to me.”

“Of course, General Hale,” Paris said, recovering more of his voice by the second.

“I … I will do as you command.” His eyes fell back to the map—to Talonsbury.

How would the people ever respect him if he could not bring his brother’s killer to justice?

“But what of Prudence? What if she finds these Ladies of Leora?”

“Then let her,” Hale said as he took his place in front of the map, stone still as he studied it.

“The witches will burn, that I assure you. But all of this depends on timing and presentation. As the Lightbringer’s Chosen, we cannot be seen acting on personal vendettas or insecurities.

When we strike them down, it will be because it is what the people want us to do. What they have prayed for us to do.”

But you don’t know the nobility like I do. What they will think if I return to the city without Prudence in hand.

If I’m going to be the province master in the South and show them what a true servant of the Lightbringer looks like …

He buried the thought beneath a memory he’d conjured, him and Frederick riding horses through an open field at dusk. General Hale did not speak again, and Paris felt the Thrall release him, as though Hale needed to devote his energy somewhere else.

“Was there anything else you needed, sir?” Paris asked, clicking his heels together like he’d seen so many soldiers do. Hale didn’t turn around.

“This one you marked for us. You said he’s rebellious?”

“He’s a thief, sir. Ducked the draft more than once. Has a way of rallying people behind him.”

Hale let out a “Hmm.”

“Something intriguing, sir?”

“These past few months, my life has been filled to the brim with compliant sycophants.” He sounded curious. Like a cat seeing a mouse for the first time. “I’ll need to brush up on how to crush rebellion. Strong minds are … particularly useful, once they belong to you.”

Perhaps if he’d chosen different words, Paris would have fallen in line. But he saw Hale’s statement as a challenge. A subtle command. Show me what you’re made of.

I will, sir. He kept the thought buried beneath the same scene, Frederick’s laughter echoing over the field as he raced ahead of him. I’ll show you what a brilliant leader I can be.