Page 47 of Song of the Hell Witch

Twenty-Four

Puck had never been a patient person. It was part of what made him an effective Thief Lord; the River Rats were used to ineffective leadership, to the House of Lords either dragging their feet when they needed aid or flat out refusing to help.

When Puck took up Standish’s mantle, he decided the Podge and its Groundlings were done waiting.

If parents needed medicine for their sick kids, he’d find out when the next medical ship was coming into port and get a crew to smuggle the elixirs to the Curiosity Shop.

If families needed potatoes to last them through the winter or fine goods to trade at market so they could feed themselves for a week or two, he’d make it happen.

His impatience was what had made his stints in Hornsgate—ten months of a lifetime sentence for murder and a six-month stint for ducking the draft and burning draft cards—akin to physical torture.

It was that same impatience that turned his blood to dragon fire as they edged closer to Stormlash.

Add to it the persistent pain rippling outward from his stab wound and unyielding forced proximity with a woman who’d both broken his heart and given him hope that perhaps their story wasn’t over, and he felt like he was one rough rapid away from combustion.

“Mr. Reed,” Arcadie whispered early on the third morning, only a few hours after they’d left yet another set of caverns outfitted with luxurious accommodations.

He and Pru had shared a bed again, and he could still feel the imprint of her head against his shoulder, the warmth of her body curled against his.

But his worry had kept him from touching her the way he’d wanted to.

Now, as she slumbered at the front of the boat, he envied her.

How nice it must be, not to know the unique agony of being a parent.

“What is it, Arcadie?” Puck wiped the grit from his eyes. His shoulder twinged, and he clenched his jaw against the pain. Blood poisoning. Pru’s diagnosis rang in his ears.

He’d take that over some strange infection that slowly corroded his soul, which was exactly what he’d feared when Paris first drove the blade into his skin.

“You see this bend up ahead?” Arcadie tugged the oar through the water, shifting them into the center of the current.

“Once we round it …” But they trailed off as the river guided them around the curve and pushed them out into the sunlight.

After so many days in the dark, the brightness seared Puck’s eyes.

He shielded them against the light but refused to close them completely.

He wanted to look at the place where his daughter had been these last few days.

What he really wanted was to see her there, her little feet carrying her along the riverbank, her red hair flowing in the wind, shouting his name in that fierce voice of hers.

Be realistic, mate, come on.

The smell of wet clay and brackish water gave way to sweet mountain air and burning wood. Birdsong trilled through the air, echoing from the forest on the left side of the river.

Finally, his eyes adjusted, and he picked his head up and took in the scene before him.

Two stone statues as tall as castle towers stood ahead of them, guardians of a river gate that had rotted away centuries ago.

Their sculptors had taken time to carve flowers in the long, loose waves of hair that flowed down their bare shoulders.

Their arms were decorated in stone vines that spiraled all the way down to their wrists.

They wore smooth, sleek gowns that poured down to their ankles, and their noses and ears were more pointed than those of a human woman.

“Naiads,” Arcadie explained, no doubt reading the look on his face as he tried to figure out what he was looking at.

“Too big for Galahad and his men to destroy after they killed the Druids and drove the Daughters into hiding some nine centuries ago. You know, some of the women in the hamlet live here simply so they can worship the Dark Mother and the earth spirits in peace, protected by the sole remains of their religion.”

“I’ve read a few books about the Druids. The ones I could get my hands on, anyway.” Talking distracted him from the fact that he still couldn’t see Stormlash. “But I don’t know much. Obviously, I know the Dark Mother’s their goddess, so to speak, but that’s about as far as my knowledge goes.”

“Oh, it was a beautiful religion.” Arcadie grunted as they drove the oar into the water, giving the boat a good shove forward.

“Simple, too, and perfect in its simplicity. The Druids believed the Dark Mother made the earth, then left it to the spirits to keep it all in balance. Naiads for the rivers, sprites for the air, wood nymphs for the forests.”

Puck’s knees began to bounce despite his best efforts to keep them still. “And they, uh … they still believed they were around, just invisible?”

“No. They believed that eventually the spirits relinquished their hold on this plane. Left their magics in the Spectabra crystals and returned to their Mother, somewhere among the stars. But the Druids always thought it was the crystals that gave the Daughters their power. They called them Spectabra Daughters, back before the word witch existed, back before the Apostles created their Hell. And to honor the life they’d been given, the Druids celebrated every change of the seasons, every natural transition, thanking their creator for more time on this wondrous earth she made for all of us. ”

Puck scoffed. “Wonder what she thinks of it now that we’ve royally fucked it.”

“My guess? She’s right pissed with all of us.”

The two of them shared a laugh as they passed through the gate—and there it was.

Stormlash, or at least the hamlet at its base, surrounded by a short stone wall that looked as old as the country itself.

The river collected into what he thought was a lake at first. Then, straight ahead, he spotted a cavern gaping at the base of a mountain like an open mouth, the river flowing into it like a blue tongue.

Along the left bank, the forest continued, a swath of pine trees weaving into a wilderness. But it was the houses spiraling up the green hillside on the rightmost embankment that made his heart flutter.

Up at the top, he could make out two black spires puncturing the sky.

Careful not to rock the boat, he crawled over to where Pru lay.

Her dark hair, shorter but still soft as silk, had fallen into her face.

Her mouth was slightly open, lips parted, like she needed to whisper a secret to someone.

Part of him wanted to tilt her chin up, to kiss her awake the way he used to so she could drift softly out of the dream.

He placed a hand on her shoulder instead. “Pru.”

She startled awake, fists bared like she was ready for a fight. He threw his hands up, hoping the visual cue might be enough to jar her out of the lingering nightmare and remind her where she was.

“It’s just me.” Slowly, he put his hands down, and her shoulders relaxed. “Frederick again?”

She nodded. “He was …” Her hand went to her throat. “He was strangling me.” Blinking the dream away, she looked around. “Where are …”

“We’re here.”

She blinked again, then squinted at him, her mouth pressing into a concerned frown. “Are you okay?”

“What, do I not look like my normal, fun-loving self?”

“You look like death.”

“Oh, thank you.” He forced a smile, hoping that might reassure her.

She merely cocked one of those vicious brows. “You’re dodging the question.”

He sighed. “I’m fine. Probably feel a lot better than I look.”

Truth be told, he felt like there were a ton of steel insects crawling around inside him, their long legs striking bone. He wanted to quite literally jump out of his skin and shake off his skeleton, but that was obviously impossible.

You’ll be better when you see Bea. Just need to get up to the top of that hill.

“Now, don’t be surprised if it’s a bit of a ghost town,” Arcadie said as they guided the boat up to the docks. “This close to Apostletide, some of the women and children who still maintain the Lightbringer’s traditions often head off to visit relatives in other parts of Leora.”

“So, what, they go home?” Pru’s frown morphed into a confused glare. “Back to the places they fled?”

“No, no, nothing like that. But they might go visit sisters or mothers in other parts of the country. Relatives who will keep their secrets safe.”

“Oh.” She scoffed as she helped tie the boat to the dock. “I forget sometimes that people still have those.”

The second his boots hit the docks, Puck’s impulse was to sprint up the hillside. He started, feet pounding against the wooden planks, until Pru grabbed hold of his wrist and tugged him back.

“There’s no way you make it up that mountain at full speed.” She pressed her hand into his and held it tight. “We’re here. And in an hour, maybe even less, you can hold Bea forever. Don’t wear yourself out trying to cut the time in half.”

An unusual anger pushed up into his chest, threatening to boil over. “You don’t understand.”

She reached up, pressing her palm to his face, and the inexplicable rage simmered a little. “Which is what makes me objective. Take it slow with me.”

You know she’s right, mate.

“Okay.” He sighed. “I’ll take it slow.”

Pru turned to Arcadie. “Lead the way.”

They started up the hill, a long, steep climb that would have defeated him at full tilt.

The stone buildings and terra-cotta rooftops echoed drawings he’d seen of the architecture during Leora’s thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the beginning of the Age of Kings.

Vines of ivy climbed up the shops and townhomes, sprinkled with the occasional sweet briar rose.

Most of the houses along the hillside were abandoned, relics of a time gone by.

A few showed signs of life, sweet smoke spiraling out of stone chimneys, flower boxes with roses and emerald ferns spilling over the sides.