Page 63 of Song of the Hell Witch

Thirty-One

“Brother Reed.”

“Puck.”

“Dad.”

Puck was so confused. His body— is that what this heap of flesh and bone’s called?

—had just folded in on and remade itself, shifting into something entirely new.

His shoulder blades, his spine, every single part of him ached in ways that felt impossible to survive.

And now, even as the pain began to ebb, people were throwing names at him.

How was he supposed to know which one was actually his?

He’d only just been born. Outside of basic sensations, like warm , and basic desires, like hold , he wasn’t sure he could know much of anything.

Except …

What’s that?

Something swirled in the darkness, a spiral of brilliant colors—chains of gold dripping with rubies, purple skies deep as bruises, a violent orange burning the night away, and the rush of brackish river water.

River.

The River Whip.

The Podge.

Puck. Puck Reed. The Thief Lord of Talonsbury.

“Here, Puck.” A woman’s voice, sweet as a song. A comforting weight placed in his arms. “Meet your daughter.”

“Daddy.”

“Reed. Say something.”

The command lit through his muscles, each sinew like the strings of a pianoforte, struck at the same time.

Another voice, weakened but fighting the good fucking fight, whispered, You’re Puck Reed.

A thief. A father. A lover. And you never give up so easily.

And he couldn’t be sure, not until he opened his own mouth to speak, but he was almost certain this other voice was his own.

He picked his head up, forced his eyes open. His vision cleared, and he wished to see his wife, dead as she was, or his daughter or the woman he’d loved since he was a boy.

What he got was a winged man.

Paris Talonsbury.

Your commander.

No, not your commander.

A Silk.

A Silk you’d rather kill than join.

And you don’t kill.

His tongue was thick in his mouth, and his lungs spasmed as he fought for air. But eventually, the question broke free: “What … have you done … to me?”

Paris let out a cackle, like he found everything to be a barrel of laughs. “You’ve joined us , Brother Reed. You’re one of the Zeraphel, part of the army General Hale has created to serve the Lightbringer and restore his glory to Leora.”

“Don’t listen to him.” The woman’s voice was strained, as if she were forcing herself to talk through some gaping wound in her chest. But her tone was soft, inviting, and it called to mind stolen kisses in the firelight, smooth skin under his hands. Pru.

She was a few feet away from him, pushing herself up on trembling arms. Next to her, a girl, crumpled on her side.

“You make your own way, Puck,” Pru said. “You always have. A pair of wings doesn’t change that.”

“Would you please—” Paris said, and something quaked through the air.

The next thing Puck knew, Pru was flat on the ground, eyes slammed shut in pain.

He tried to lunge for her … and then instinct told him to stop.

At least he thought it was instinct. It felt like instinct.

“That’s it, Brother. The more you surrender, the less confused you’ll be.

You don’t have to carry any of your own thoughts anymore.

Your crimes, your sins, they can all be washed away … ”

A memory: placing a pillow over his wife’s face, the ragged breaths she drew as she died …

“All you need do is place your trust in me and in General Hale, and the rest? The rest is destiny.”

It was tempting. He could feel his thoughts slipping, the desire to bow growing within him.

“Daddy.”

The girl. Her red hair was a torch in the moonlight—and suddenly, there she was in the whirlpool of his mind, three years old and standing with her feet on top of his shoes, dancing to the music echoing up from the taverns beneath their flat.

Five years old, prancing around her mother in the street as they performed together for the first time.

Eight years old, talking to him about a new life, his own happiness.

And there, in front of him, tears streaming down her cheeks as she begged him to come back to her.

“Bumblebee.” He said her nickname out loud. “Beatrice.”

A hum built around him, different from the tune drumming in his ears, threatening to overtake everything. This was more a series of notes, different instruments warming up, like a symphony readying itself to light up an opera house.

Not that he’d ever seen a symphony …

Have I?

“Puck.” One last familiar voice, this one hissing behind him. He turned to find a woman, mouth abnormally wide, her nails digging into the grass as she focused all her attention forward.

He blinked at her, trying to place her name.

“ Duck! ”

It started with Florence. Pru wasn’t entirely sure where she’d found the strength, if it was the grief or the fury that helped her escape the Quiescence Paris had forced upon them.

After watching Puck’s transformation and Rita’s murder, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to talk again, let alone find her power.

Her mother had always said some people were built for crisis, and while Pru liked to think she was one of those people, Florence actually was .

Pru, if you can hear me, tap the ground twice with your fingers.

Pru did as she asked.

Mari? Cress? Ni? Ri— But she stopped.

Their movements were subtle, but Pru saw the other Ladies’ fingers graze the grass.

She forced herself to breathe, to keep her pulse calm as Paris shifted his focus to Puck.

He’d never been particularly great at splitting his attention.

There was reason to believe he would lose sight of keeping their power contained.

If we all attack at once, they’ll clobber us. But if we focus our energy so that one of us can transform, we might be able to take Paris out, Florence said, head still bowed toward the ground.

What about the rest of them? Pru wasn’t sure if the message would reach her, if she had the strength to communicate telepathically. All she knew was that each Zeraph was waiting for Paris’s command to slit her friends’ throats.

Brute force, Florence answered. Women without our gifts fight off men all the time.

But Quiescence … Pru reminded her.

Only Paris knows how to use it, she punched back. And if you keep him busy …

“Daddy.” Beatrice stared Puck down, and Pru’s heart seized. She wanted to say Puck’s name again, to help her call him back. But she didn’t dare lose focus. There will be time. Later.

You want me to attack him? Pru closed her eyes, blocking out everything but Florence’s voice.

You’re the only one of us who can fly, Pru. Florence’s thoughts were lifeless, demands barked from a general pinned down by enemy forces. It has to be you. So take this …

“Bumblebee,” Puck said, though it sounded distant, like he was standing on the other side of a field instead of right beside her. “Beatrice.”

And this … Naomi.

And this. Mari.

Me too. Brave, beautiful Bea.

The tune was soft at first, like an ember fighting for life beneath a pile of wet wood.

Then, lightning struck the place at her center where her magic lived, and everything thrummed to life.

Energy crackled along the outer edges of the trap Paris had laid for her power, obliterating it piece by piece.

The Vultress woke within her. The feathers lining her wings and the tips of her talons both yawned, as though waking from a deep slumber.

Are you ready? the creature asked, and the moment she thought of it as something separate was the moment she realized it wasn’t. She was the Vultress. She always had been.

Wait, she told herself as she picked her head up, staring Paris down. He was staring at Puck, waiting for him to surrender. Wait.

Pru, you’ll have to move fast, Florence said, her tone softer than before. That was because most of her energy was pouring through Pru’s body, coursing through her veins, into her fingertips, the ends of her wings.

Wait …

Her talons slipped free. Her wings came next. And before Paris or any of his Zeraphel minions could react, she flew at him with the fury of five all-powerful women.

Paris threw Quiescence at her, and the lash hit like the cold in winter when she was bundled inside eight layers of wool and cotton and silk. It glanced off her mind as she barreled into him, hooking her arms around his waist.

“Kill them!” Paris yelped at his men as she drove him up into the sky, and she plunged deeper into her body. She was terrified that at any moment, she’d feel one of the Ladies’ tunes cut off, that the Zeraphel below would kill Naomi, Florence, and Mari the same way they’d killed Rita.

But all she felt was another surge of power, as if they’d found renewed energy—or the time and space to give her more of themselves.

“What … what’s happened?” Paris was panicked, the same kind of panic she’d witnessed the night she married Frederick. It was frantic, desperate. “Samuels? March? Answer me!”

Use it against him, Pru.

“Think a bunch of women might’ve just killed your Zeraphel friends down there.” She made sure to laugh. He always hated when people laughed at him.

He snapped his head in her direction, and his hatred burned white hot. He tried Quiescence one more time—and she threw it off as easily as before, clinging to the power of her Hell Witch sisters.

“You really think you can defeat me?” he cackled, but she could hear the fear in it. “I’ve been chosen by the Lightbringer.”

“And I’ve been flying a lot longer than you have.”

Throw him off.

Flapping her wings to gain more momentum, she used the power in her hips and forced them into a spiral. Paris tried pushing away from her, but she held fast. He grabbed hold of her shoulders and crushed down, threatening to break her collarbones.

She needed to throw him into something, hurtle him into the flames of the manor or at least toss him through a window, anything to get him away from her—and keep him from dive-bombing into the fray below.

Hold. Hold …