Page 66 of Song of the Hell Witch

As quiet and ill as little Beatrice Reed had been the last year, she was still her father’s daughter.

She knew how to charm her way out of most situations, how to defend herself if circumstances turned sour.

She’d stomped on many a man’s toe in her lifetime, kneed a few of them in their private bits to keep them from grabbing hold of her or her mom and tossing them in Hornsgate for dancing to songs outlawed by the Apostles and the House of Lords.

But she was fairly certain there was no getting out of this particular jam.

She didn’t remember getting nabbed, only Pru’s weasel-shit brother-whatever rushing toward her and something hard as a wire snapping through her brain.

There was a burst of pain, and then dreams of her mother and father, dancing around the flat with their heads thrown back in laughter, cuddling with her on the couch while one of them—usually her mother, because she could do the voices—read a story before bedtime.

The blood pounding in her head woke her, turning her stomach. Evidently, someone had laid her out on a straw mattress, and she gripped the crude wooden side, pulled herself over the edge of the bed, and vomited onto a stone floor.

Always figure out where you are first. Taking slow, deep breaths, Bea wiped the sick from her mouth and forced herself to look around.

She was in a small chamber, a room with eight sides and tall lancet windows lined with bubbled glass.

The pale-gray sky caged her in, and she could make out a few steeples and weather vanes.

Okay, so you’re in a tower in a city.

Home, maybe?

She stood, and while she wanted to sprint over to one of the windows, her legs were jelly beneath her. Instead, she stumbled barefoot across the cold stone. When she reached the windowsill, she pushed up onto her tiptoes.

It wasn’t Talonsbury, but it looked familiar.

Fog blanketed the streets below, and people bustled to and fro, dressed in top hats, trench coats, work dresses, and day gowns.

Even this high up, she figured there might be noise, the sounds of people shouting Fresh biscuits, hot coffee!

or newsies yelling about the latest scandal.

But the city was dead quiet, a fact that chilled her to the bone.

Hinges creaked behind her. She whipped around, pressing her back to the wall to support her. Her mother always said to watch her back, that if she did that the bad guys wouldn’t be able to grab her so easily.

Two of the winged men who’d attacked at Stormlash strode into the room. Bea’s heart lurched into her throat, and the nausea from before came back tenfold. She swallowed the sick down, but she couldn’t keep her knees from trembling, no matter how much she tried.

The first man was the little weasel-shit who’d led the assault on the manor, Paris something.

He was small, his skeletal hands clutched together in front of him like he was getting ready to pray.

His dark hair was stringy and stuck to his forehead, and a tiny flame of embarrassment flared inside her gut.

How had she lost to this absolute cockpuss?

The other man, though. He stood at least two inches taller than Puck, with a broad chest, a trim waist, and arms capable of wrestling wolves.

With his pale skin and golden hair, he looked more like a statue than a person, and his gray eyes cut through her like a sword.

His wings were twice as big as Paris’s and slick with some sort of oil, though it—and he—didn’t seem to have a scent.

“You see, sir?” The weasel-shit Paris looked half mad with excitement, but when he spoke, he sounded like some sick combination of a toad and a snake, croaking out most of his words and hissing out the rest. “This girl. She’ll bring us Prudence Merriweather, mark my words.

And her father? Her father’s one of us now.

It’s only a matter of time before your power calls him home! ”

Dad. The memory came rushing back: her father screaming as wings burst out of his back, the way he looked at her as though he’d never seen her before.

“Yes, you’ve said that. Several times in that ridiculous voice of yours. Yet it’s been days and he is still not here.” The blond man came closer, studying her like he might a corpse on a slab. “What is your name, little witch?”

“B-B-Beatrice.”

Scream. Suddenly, she remembered her power, and all the things Naomi had taught her: how to focus the sound so it took out her enemies, how to change the pitch to make a man’s heart stop. She clenched her fists and opened her mouth, ready to let these men taste her wrath.

Nothing came out.

The man— General Hale —cocked his head to one side.

Even his smile felt like a weapon. “You will find your magic does not work here, Beatrice. You’re under my influence now, and my power is far more refined and less severe than the duke’s here.

You will feel no pain, I assure you. Not unless I want you to—and so long as you behave, I see no reason to torture you. ”

“She’s a Hell Witch, sir,” the weasel-shit said. “Surely that is reason enough.”

Hale turned slowly, tucking his hands behind his back. “Are you so small-minded that you cannot say how Hell Witches might be of use to us outside of burning on pyres?”

“Oh, but of course I see that!” He let out a nervous cackle. “They’re bleeders as well. We High Zeraphel need their blood for renewed strength, enhanced abilities. I just don’t see how that—”

“The problem, Paris, is that you don’t see at all.

” Hale’s shoulders stiffened into a hard, straight line, and Bea’s stomach dropped into her toes.

“I told you to refrain from attacking Stormlash. You , in turn, used the High Zeraphel’s unique ability to strategize and think not to strengthen our position, but to deliberately disobey me. ”

“But I leveled the manor, sir. I brought those witches to their—”

“You gave us away ! Now the entirety of the Hell Witch community in Leora knows what we are after. And the Ladies of Leora, a formidable force, I might add, know about my intentions. Rather than whispers and rumors, they know I am a threat, and I’ve yet to win over the court of public opinion. Do you know what that means?”

“The … the country will rally behind you! You are the Lightbringer’s chosen.”

“I could’ve been. I could’ve marched the whole of Leora to Stormlash and had them set the flames themselves.

Turned it into a cultural event that sparked our revolution.

But no. You had to go and seize glory for yourself.

You had to go believing you were more powerful than these conniving women who’ve had decades to hone their power. ”

Paris looked like he’d been slapped. Bea pressed her back into the stones, the chill carving a path down her spine.

“Sir, I … all I wanted to do was please you!” He scrambled for the door.

Stop moving. Hale’s voice rumbled through the room—and inside Bea’s skull, like thunder shaking a castle.

Paris went completely still, his eyes swelling wide as the Spheres.

His jaw clenched tight, as if Hale had wired it shut.

“Stupidity, I expect. I select my soldiers based on their malleable minds or their devout hearts. But you. You are stupid and insolent, and those traits together spell disaster for our cause. No wonder you were such a disappointment to your father.”

A single tear curled down the weasel’s cheek. He tried to say something, but he couldn’t move at all.

And somehow, despite everything he’d done to her, to Pru, to her father, Beatrice couldn’t help but feel a smidge of sympathy for him. Because she knew what was coming—though she wasn’t sure he did.

He looked surprised as Hale took one, two, three steps toward him. He looked absolutely stunned as the general drew his dagger.

And even as the blade sliced across his throat, even as he gurgled and sputtered and fell to his knees, he looked like a man betrayed by a person he’d truly loved.

Hale said nothing as he drew a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped the blood from the blade. The weasel’s blood pooled around his bare feet, and he didn’t even flinch. He turned back around. Beatrice wanted so badly to stop shaking, to look him in the eye without fear.

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything except cry and long for her father as the general approached.

“I do apologize for the gruesome nature of today, dear Beatrice.” His hand was cold as he slipped it under her chin, turning her head to one side.

While she shivered, there was nowhere for her to run, and the hum inside her head told her there was no point trying.

His eyes traced the artery in her neck, the one jumping to the rhythm of her hummingjay heartbeat.

“But worry not. You shall be my little witch—and together we will bring Leora to its knees.”