Nightingale (The Sensitives)

by Dawn Rae Miller

  And there it is: the truth. I can’t lead because no one, other than a handful of Dark witches will follow me. People fear me. But they don’t respect me.

  “This is bigger than us,” he yells and I startle. Beck doesn’t yell. Ever. You know I’m right, Beck hisses. Just consider what I’m asking.

  His knuckles turn white as they clench the bars. I turn away. Kyra’s still curled next to Maz’s cell.

  This is what I have: a best friend who thinks I’m a monster, two guards, and a State council that will toss me aside the first chance they get.

  The world’s on fire and I don’t know which way to run.

  #

  The garden is still. I inhale deeply, savoring the sweet scent of jasmine and try to clear my mind. Decisions are piling up, and I have no one to help me choose the right one.

  Next to me, Annalise walks stiffly, lost in thought.

  “Oliver was my oldest friend. We were raised together,” she says softly. I stop walking and turn to face her. I had suspected they were close. It makes sense that they were raised together. The State likes to keep housemates together as much as possible.

  Tears shimmer in her eyes and she flicks them away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t burden you.”

  I rest my hand lightly on Annalise’s arm. “It’s fine. I miss him, too.”

  She closes her eyes. “I shouldn’t say this, but once, I had hoped he’d be my mate. Of course, the State selected Callum for me.”

  It’s an oddly personal confession from my normally distant sister-in-law. “Why do you think you were picked for Callum? He’s a Light witch.”

  A long sigh tumbles out of Annalise. “Malin. I think she had her eye on me for a long while. I don’t think she liked the fact that Callum is Light and she thought maybe I could somehow fix him.”

  “You don’t love him?”

  She shakes her head. “He’s my mate, but no. I don’t think I do.” A light wind brushes through the garden releasing the scent of roses and jasmine. “Sometimes, I think he hates me.”

  I suck on the inside of my lip. In many ways, she and I are alike. Both bound to Light witches. Both highly ambitious. Both despised by our mates.

  “Can I ask you something?” She nods at my question. I want to ask if she killed Mother, but decide to be less direct. “Why did you keep Beck’s secret?”

  She gives me a lopsided smile. “Mostly for leverage. But also because I wanted you to have happiness. At least one person in this family should have that.”

  “Didn’t you think it was dangerous?”

  A light breeze sends her loose hair fluttering around her face. “I saw how he looked at you.” She balls her fist to her mouth. “It’s how Oliver looked at me. So, no. I never believed he’d hurt you.”

  The stars create a canopy of light above us and I tilt my head back, trying to find the North Star. It blinks at me, like a beacon.

  “Why don’t you send Dawson out and take the rest of the night off.”

  Annalise’s body becomes rigid. “I’m capable of doing my job.”

  “You need rest. Since Mother’s death, you’ve been on duty every day. You run interference with the State, oversee the security detail, and who knows what else. Take a few hours for yourself.”

  When she doesn’t move, I press my wristlet. “Dawson, can you please relieve Annalise? She’s taking the night off.”

  He appears next to us within seconds. I give Annalise a reassuring smile. “Everything will be fine. Go.”

  She sniffs quietly before disappearing. I turn to Dawson. “Where did she go?”

  He pulls up her data on his wristlet. “She’s at home.”

  “Good. Hopefully some rest will help.”

  In a nearby tree, a bird trills and whistles. Its sweet song fills the night air. “What’s the name of that bird?”

  Dawson searches his wristlet. “It’s a nightingale.”

  “It’s pretty.”

  He reads on. “It’s one of the few birds that sing in darkness.” He stifles a sob.

  I reach for him. “What is it?”

  “The old poets believed it sang a song of mourning.”

  I close my eyes and let the melody fill my heart. On the crescendo, I open my eyes and find Dawson dabbing his.

  “For Oliver,” I say.

  He nods. “For Oliver.”

  I meander down the pebbled path toward the back of the garden, and Dawson lumbers along behind me, dragging his foot over the rocks.

  I pause to let him catch up. “How did you injure your leg?”

  “In the fight with Eamon.”

  Huh. I hadn’t noticed, but then again, there was so much going on. “Why don’t you sit,” I say, gesturing to a stone bench not far from us. “The garden isn’t that large. I promise to not hide in any corners or scale the walls.”

  “Thank you.” He hobbles off to the bench and I continue on, mulling over what happened today. I have no idea what to do.

  My options are limited. I have to parade Beck across that stage. And Maz, too. Although I won’t condemn him to death. I promised Kyra.

  But Beck is right, I can’t do this on my own. What I’ve been doing isn’t working and it’s destroying the State. People are starving and the Splinter group grows stronger every day.

  I stop to smell a large, full rose.

  The only thing Beck and I agree on is that the Splinter group must be stopped. But does that mean I have to help him rally the Light witches? And what of the Dark witches? Will they agree to work with their sworn enemy?

  A branch snaps next to me and as if being pulled through the hazy part of a dream, I turn. A dahlia brushes my arm. How odd, I think. Dahlias in December. My eyes land on the empty stone bench.

  A bolt of pain stabs my core, ripping me from top to bottom. I lurch forward and my arms flail at the open space around me. “Dawson,” I cry. “Help me.”

  My guard doesn’t come.

  A burning wave begins at my toes and spreads to my legs, my stomach, my arms, my heart. I spin wildly, trying to stop the fire. “Please, someone…” I cry, but my voice barely registers.

  I’m dying.

  I know this. I accept it.

  It’s probably better this way.

  Blood seeps from the front of my jacket and I press my hands into the sticky, warm mess.

  I don’t want to die alone.

  My leaden feet shuffle toward the house, but my knees buckle and I fall. Gravel digs into my cheek.

  My necklace, I think. Cool metal rests in my hand, soothing me.

  Memories flood my mind.

  Beck sliding his hand in mine. The dancing snow. The feel of his breath, hot and fast against my neck.

  His red knit cap and rosy cheeks. The way his lips brushed softly over mine.

  The beat of his heart, strong and steady, against my hand.

  The urgency of his kiss as the clock chimed midnight.

  His plea, begging me to wait for him. His promise to find me when it was safe. My leaving, because I knew it would never be safe for him.

  I remember loving him. Protecting him. Wanting him to live.

  I remember love.

  My eyes flutter shut.

  The nightingale sings so sweetly.

  Acknowledgements

  First and always, I have to thank the agent who puts up with my crazy, Kathleen Ortiz. This past year has been particularly tough, and knowing that I had someone watching my back professionally helped me in more ways than she’ll ever know. Thank you, KO, for understanding my missed deadlines and just generally being awesome.

  I wouldn’t have a book if not for the team at New Leaf Literary & Media: Jo Volpe, thanks for having an exciting vision and allowing me to be part of it; Danielle Barthel, you are an editing genius and my commas never looked so good.

  When my life became too overwhelming, I took refuge in Paris. Fancy, I know, but being in a strange city, where I only knew a handful of people, gave me the courage to write again. It was he
re that I finished revising Nightingale and really allowed myself to explore the depths of Lark’s breakdown.

  If it weren’t for Debra Driza and Erin Brambilla, I may never have finished this book. They propped me up, gave me a safe place to land, and kept the blender going. Thank you, thank you, thank you for not letting me completely fall to pieces.

  I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Johnyne Garcia. Without her, I would never have understood the depth of betrayal, insanity, and desperation Lark experiences.

  Having a mom as writer sometimes isn’t fun, but my boys were troopers. Keegan, thank you for making sure I ate and for going on many, many walks; Finn, thank you for making me smile every day; and Boone, thank you for reminding me that love is a powerful thing.

  And finally, my husband David, who loves me more than I knew. Never fade away.