Nightingale Girl

by M. R. Pritchard

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016

  A Kindle Scout selection

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  TWISTED PARADISE

  ANGELS ARE ASSHOLES

  A DOLLAR AND A DAYDREAM

  HELLFIRE AND BRIMSTONE

  THE DEVIL WATCHES OVER HIS OWN

  BURN AND RUST

  ANGEL OF SMALL DEATH

  HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO

  AN ECHO IN ETERNITY

  REALMS AND REALMS AND . . . GODDAMNED REALMS

  BLOOD AND SIN AND FREEDOM

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sometimes following your heart

  means losing your mind.

  —Anonymous

  TWISTED PARADISE

  Restlessness prickles under my skin. It feels like one of those never-ending winter days when breathing kerosene heater fumes for hours on end starts getting on your last nerve. It’s sad, really; all it took was one week for me to go trailer park crazy. I’m edgy and antsy. And to make it worse, Sparrow vowed to respect King Gabriel’s wishes regarding sins of the flesh. That’s what I get for swearing never to leave the Seven Kingdoms of Heaven.

  “You know, if you focused on other things instead of what Sparrow’s got hiding in his pants, you’d be doing this better.” Teari’s chipper voice breaks my concentration.

  The gentle brush of her fingers flutters across the skin of my shoulders. I turn quick to face her. “Don’t touch me,” I warn.

  She holds her hands out as though she were thinking about doing it again. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” She smiles sweetly.

  “You’re not supposed to be able to lie.” I glare.

  “I didn’t lie, Meg. I just said I wouldn’t dream of it. Because I wouldn’t. You rarely enter my dreams.”

  I run to the mirror on the far end of the dining room to see what she did.

  “Teari!” I yell when I see that my hair is three inches longer.

  “What?” She shrugs and sits on a velvet-upholstered club chair, crosses her long legs, and admires her fingernails.

  “I told you to stop doing that!” I pull my shirt up and check my skin. The tattoos are still there. The spattering of stars is still across my left shoulder, the anchor still on my rib cage. I pull out the waistband of my pants and check the heart—it’s still there. Thank God. I pull the shoulder of my shirt down and check the tattoo of the black quill across my right collarbone. Disappointment hits me hard. It’s faded.

  “That is his favorite one!” I turn to Teari and clench my hands into fists. “You know how Sparrow likes feathers.”

  Teari stands quickly, her skin blanching when she gets a good look at how angry I am. “You’re supposed to look like a princess.”

  “I don’t give a crap what your fluttery Angel princesses are supposed to look like. Stop trying to change me.” I grit my teeth and hold in a long stream of curse words. I don’t care if the Archangel Gabriel is my father. I’m not going to pretend to be one of their princesses. He said he liked my spunk. It reminded him of my mother.

  “I can’t get this fixed up here in Angel-land. And I promised on Sparrow’s life not to leave.”

  I would love to strangle Teari right now. I don’t care if she towers a foot above my head. I think my hands would wrap nicely around her neck.

  Teari fidgets with the waistband of her slacks. She looks like a damn supermodel standing in front of me. I want to claw her eyes out.

  “It’s fine,” she says.

  “It’s not fine. It’s faded!” I walk toward her, ready to attack. I point to my shoulder where the quill tattoo is. “And it’s his favorite.”

  Teari steps back, her eyes widening. “I helped you,” she reminds me. “When you were in Hell, I healed you. I made you whole again.” Her perfect face begins to look worried.

  True, she did heal me. Teari came to help me and Sparrow when we were trapped together in Hell. She healed my wounds after my a-hole of an ex strung me up like a turkey and stabbed me in the chest with a knife.

  While strangling Teari might help me feel better, it would leave my father without his personal healer. I cross the room to get away from her.

  “Stop screwing with my tattoos and hair,” I warn her.

  A few moments pass before I come to the conclusion that causing Teari physical harm is unladylike—something Sparrow’s always nagging me about. I weave around her and leave the room, slamming the door closed behind me.

  They want me to be on my best behavior here, but Teari is making it awfully difficult.

  I walk down lengthy hallways with towering windows that let in the bright, heavenly light of this place. Shielding my eyes, I wish I had brought my sunglasses with me. I avoid the sunlit expanses and walk in the shadows along the wall. It’s not long before I’m standing at the door to my room.

  There’s a plush mattress on a frame, a bathroom with a tub and shower, fluffy towels, clean sheets, fresh pillows, a balcony, and a closet full of clothing. None of this ever existed in the single-wide trailer I grew up in. I came close when I spent my inheritance on that little house with a white picket fence. Tried to pull my roots out of the North Country gutter, but while it seemed money could buy me a home, it couldn’t hide me from my demons.

  I open my door and step into my room. A warm breeze billows the curtains of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The golden linens on the giant four-poster are not the crumpled mess that I had left them in earlier. I look around and notice that my towel is no longer on the floor by the bathroom, either. Teari must’ve sent someone in here to clean up.

  I walk past the bed and grab my sunglasses off the table in the sitting area. It’s so bright here that it hurts my eyes, gives me a headache. Trying to control the darkness within me is hard enough; I can’t stand constantly being illuminated by the sunshine of Heaven, as well. Even if it does sparkle prettily. Daylight hurts Hell-dark adjusted eyes.

  I reach for the small machete-style weapon on my nightstand. Forged in the fires of Hell, it only cuts if I’m the one holding it. Lucifer gifted it to me after I delivered him the bag of bones that was my mother. He also promised me one favor that I have yet to use.

  My thoughts turn to Sparrow and our time together down there.

  Sparrow’s an Angel, tall and handsome and a little peculiar. He’s better than he used to be. When we were trapped in Hell, he was batshit crazy. The poor guy was nothing but a cracked nut when we found each other. We can blame my father for that, though. He banished Sparrow, stripping his wings and taking his memories, leaving him to wander the zombie-strewn wasteland of Hell. As fate would have it, that’s where we found each other.

  Sometimes I think that Sparrow is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Better than finding out what I truly was: more than North Country trash, the daughter of an Archangel, the child of forbidden love.

  I secure the weapon in the thigh holster Sparrow made for me and put my sunglasses on. Leaving my room, I make my way to the door leading to the courtyard at the end of the hall. As soon as I step outside, my skin sizzles. It’s bearable, almost.

  I wonder if the sun is like this in the other Kingdoms of Heaven? Teari is supp
osed to teach me about them, but she’s too busy working with the Legion, being my father’s personal healer, and trying her damnedest to turn me into a princess. I’ve learned a few things, though: The earthen plane is God’s land. The Seven Kingdoms of Heaven are ruled over by the Council of Seven Archangels. Hell has Lucifer.

  I make my way past the sparkling stone fountain and down the marble steps set into the hillside. I stroll past the barracks where the Legion trains; the grounds are empty. They must be on break, which means Sparrow will be home. Good, I haven’t gotten him alone in a few days. I pick up speed and head for the trail behind the barracks.

  Thick forest shades the winding path to Sparrow’s house. Having finally escaped the sun, I take off my sunglasses and hang them on the front of my shirt. Windows and doors close at the houses as I pass. There are some inhabitants of this place who are not happy about my presence here. They don’t like the idea of me tainting their goodness. I am the blackened stain of my father’s Kingdom.

  My mother birthed me on the earthen plane. I am half darkness and half light; my soul doesn’t know where it belongs, and because of this I can poof between realms at will. All I have to do is whisper the words “Angele Dei, illumina, custodi, rege et guberna,” and I’m gone, traveling faster than you can blink. Everyone else has to use the governed portals.

  People here don’t like that. They don’t like my darkness, my foul mouth, or the fact that I’m with Sparrow. There are whispers and disapproving stares. It’s like I’m back in my tiny hometown of Gouverneur, New York. Everyone watching. Nobody saying a word.

  Screw them, I tell myself. They don’t know the literal hell we went through.

  I step up onto Sparrow’s stoop, my hand hovering over the doorknob. I lean closer and listen. “Livin’ on a Prayer” is blaring. I smile. Sparrow loves Bon Jovi. I turn the knob and inch the door open until I can squeeze inside without making a sound. The music is so loud that when I close the door I can’t even hear the lock click into place. I move toward the living room and find Sparrow rocking out.

  Sparrow is standing in front of the stereo. He turns the music louder, his head bobbing to the beat, his shoulders ticking along, as well. His entire body is in motion. And just as the chorus starts, he spins and rips his shirt off.

  I freeze, taking in the scene of Sparrow in full Bon Jovi impersonation mode. It’s a beautiful sight. His white wings are tucked tight against his back, and the muscles of his broad shoulders tense as he dances and sings. His narrow hips thrust from side to side with the beat. He kicks his boots off, sends them flying across the room, and then runs to collect them like it was choreographed, bellowing out lyrics the entire time. Sparrow sets the boots side by side near the back door of his house. Next, his socks come off, followed by his Legion-issued black cargo pants, leaving him in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.

  My jaw drops, and my trailer park roots quiver. This is better than the strip club I went to in college. The Thunder from Down Under has got nothing on Sparrow.

  Sparrow spins, stomps his feet, then looks up. His eyes lock with mine, and a wide grin spreads across his handsome face. He spins again and turns the music down.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I say. “I was enjoying myself.”

  “Bet you were.” Sparrow’s brown hair is tousled, and dimples appear in each of his cheeks as he smiles. Bright green eyes take me in. “What’s different about you?” he asks, taking a step toward me.

  “Nothing,” I lie.

  “Something.” He reaches out and touches my hair. “It’s longer.”

  “Teari was getting a little handsy.” I shake my head, and my hair tickles my shoulders. It used to be long; trouble changed that. Remembering what happened last time I had long hair makes my stomach churn.

  Sparrow frowns, like he’s read my mind. He knows I don’t like being touched—suffered far too much pain at the hands of others. Now I trust no one and allow even fewer to touch my skin. I trust Sparrow enough, though. Trust him with my life. He’s saved it enough times.

  “Can you fix it?” I ask.

  Sparrow’s fingers linger in my dark hair for just a moment too long. No doubt he’s remembering the haircut he gave me with his machete.

  “Just let me jump in the shower quick, and then I’ll do it.”

  I look up at him. “No.”

  He presses his lips together. “You can’t join me.” His fingers leave my hair and trail down the side of my neck. I tilt my head and give him access to the collar of my shirt, knowing that he’s going for that quill tattoo on my collarbone.

  Sparrow frowns. “It’s pale.”

  “Teari did it.” I pull away from him and walk across the room. “I’m going to punch her in the throat one of these days. And since I am forbidden from going to the earthen plane, I can’t even get this fixed.” I motion to the tattoo. “Pisses me off to no end.”

  Sparrow puts his hands on his hips and watches me. “It’s going to be okay,” he says.

  I begin to pace. “I’m going stir-crazy here.”

  “It’s only been a few weeks.”

  “I know. I just . . . I just feel . . .” I look at Sparrow and find him watching me intently. I can’t tell him what I feel. Darkness. My grandfather’s darkness is threatening to overtake me. I can’t tell Sparrow my soul is about to burst, the dark wanting out. When I was a kid, I could burn it off by doing bad shit like stealing, drinking, partying, et cetera. I’m not allowed to do any of that here.

  I try to shake it off.

  “Just go shower,” I tell Sparrow. “I need you to take care of this for me.” I motion to the mess Teari created on my head.

  He collects his clothes and heads for the bathroom.

  Damn, I wish he had finished his striptease.

  I cross my arms and turn away from the hall he just walked down. Controlling the urge to follow him is hard. I guess I’ll have to entertain myself.

  I’ve never been alone in Sparrow’s house before. I snoop around a bit. The place is small but tidy, with stone walls, large windows, and dark leather furniture. There’s a deck attached to the back of the house with an amazing view of the sloping forest.

  I make my way to the bookshelf behind the couch. The shelves are lined with leather-bound hardbacks. I tilt my head to the side and read the titles on the spines: Birds of Paradise, Birds of the Arctic, Birds of the Northern Plains, Birds of the Pacific Northwest. They go on and on, rows and rows of books about birds.

  This doesn’t surprise me much. I mean, when we were in Hell, Sparrow got a hard-on over every feather we came across—dragged me all over the place collecting hundreds of them. But he never mentioned being infatuated with them before becoming a fallen Angel.

  I select Birds of Paradise and begin flipping through. There are a hundred different species in here highlighted with full-color pictures. I recognize a few of the parrots we saw at the zoo. Images of their limp bodies on the ground and Sparrow crouching down to pull out their feathers flood my mind. One memory leads to the next, and soon I am staring off into space, remembering the first time I saw him dressed in an old trench coat in Noah’s cellar. Sparrow was taller than any man I’d ever met, and his eyes were so green and intense.

  Suddenly Sparrow is standing next to me. He’s dressed, hair damp, smelling fresh from the shower.

  “What are you doing?” he asks as I flip the book closed.

  “Just looking.” I run my fingers over the textured spine of Birds of Paradise.

  Sparrow takes the book out of my hand and flips a few pages. “That bird.” He points to a smooth brown bird with a sharp pointed beak. “It’s my favorite. This week.”

  “Why that one?”

  “The beak reminds me of a macadamia nut shell. The smoothness and angles.”

  He sounds like a hippie artist from New York City. I have no idea how to respond to that.

  “Why do you have all these books?” I ask.

  “I like birds.”

  �
�You like feathers.”

  Sparrow smiles as he returns Birds of Paradise to the shelf. He runs his finger down the spine, ensuring that it is in the exact place it was before I touched it.

  I want him to touch me like that. Now. Courting phase be damned. I’m tired of following the rules up here. I want to do what I want just for once. I want—

  Sparrow turns to face me, gripping his machete in his left hand. “Haircut?”

  Well, there go those feelings.

  We step out to his back deck. I turn around, and Sparrow collects my hair in his fist. I feel the cool, dull edge of his machete against the back of my neck right before he swipes and cuts.

  I turn. He’s holding my black hair in his fist, looking indecisive.

  “You going to give it to the birds?” I ask.

  Sparrow smiles quick before arching his arm over the deck and throwing the handful of hair into the branches of a nearby tree. Then he just stands there, watching me.

  I take a step closer to him. Then another. And another.

  “I want you,” Sparrow whispers. “It’s killing me.”

  Yes. I’ll teach him to be bad to the bone in no time at all. I run a few quick steps and launch myself into his arms. Sparrow’s hands catch my ass, and my arms wrap around his neck, and then we’re kissing like two high schoolers under the bleachers on a Friday night.

  He sets me down on the railing of the deck so his hands are free to roam. In the weeks we’ve been here, this is the most he’s touched me. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed all the time we had to ourselves in Hell, even if we were being chased by the dead.

  The minutes that pass are not long enough before Sparrow pulls away. He’s out of breath.

  “I promised your father.” Sparrow backs away from me, as though I’m poisonous. “Gabriel can see everything in his Kingdom,” he reminds me.

  I frown and slide off the deck railing so I’m standing in front of him.

  “We need to work off this angst.” Sparrow runs his hands through his hair. “Want me to teach you how to fight?”

  “I can fight. I took on Jim and seven Hellions when they invaded my house on the earthen plane,” I remind him.