Nightingale Girl

by M. R. Pritchard

  Something really shitty is going on. I agreed to come here with Sparrow while he did his time as a Hellion, but this is the second time he’s come here covered in dust and half-dead and nearly sucked me dry.

  “I’ll kill him for this myself,” Noah grumbles as he picks up the sandwich.

  “Don’t.” I croak.

  “What did he do to you?”

  I look away from him for a moment and collect myself. When I turn back to Noah, a troubled expression crosses his face as he holds the sandwich up for me to eat. My humble manservant feeds me bite by bite. I wave him away when I’m done and roll over.

  Noah leaves the room. When he returns, he’s standing in front of me with a glass of blood in his hand.

  “Drink it,” he demands.

  Shame fills me. “No.”

  “Now.”

  Thickness clogs my throat.

  “I will hold your mouth open and pour it in,” he threatens. “Damn it, Meg. I have never touched you in anger, but you’re pushing my buttons right now. Drink the damn blood before you die.”

  I lean up on my elbow and take the glass, downing the blood in one gulp before handing it back to him.

  “Get some rest,” Noah orders.

  I pull the blankets over my head and shut the world out. Just before I fall asleep, my last thoughts are about how I’m going to rip Jim a new asshole when I finally wake up with enough energy to find him.

  . . .

  Nightingale invades my dreams. She’s touching my hair and whistling a slow, soulful tune that I’ve never heard before. I want to tell her not to touch me, but it feels good. I never had a mother to stroke my hair and sing songs to me when I was growing up. I close my eyes and enjoy her soothing touch and song. When she stops, I turn to look at her.

  “He needs darkness to rule.” Her voice sounds worried. “He needs darkness to lift the curse.” Her pretty face turns down as she glances over my body. “He didn’t mean to do this.”

  I thought if I brought her here she would stay out of my head.

  Nightingale vanishes.

  I wake to darkness and silence.

  My entire body aches.

  Glancing at the nightstand, I see that Noah left me a midnight snack: three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a carton of milk. As I sit up and reach for the food, I notice Sparrow across the room, sitting on the couch, watching. I pull my arm back and yank the covers higher to shroud me.

  Sparrow stands and walks closer.

  I blink, trying to remember him before the darkness tainted his soul.

  Don’t forget me, Meg. Don’t forget that I love you more than anything. The things they’ll make me do . . .

  It’s so hard.

  Sparrow stops in front of me. His hair is wet; he smells fresh from the shower. Like cake batter and Christmas, soap, and . . . woodsmoke is lingering there, as well. He’s starting to smell like Hell.

  My stomach churns. “No,” I whisper, shrinking away.

  I can’t feed him. Not after what he did to me last night. I am reminded of John Lewis and Jim and all the other assholes in Gouverneur who treated me like crap. I don’t want to add Sparrow to that list, but he isn’t giving me much of a choice. This is killing me. I’ve lived through a lot of shit in my life, but I’m not sure I’m strong enough to handle this.

  I think I should go back to Gabriel’s Kingdom until Sparrow is done here.

  Sparrow drops to his knees at the side of my bed. He looks wounded, scorned, disgusted with himself. He should be.

  “Don’t hate me,” Sparrow whispers, his voice deep and remorseful.

  I swallow down tears.

  “Without you I am weak. I am nothing.” He touches my leg, and I try my damnedest not to flinch away from him. “I can feel it.” He waves his free hand near his ear. “I can feel it on the peripheries of my mind. The memories.” His hand moves higher, resting on my stomach. His leathery wings stretch as he exhales.

  “Don’t leave me,” Sparrow begs, as though he already knows I’ve made up my mind to hit the high road. The darkness in his eyes is there, but so is fear. “I can feel it.” He thumps his chest with his free hand. “I can feel it. Somewhere in here.”

  I’ve never had a man beg me not to leave. But Sparrow is nothing like the men I’ve been with in the past. I press my lips together to hold back a pathetic sob.

  And then I slap him across the face as hard as I can.

  “Don’t you ever—”

  Sparrow barely flinches before he grabs my wrists, holding my hands down. “Please don’t leave me.” Sparrow’s hand moves to my hip; he drags me across the bed and rests his head on my lap. “I can’t do this alone,” he whispers. “I just couldn’t stop. No matter how hard I tried.”

  What do I say to that?

  My hands hover above him. I’m afraid to touch this giant enigma of a man. I have known him at his most innocent when he was pure and good, his most dark, and now his most fragile. I settle my hands on his head and let silent tears slide down my face.

  I decide that I won’t flee to my father’s Kingdom. I won’t even run back to the earthen plane and start a new life. I’ll stay with Sparrow, as much as it’s killing me. I have to help him; after all, he saved my life in the past. I owe this to him. At least one more chance.

  When I am sure Sparrow is asleep on his knees, I move my hands out of his hair.

  Sparrow lifts his head. His eyes search my face.

  He nods as though he just came to an internal decision. “I will care for you.”

  “Don’t you need to eat?” I ask, afraid that he may have taken one of Jim’s Bloodwhores to feed on. The thought of him sucking on some other woman’s neck just about breaks my heart in two.

  “Blood from the cooler,” he assures me.

  “But you’re strongest when it’s fresh.”

  And after seeing Sparrow so weak, I worry about him. Whatever Jim is up to, I definitely don’t want Sparrow weak.

  “I’ll be fine,” Sparrow assures me.

  He throws the covers back, not seeming the least enticed by my naked body. The sheets are still damp. I think he put me to bed soaking wet last night. Sparrow bends and lifts me in his arms, carrying me to the bathroom. He sets me on the counter, then turns to start the water running in the bathtub.

  I turn and glance at myself in the mirror. There is a bright-pink mark on the side of my neck. I shudder, remembering the way he sucked the blood out of me so fast and so hard that it knocked me out in seconds.

  My chin quivers. I swallow it down.

  As I’m turning away from the mirror, Sparrow’s at my side.

  “I can walk,” I assure him.

  Ignoring me, he lifts me again, then sets me gently in the tub. The water is warm and the tub so deep it goes to my neck. I instantly regret only having used the shower in this bathroom.

  Sparrow gets the soap and shampoo from the shower stall and begins washing me. He wets my hair, scrubs it clean, and then rinses. His hands spread soap all over my body. I flinch when he touches the mark on my neck. He cleans my shoulders and arms, and massages soap over the tattoo on my chest. His fingers linger there. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself silent. The need to physically harm him dissipates with each passing of his gentle hands.

  “Is this me? This sparrow?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “You marked your body for me?”

  “You were there,” I remind him.

  Sparrow stops washing and pours water over my soapy skin.

  “Wait here,” he says as he gets up and leaves the room.

  I lean my head on the edge of the tub and close my eyes.

  Sparrow returns with a large towel. He holds it open and waits for me to stand. I reach for the towel, but he shakes his head, motions for me to step out, then wraps it around me when I finally do. He lifts me off my feet again and carries me to the side of the bed.

  “Don’t put me in there wet again.”

  His eyes flash
to mine.

  Oops, that sounded a little dirty.

  Sparrow sets me on my feet and rubs the towel over me until I’m dry. He even dries my hair before tossing the towel aside and pulling the sheets back. They’re dry and clean.

  I scramble in, and when Sparrow kicks off his shoes and strips off his shirt, I crawl to the other side of the bed to get away from him. I’m not sure what he has planned, but after last night I don’t think I can handle much.

  Facing me, Sparrow wraps his hand around my hip and tugs me tight against his body.

  Sparrow nuzzles my neck. I don’t move a muscle.

  “You can feed from me,” he whispers.

  I freeze. Holy awkward. I don’t even know what to say or do.

  “I’m fine.”

  He offers his wrist. I push his arm away.

  “It’s what we are. You don’t need to be shy.” He nuzzles my neck and splays his large hand over my naked abdomen.

  I’ve never been shy about anything, except this. I don’t know why. I am half light and half dark. I was the greatest sinner of all, but this is the hardest thing for me to accept. It makes me feel like a true monster. Even if it’s the highest high I’ve ever felt in my life.

  His lips touch my shoulder. I relax only when he simply kisses me. His hands move over my body, a slow seduction. His mouth moves to mine; his tongue toys with my lips until I open for him. Sparrow kisses me deeply, thoroughly, until I forget my name and what day it is. He pulls away, trailing tiny kisses down my neck.

  “Do it,” he urges.

  I can’t.

  He sucks on the sensitive skin of my neck, never drawing blood but igniting a spark deep within me.

  I open my eyes. His neck is on display in front of my face, his pulse calling my name, begging me.

  “Do it, Meg.”

  Oh hell.

  I press my teeth into the curve between his neck and shoulder.

  Sparrow makes a noise deep in his throat, his fingers move, touching me, bringing me to a high that nearly equals what I felt with him a few nights ago. When I come down, Sparrow pulls me tightly against his body and runs his hands up and down my back until I fall asleep against him.

  . . .

  In the early hours of the morning, Sparrow kisses me as he’s getting up to leave.

  Grabbing his arm, I stop him.

  “I have to go,” he says.

  I move to get up. “I have something to show you first.”

  He wants to remember; I have an idea that might help.

  “Come here.” I lead him to the closet. Finding the drawer where I’ve been hiding all the songbird feathers, I open it. Sparrow looks at me questioningly. I take his hand and press it in the drawer of feathers. His hand flexes, closes, and pulls out a handful.

  “Do you remember anything?” I ask.

  As he purses his lips, I wait, hoping.

  He pulls out the red feather of a cardinal, closes his eyes, and brushes it across his cheek. His eyes flash open.

  “I think—”

  I hold my hand up, stopping him. I feel like this is a good time to make my confession about the bird books. I move to the back of the closet and pull out Birds of the Northeast.

  “This is yours.” I hold out the book.

  Sparrow touches it with his fingertips.

  “I stole this from your house.” I look away. “And others. Actually . . . I took an entire stack.” I flip the book open. “It’s damaged.” I show him the crease marks and syrup and pizza stains.

  Sparrow takes the book out of my hand and flips through it.

  I pull some clothes off the nearby hangers and dress quickly. I don’t want to be naked in front of him when he realizes I marred his beloved bird books.

  Sparrow takes his time, reading a few passages, touching his fingers to some of the colorful images of the birds. Finally, he claps the book closed and hands it back.

  “You’re not mad?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure yet,” he says before leaving.

  AN ECHO IN ETERNITY

  It has been almost two days since I last saw Sparrow. That means it’s been three days since he last fed. That means he is not as strong as he should be. Maybe he’s mad about the books. Maybe he’s simply busy. I can’t wait any longer to find out. I wanted to do this yesterday, but Noah kept me in my room, stuffing me full of food and holding a Birds of study group with Nightingale.

  Today, I feel strong.

  I’m going to confront Jim.

  I shower and dress myself in jeans, a blue top, and a fitted jacket. I put on boots, then secure my blade in its holster on my thigh. The thought of using it on Jim causes the blade to hum to life.

  Not bothering to knock on the door to the Hellions’ lair, I push it open and enter, uninvited. Jim’s standing at the bar. He looks annoyed to see me. I cross the room, taking note of the three Hellions at the pool table.

  “Meg,” Jim sneers.

  I want to call Jim by another name instead of the one he was given. A variety of inappropriate terms comes to mind, but instead I say, “Jimboy.”

  He scowls.

  I sit on a stool.

  “Where’s Sparrow?” I ask.

  “As a Hellion, he is under my command, and I appoint him as I see fit.”

  “He’s been gone two days.”

  “So?” Jim swallows a shot of bourbon.

  “House of the Rising Sun” is playing on the stereo. I hate that song for the pure fact that it is Jim’s favorite, and it reminds me of the things he did when we were engaged.

  I try not to think of my past life with Jim. Instead, I focus on my future with Sparrow, even if it is dwindling.

  “Last time you sent him to wherever, he came back half-alive.”

  “Not my fault your little cherub won’t snack from the Bloodwhores.” Jim laughs. “If he did, maybe he wouldn’t feel so guilty about nearly draining you.”

  “You’re running him ragged. What in the name of Lucifer are you making him do?”

  Jim takes an intimidating step toward me. Even though there’s a countertop separating us, I’m not confident in its ability to keep Jim from me.

  “That is none of your trashy business.”

  I open my mouth to respond with some very unangelic choice words, but I halt when Jim’s body stiffens and he sniffs the air. His head snaps toward the open door to the lair.

  Nightingale is standing there looking as innocent as a baby deer and dressed like a goddamned playboy bunny in short shorts and a crop top.

  “Holy. Shit,” Jim growls.

  Nightingale’s eyes widen.

  The Hellions in the room snarl.

  Jim rounds the bar, moving toward Nightingale.

  I reach out to stop him, but he slaps me away so hard that I go flying across the room and crash into the wall.

  “Run!” I yell to Nightingale.

  She screams and takes off on her roller skates.

  I get up, stumble to my feet, and run after them, making it to the door just in time to see Nightingale exit the burning caves and lift off into the air, her dark wings flapping feverishly.

  “Noah!” I shout into the hall. “Clea!”

  My mother’s figure comes floating down the hall.

  “Child?” She looks confused.

  I shake off the pain of being tossed across the room, stand, and run for the cave entrance.

  “They’re going after Nightingale!” I run out of the cave only to be confronted by a horde of walking dead.

  Noah finally appears at my side.

  “Where were you?” I shout.

  Noah holds up a bag. “Getting your breakfast.”

  Clea gets closer; the dead back off.

  “We have to find her.”

  With grim determination and a wisp of dust, Clea transforms into the Argentavis. “Come.” She tips her left wing down, and I climb on her back.

  “Come on!” I shout at Noah.

  He drops my breakfast on the ground and climbs
on. Clea hops twice before launching herself into the air. I scramble to grip her feathers and hold on for dear life.

  Clea follows the figures in the distance, which only seem to get smaller and smaller, for miles and miles, until they are only tiny pinpoint dots, and then . . . nothing.

  Darkness falls, but Clea keeps flying toward the last spot in the sky—the speck that turned to nothingness.

  “We have to go back,” Clea finally says.

  “We can’t. We have to find her.”

  “It’s too dark. We’ll never find her at night.” Clea glides, tips to the side to turn in a wide arc, and heads home.

  My heart sinks. I remember what it’s like to be chased by the Hellions. And I remember what it’s like to be alone out there in the Kingdom of Hell.

  “We’ll find her,” Noah whispers.

  Clea lands at the burning caves. Dust swirls as she turns back into the figure of my mother. She looks pale and a bit drawn, even for a ghost of a soul. A burst of energy pulses around her, nearly tossing me on my ass. Noah catches me as I stumble to regain my balance.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “I sent a command to the dead to look for Nightingale.”

  “But they sleep at night.”

  “Not if they’re told to stay awake.” She starts floating toward the opening of the cave. “Come. We must talk with Lucifer.”

  We follow her down stone hallways and dark stairwells, closer and closer to that ubiquitous gnawing and crying from the center of the stairwell, until she enters a large room.

  Lucifer is sitting at a giant desk of polished black stone.

  “Father.” Clea moves to Lucifer’s side. “They’ve gone after Nightingale.”

  “Perfect” is Lucifer’s bored response.

  “And Meg hasn’t seen Sparrow in over two days,” Clea adds.

  I step forward. “Something is wrong.”

  Lucifer barely glances at me. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

  “This girl—” I turn. Holy crap, I’ve never seen Jim’s father Vine before, but he looks just like Jim, well, before Jim’s face half melted off. “She has always brought trouble where it needn’t be. My son will find the Angel and return her to the caves.”

  “Jim is the one who went after her,” I point out. “He chased her.”