Nightingale Girl

by M. R. Pritchard

  “You can’t wear that,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “I mean, you look spectacular. Like you walked out of a music video from 1985, but you can’t go walking around in a Canadian tuxedo.”

  Sparrow’s eyebrow tips up. “Canadian tuxedo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sweet.” He smiles and smooths his hands over the denim fabric.

  I bite my lip and stare a little longer. Who cares? He looks hot.

  “Wear it. But I’m driving,” I warn.

  I’ve already experienced a time when Sparrow couldn’t remember how to drive. With his mind fading, I don’t want to be the passenger when it all goes to shit and he forgets what the brake pedal does.

  Sparrow sits in the passenger side and clicks his seat belt on. He reaches out and touches the dashboard. “We don’t have these things in Heaven.”

  “Minivans?” I ask.

  Sparrow shakes his head.

  Of course not. I don’t think Cadillac ever made a minivan.

  I motion to the back of the van. “We could fit, like, six kids back there.”

  Sparrow turns, focused on something in the backseat.

  “What?” I ask.

  He reaches behind me and comes back with a pale-orange feather duster. From the glint in his eye I can tell he’s enamored with the thing. Maybe this feather obsession is never going to go away. It’s kind of cute—and fucked up.

  “It’s a feather duster, birdboy.”

  Sparrow looks at me quick before running his long fingers through the column of feathers.

  “For cleaning.”

  “Tragic.” He brushes the duster across his face. “It’s really soft.”

  I know what he’s thinking: he could put those suckers in his pocket and stroke them all day long.

  I wish he’d put me in his pocket.

  Sparrow touches the feather duster again.

  I put my seat belt on.

  “Did you steal this van?” I ask, settling my hands on the steering wheel.

  “It was running. I didn’t break anything,” he replies innocently.

  Perfect.

  “I need to get my tattoo fixed.” I point to the quill on my shoulder that was faded by Teari and her healing. I know just the place.

  “Ready?”

  Sparrow’s eyes lock on the ink, and he licks his lips. “Sure.” His head “tics” to the left.

  My heart sinks.

  I pull away from the curb, focusing on the road and not my slowly deteriorating Sparrow.

  Doing whatever we want here should be easy. I have loads of money on the earthen plane. My mother left me millions before John Lewis murdered her. He tried to murder me, as well, right before I turned twenty-five and the lump sum was due to be handed over to me. Jim, my ex-fiancé, was in on it, too. The jerks.

  Deciding on a place to go, I know that I don’t want to go back to Gouverneur: too many bad memories, too many people I don’t trust. So I get on the highway and head for the little town where I went to college in downstate New York.

  Sparrow fondles the feather duster the entire way. It makes me a little jealous. Living the past week in a chastity belt has been killing me, especially with Sparrow being dangled like a steak in front of me the entire time. Heaven was the worst case of torture—look but don’t touch.

  At least the food was good.

  After we pull into town, I park around the corner from the tattoo shop.

  “Come on.” I motion for Sparrow to get out and follow me.

  He holds my hand as we walk down the sidewalk to the shop entrance. A bell jingles as we walk inside.

  “Help you?” the guy behind the counter asks.

  “Yeah. I need to get this ink fixed.” I pull the neck of my shirt out and show him the faded quill.

  The guy’s eyes flick to the tattoo and then to Sparrow. “Slow day here. College kids are on break. Can fix it now.”

  “Perfect.”

  I follow the guy behind the counter. Sparrow stands in the waiting area, looking at framed pictures of tattoos on the wall.

  The guy shows me to a seat, then preps my skin and his workspace. Thankfully, the neck of my shirt is wide enough that I don’t have to take it off.

  The guy begins darkening the quill across my collarbone. The pinching feeling, sharp at first, lessens gradually, as I watch Sparrow study the pictures on the wall. When he finally turns to me, his eyes zero in on the tattoo. I check the mirror and see how much darker it is; looks like Teari never messed with it in the first place.

  Sparrow’s hand moves to his pocket, and I’d bet money he has one of the feathers from the duster in there.

  I wink at him.

  He smiles.

  The world stops spinning.

  “All done.” The tattoo guy starts cleaning up.

  I inspect the quill in the mirror again. “Much better.”

  I pay the man with my bank card, and then we leave the shop and head toward the minivan.

  After we’re buckled in, I turn to Sparrow and ask, “Does it look better?”

  As he nods and blinks, I am reminded of the day we slept on an outcropping of rock to avoid the walking dead of Hell. Sparrow was scouting below us; his long lashes brushed his cheeks as he blinked, and his hair curled at the nape of his neck. I thought, A crazy man shouldn’t have those features.

  “What now?” Sparrow asks.

  I snap out of it. “Okay. Um. We should do something. What have you always wanted to do?”

  He looks out the window thoughtfully. “I’ve always wanted to suck on a chili dog.”

  “What?” Laughter bubbles up inside me.

  “You know, like ‘Jack & Diane.’ I love that song.”

  I exhale a breath of air and hold in more laughter. “I’m sure Jack and Diane got divorced thirty years ago. You know how old that song is?”

  Sparrow’s face drops.

  “I’m joking. Holy hell. I’m joking. Okay.” I turn the ignition. “Chili dogs it is. You can be Jack. I’ll be Diane.”

  Sparrow smiles. “You can even sit on my lap,” he offers.

  This is way better than the Seven Kingdoms of Heaven.

  . . .

  We stop at three mini-marts before we find one selling chili dogs. The hot dog skin looks overly tanned and tough but smells delicious. We get giant fountain drinks and sit at one of the booths by the window. Sparrow eats his chili dog in three bites. As I’m working on mine, he’s watching.

  “You want the rest of this?” I offer. “I can get something else.”

  Now that I have money, I can afford all the fried food and sweets I want. And soda. It’s been too long since I’ve had soda. I’m going to buy a case of soda before we leave here.

  “I want it.” Sparrow licks his lips.

  “The food up there is delicious.” I motion toward Heaven. “But there’s no beating mini-mart fare.”

  I hand him the rest of my chili dog, then get up to order a cheeseburger from the counter.

  When I return to my seat, Sparrow is chewing and watching the leaves blow outside the window.

  “It’s cold out there,” he says.

  “Winter’s coming.” I take a bite of my cheeseburger and sip on my drink.

  “Winter . . .” His eyes flick to mine and then back out the window. His right thumb and index finger of his free hand twitch.

  “We should probably get some coats.” I shove the rest of the cheeseburger in my mouth and stand. “Come on.” I take Sparrow’s hand and drag him around the store with me. We collect Twinkies and Sno Balls and chips and a case of orange soda.

  At the checkout the clerk gives us a look as he bags everything up. “This crap will give you a heart attack.” He glances at the fresh tattoo on my collarbone.

  I know what he’s thinking. The same everyone else thought of me my entire life: white trash. I should let him know I’m a princess and Sparrow is a prince, and I’m a millionaire.

  “Sixty-two dollars and th
ree cents,” the clerk says.

  I shake it off, slide my bank card, sign the receipt, take our snacks, and leave.

  “There’s a Hilton extended-stay hotel nearby. Want to crash there for the night?” I ask Sparrow as we’re setting our bags in the back of the minivan.

  “If that’s where you want to stay.”

  We get in the car. Sparrow is oddly silent.

  I drive to the Hilton. The hotel isn’t really big, but it still looks out of place in this little town. I park the van; we grab our bags and walk in. The lobby is all dark tile, white columns, and beige decor. I’ve never stayed in a hotel like this before.

  The girl at the desk smiles. “Welcome to the Hilton. How can I help you?” Her eyes flick twice to Sparrow, and even though she’s talking to me, she keeps looking at him.

  “We need a room.”

  “A double?” she asks sweetly.

  Doesn’t she wish. I want no doubt left in her mind that Sparrow’s mine, and if these are my last days with him, I’m going all out. I splurge on the king suite.

  After paying for the room and signing the papers, the girl hands me the key cards.

  “Enjoy your stay.”

  We follow the floral-patterned carpet to the elevators. Sparrow pushes the button to the third floor. He turns, a grin spreading across his face. Sparrow could stop a train with his smile. I wonder if he realizes that?

  “What are you thinking?” I ask, shifting the bag of sweets to my other arm.

  His smile widens, and his green eyes hint of trouble. “We’re no longer in Heaven.”

  “No.”

  The elevator dings.

  “Gabriel can no longer see,” he says.

  I smile. “Let’s find our room.”

  We step off the elevator, take a left, and follow the hall to the end. Using the key card, I open the door to the suite, and we walk in. The hotel room is huge. A full kitchenette and table, a living room, and there’s an open double door revealing a giant bed.

  I drop my bags on the kitchen counter. Sparrow hefts the case of soda up onto the table and sets his bag of food there, as well.

  We turn to each other. He looks so good dressed like that, even if it is outdated. He’s tall and muscular and very attractive.

  “I don’t want you to be a Hellion,” I tell Sparrow in a moment of weakness and truth.

  “I don’t want our children to be crazy.”

  “I’m sinful,” I warn.

  “Soon, I will be, too.”

  I run at Sparrow and leap into his arms. He catches me as if I weigh nothing and walks toward the bedroom as I cling to him. I pull my shirt off and toss it on the floor. Sparrow buries his face in my neck, whispering sweet words, snowy owl words. I missed this about him. No one ever spoke to me like this before. Just him, only him. The tip of his nose rubs against the sensitive skin of my ear.

  “Say yes,” he whispers. “Only if you say yes. You have to say yes. Remember?”

  I grip his shoulders; he stands at the end of the bed.

  “Yes.” My eyes search his. “God, yes. Hell, yes.”

  He drops me on the bed. The denim getup disappears as he strips. I lick my lips. A naked Sparrow is a beautiful sight. His body has angles and planes that I’ve never seen on another man.

  Sparrow reaches for the waistband on my jeans, flicks the button, and peels them down my legs.

  “So beautiful,” he says as he throws my pants over his shoulder.

  Sparrow bends, his hands drop to the mattress on each side of my head supporting his big body, and he kisses me. His mouth is hot against mine, demanding. I’ve waited too long for him. My legs part. His hips press against the edge of the mattress to support his weight. Sparrow’s featherlight touch moves down my arms, across my abdomen. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my panties, and in one quick motion he rips them off.

  My eyes flick open and meet his.

  “I’ve been dreaming of doing that.” He smiles and kisses me again. Then he is trailing tiny kisses down my body. “I’ve dreamed of you like this. The entire time we were in Heaven. Damn them for keeping us apart.”

  He kisses the inside of my thigh, and I jerk upright.

  Sparrow glances at me, his eyes heavy and dark with desire. And then he moves, forcing me to back up on the bed until my head hits the pillows. His head dips to kiss me, his tongue spreading the seam of my lips, dipping into my mouth.

  Sweet Jesus, I forgot how good he tastes: sweet from the soda, salty from the chili dog. And there’s simply Sparrow, the part of him that tastes like Christmas and cake batter. I remember that filthy dream I had of him when I was in the Safe House. This is so much better.

  I run my hands down his back, but Sparrow is quick to grab them and secure my wrists above my head with his large hand.

  “I want to touch you,” I whisper and wiggle, trying to free myself.

  “Slow down.” He nips at my shoulder. “I’ve been waiting for this for far too long.” He kisses and nips his way across my body. “Patience, Meg. You always rush.”

  I have no patience. I want him now—fast and hard. My body feels like it’s on fire.

  Sparrow’s mouth is on my rib cage, licking the anchor tattoo there. He kisses his way to the heart on my right hip, licking the tattoo there. His head dips lower, and he presses our hands against my abdomen, immobilizing me.

  “Sparrow.” I breathe his name, pained.

  “I know, Meg. Trust me. I know.”

  And then his mouth is on me, and there’s fire in my veins. Stars and lights burst behind my closed eyes, and I grit my teeth, trying not to scream.

  Sparrow moves over me, finally letting go of my wrists so I am free to touch him wherever I want.

  “I love you,” he whispers as his body covers mine.

  I can’t talk, can’t barely think. This is what he does to me.

  His hips push against mine. I moan. Within moments we are coated in a thin sheen of sweat. Sparrow whispers things in my ear again, sweet words. My body aches for him, and then he does that thing with his hips, twisting and thrusting. Something in my center shatters. I arch my back, tighten my legs around him, and call his name.

  Sparrow collapses, his face buried in my neck. We’re both panting like when we’re running from the dead in Hell.

  After, he rolls and tucks me against his side. Being with Sparrow is better than anything. Better than life itself.

  His finger brushes the birthmark on my inner thigh. The ouroboros, Lucifer called it. I have yet to learn its significance.

  “Don’t do it,” I warn.

  Sparrow smiles before he starts to hum “Bed of Roses.”

  He may be teetering on the edge of insanity, but this is the Sparrow I grew to love.

  . . .

  I wake startled from a dream in which all my teeth fell out. There was nothing left but the pink gums of my mouth, and I looked like one of those women back at the trailer park in Gouverneur with nine kids and a thrift-shop purseful of food stamps.

  I jerk upright and run my tongue over my teeth, ensuring that they’re all there.

  “What’s wrong?” Sparrow reaches for me, his voice groggy.

  “I had a dream that they all fell out.” I touch my two front teeth with my finger.

  Sparrow laughs. “That’s Nightingale cursing you for leaving her behind.”

  “She can do that?”

  Sparrow shrugs. “We can all do a little something.”

  Sparrow can do something amazing. He saved me from the Hellions by bursting his feathers off his wings. The feathers fell like razorblades and cut the Hellions to bits.

  Nightingale can influence people’s dreams? Wonder if she had anything to do with that filthy dream I had about him taking off his trench coat when I was in the Safe House in Hell?

  The Safe Houses are where the newly dead can go to repent, their last chance to ascend to Heaven.

  I run my tongue across my teeth one more time. They’re all there. I may n
ot have had much growing up, but I had my teeth. I prefer to keep them intact.

  Sparrow rolls, wrapping the blanket around him like a burrito. I get up and shower.

  Sparrow’s eating a Twinkie when I walk out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. I grab the second one from the package on the table and take a bite out of it.

  “What do you want to do today?” I ask as I chew.

  Sparrow hands me a can of orange soda. “Not sure.”

  “There’s a pool downstairs. Want to swim?”

  Something flickers across his face.

  The last time we were near a pool together, I was washing off the splatter of the dead after nearly killing him. My trigger finger twitches, and I close my eyes. I almost shot Sparrow dead that day. He was teetering on that rocky cliff after I blew out the brains of one of the walking dead. The creature was trying to eat his face, and I panicked—remembered things I tried to bury. I hope Sparrow forgives me for that.

  He must’ve, since he’s still standing here.

  “I don’t have a swimsuit,” Sparrow replies.

  “You shower. I’ll run down to the hotel gift shop and get us some swimsuits.”

  I pull on jeans and a T-shirt over my damp skin before grabbing my bank card and room key. The shower starts in the bathroom, and the sounds of Sparrow moving around in there echo. I head for the elevator, worried that he might not be there when I get back. I don’t want to leave him, not for a second.

  The gift shop only has a one-piece tropical-print suit and a pair of swim trunks with palm trees all over them. I pay for both and then dash back up to the room.

  Just as I’m walking through the door, Sparrow’s stepping out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

  “How was it?” I open the bag from the shop and hand him the swim trunks.

  “Lonely.”

  I smile. “Next time.”

  His left shoulder “tics” hard, nearly throwing him off-balance. I start to go to him, but Sparrow holds his hand out, stopping me from coming closer.

  “It’s fine,” he says, looking away.

  Something breaks inside of me, watching this torture overtake him. I want to hide him away and protect him, or hurry up and get his time as a Hellion over with so he can go back to normal. Whatever his normal is.