Nightingale Girl

by M. R. Pritchard

  A tiny emotion flashes through my heart: what if I hate Sparrow’s normal?

  I shake my head and reach for the bag with my bathing suit. We change, grab towels from the closet near the bathroom, then head to the pool. The uneasy feelings of sudden loneliness and loss begin to creep up on me.

  The smell of chlorine lingers in the hall. Sparrow reaches around me and pulls the door to the pool area open. He waits for me to walk through. I toss my towel on a chair and head for the water, trying to figure out the right thing to say to him at this moment. This threat of him becoming a Hellion is creating a ridge between us, and I don’t like it at all. I’ve never had anyone in my life quite like Sparrow.

  As I’m dipping my toe in the pool, trying to figure what to say, Sparrow touches my arm, and I hear his sharp intake of breath. I look up and find Gabriel standing on the other side of the pool.

  Oh shit.

  “Brats.” Gabriel’s voice echoes throughout the pool room. “Just like your mother, running away” comes next. “Goddamned kids.” He’s staring me down with his electric-blue gaze. Before I can say one word, he’s standing next to me in a flash. “You swore on his life not to leave the Seven Kingdoms of Heaven.” Gabriel points at Sparrow. “On. His. Life.”

  I step back.

  “My father didn’t tell you?” Sparrow steps forward. “The other Council members know.”

  “What?” Gabriel asks.

  “He didn’t do his time.”

  “Hellion?”

  “Yes.”

  Gabriel frowns. “It’s the curse then?”

  Sparrow nods.

  “Fucking idiot,” Gabriel mumbles as he walks in a tight circle. “Fucking idiot!” Gabriel turns to face us, angrier than a hornet. “He never went when he was called?” Gabriel asks Sparrow.

  “No,” Sparrow replies.

  “Imbecile!” Gabriel clenches his hands into fists. “You have the curse. And your sister—is she crazier than a shit house rat?”

  “Yes. He keeps her locked up.”

  Gabriel nods, understanding. “Your banishment must have delayed the curse catching up with you or we would have known years ago.” He looks Sparrow up and down before walking toward him and placing both of his hands on Sparrow’s broad shoulders. “Darkness must taint your soul. This must happen. All Archangels who ever did an ounce of good paid their dues as a Hellion.”

  There is a dark glint in my father’s eyes.

  “Does that mean you, too?” I ask, curious as to how many of the Archangels have walked on the dark side.

  Gabriel glances at me. “Yes. That is where I met Clea.”

  Holy crap. He met my mother when he was doing his time as a Hellion. I know what the Hellions did to me; does that mean . . .

  “No.” Gabriel’s tone is harsh. It’s as though he read my mind. “It was of her own free will. Clea was more. I brought her back with me when I finished my time. Lucifer was pissed.” Gabriel suddenly laughs loud, and it echoes throughout the poolroom, making my ears ache. His eyes close for a few seconds, as though he’s remembering the past. He sighs. “This is noble.” Gabriel pats Sparrow so hard on the shoulder his body jerks. “And you will go together.”

  “I swore—” I start to say.

  “It is forgiven,” Gabriel declares.

  “But Clea’s feather showed you something.” Clea gave a feather to each of us, but Gabriel still hasn’t told me what he saw. “Was it a warning?”

  “Now is not the time to discuss that.” Gabriel presses his lips together, refusing to tell me. He turns. “Sparrow?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Christ, boy. Remiel is pissed that you took off without a word. Don’t forget what you’re made of.” Gabriel flicks him hard on the forehead. “Sparkles and fluffy clouds and shit.” Gabriel turns to face me and frowns. “The owl is the bringer of death.” Then in a flash, Gabriel is gone.

  The owl? Is that what Clea’s feather revealed?

  I suddenly don’t feel like swimming any longer. I turn to Sparrow, taking his hand in mine. “Let’s go back to the room.”

  Poof.

  . . .

  “We could have taken the . . .” Sparrow’s lips move, and his brow furrows, like he can’t remember, but he’s still trying to get the words out.

  It feels like there is a stone in my gut.

  “Elevator?” I ask.

  Sparrow nods as he tosses his towel over the back of a nearby chair. He moves around the room, opens a can of soda, digs through the bag of snacks, pulls out some chips, and starts eating.

  I do the same, both of us staring off into space as we chew. The snacks are good. I kinda miss the delicacies of Heaven fare, though. Thinking of food reminds me of the hunger that was never sated in Hell. We have to go back to that. I touch my stomach, remembering the nights of searching for a safe place to eat or sleep. Sparrow killed a deer for food. He helped keep me alive. Something inside me tells me that this time it’s going to be very different.

  I think of Noah. The last true friend I had before Sparrow. He got busted for possession and died in a bus accident on his way to the prison in Auburn. I met back up with him in Hell. Noah never repented, so he turned into a walking sack of flesh and tried to eat my face. Sparrow cut his hand off, and that was the first time he saved my life.

  That’s all I’ve had, Sparrow and Noah. There was Jim, but he doesn’t count. Anyone who killed your unborn baby and let seven Hellions rape and try to murder you definitely doesn’t fall under the category of “nice guys I dated or was engaged to.”

  Sparrow sits at the table across from me. He’s eaten an entire bag of chips, and now he’s reaching for a package of Sno Balls.

  The countertop is littered with empty soda cans. The paper bags we carried our snacks in are crumpled and nearly empty, too. I should have gotten more food.

  Angst wells up inside me. I suddenly want to do something bad, something very bad. The darkness inherited from Lucifer feels like it’s going to burst out of my body. I want to steal something or deface a sign or go to a bar and—

  “I want another tattoo,” I announce as I stand up.

  Sparrow smiles. He stands, moves closer, and runs his finger around the quill on my collarbone. “Of what?”

  I shrug. “I’m not sure,” I say. But I do have an idea.

  Sparrow frowns. Going back to the tattoo parlor and letting a stranger put his hands on me for more than a quick touch-up is a big deal. He knows I don’t like to be touched.

  “I don’t like that man’s hands on your body.” Sparrow grips my hips and drags me toward him. He kisses me—hard at first, then so desperately that I can barely breathe. It’s like he can’t stand to lose me. I can’t stand to lose him. Sparrow pulls away and holds my face. My throat feels thick. I swallow down the words I decided not to say.

  “Don’t forget me, Meg. Don’t forget that I love you more than anything. The things they’ll make me do . . .” He presses his forehead against mine—doesn’t finish whatever he was saying. Instead, for the next hour Sparrow shows me exactly why I shouldn’t want anyone else’s hands on my body, except for his.

  . . .

  There are snowflakes in the air as we head to the tattoo parlor. I called the guy who darkened my quill earlier, and he had an opening available.

  “Christmas is coming,” I say as I drive the minivan.

  “Yeah.” Sparrow smiles, but his hands are all over the feather duster that was left in the car. He tugs a feather out of the duster and shoves it in his pocket.

  I pretend I don’t see that. Other people might be thrown off by what he’s doing, but it’s way easier to watch than when we were in Hell and he was plucking feathers straight out of the birds’ wings. Alive or dead, he filled his pockets with hundreds of feathers.

  Sparrow’s humming “It’s My Life” as I park the van, and we get out. We walk to the tattoo parlor hand in hand. He holds the door to the shop open for me, and, as I pass by, he does something strange: he w
histles the eerie tremolo of the loon.

  My favorite bird is the loon. Sparrow knows this. He hasn’t mimicked its call since he asked me what my favorite bird was not long after we first met.

  Before I can say anything about it, the guy at the counter says, “Hey again.” He checks out Sparrow’s outfit. He’s still wearing the Canadian tuxedo, since I never got us new clothes. “Cool threads, man.”

  Sparrow whistles something that sounds like a blue jay call.

  The guy at the counter looks confused. I should tell him not to mind my man, who has apparently decided to communicate with birdcalls.

  Just then the lights flicker. In the millisecond of darkness, the tattoo man looks as though he’s backlit with blue light.

  I blink, and the lights come back on—full force—and there is nothing but a normal guy standing in front of me. Maybe I’m seeing things from all the junk food I’ve been eating over the past twenty-four hours. Never experienced anything like that before, but my blood sugar is probably at a critical high.

  The tattoo guy watches me intently. “Are you . . . ?”

  “What?” I ask, but the guy seems to change his focus.

  “There’s a book over there. Pick out what you want.”

  I head for the books filled with tattoos. I have an idea of what I want already. After flipping a few pages, I find it: a dainty watercolor of a sparrow in flight. Just as beautiful as Sparrow is handsome.

  “Where ya want it?” the tattoo guy asks. He glances at Sparrow, seeming uneasy.

  I could go full tramp and get it on the small of my back or maybe my butt cheek. But I want to see it. I want it close. “Here.” I point to the space over my heart.

  The guy nods and motions for me to follow him.

  I sit in the reclining chair as the tattoo guy preps his tools and then my skin. I have to take my shirt off this time and pull my bra down a little bit. Good thing I’m not self-conscious.

  Sparrow stiffens and watches from the waiting area. The look on his face is one of possession and near jealousy.

  The tattoo man starts working his magic. I feel the familiar sting of the needle, the annoying burning sensation.

  Sparrow’s eyes are riveted to mine the entire time.

  I’m not sure how much time passes before the tattoo guy leans away from me, assesses the tattoo from a few different angles, dips his tool in a new ink pot, and adjusts some coloring. He presses a towel to my skin, then moves away.

  “Think it’s done.” He hands me a mirror.

  I inspect the ink. The tattoo looks better than I expected. Pinks and blues and yellows all come together, with the wispy outline of the sparrow. Reminds me of a sunset.

  “Perfect.” I smile.

  Now I will always have Sparrow close to my heart.

  I put my shirt on and get up to pay the guy, then take Sparrow’s hand, and we walk out the door to the minivan. Just before I let go of his hand to walk to the driver’s side, Sparrow pulls me against him and kisses me hard on the lips.

  “You like?” I ask.

  “Love.” He smiles and releases me. His hand moves to his pocket. I bet he’s stroking off to a handful of feathers. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  We get in the van, and I start it.

  “Christmas is coming,” I remind him. “Should we get presents?”

  The first time I got a real present on Christmas, I was fourteen and Noah bought me a hemp-twine bracelet with teal beads. I didn’t have anything for him. That was the year we spent a summer in juvie together; the thrill of doing 120 miles per hour down the thruway was almost worth losing two months of my life.

  “What if I’m not here for Christmas?” Sparrow asks.

  Gripping the steering wheel, I drive past the hotel.

  “We’ll do Christmas tonight.”

  I drive to the mall and get a few hundred dollars from the ATM. I give Sparrow a handful of twenties.

  “Get me something. Meet me back here in thirty minutes.”

  I don’t care if he gets me nothing at all. I want to do something for him.

  We walk in opposite directions. I head for the nearest home store and find the largest, fluffiest down comforter I can find. After tugging the plastic case off a shelf, I pay for it, then leave the store to find a shadowed corner.

  Poof.

  I’m back in the hotel room. I rip open the package, then search the kitchenette for a sharp knife. After finding one in the third drawer, I cut the down comforter open and shake the feathers all over the bed. I shove the empty fabric back into the packaging and stuff it in the closet.

  Housekeeping is going to be pissed.

  Poof.

  Back at the mall, I head to the spot where I’m supposed to meet Sparrow. On the way, I pass a few vendors selling food. It all smells too good. I stop to buy a bag of warm pretzels, a box of cookies, fresh popcorn, and caramel corn. I consider ice cream, but I know it will melt.

  When I find Sparrow, he glances at the bags in my arms.

  “Hungry?” he asks.

  “It all smelled too good.”

  “I would never let you starve.”

  My heart cracks. He’s said that to me before.

  “I’d never let you starve, either.” I force a smile.

  We make our way to the minivan, and I drive us back to the hotel. Sparrow is quiet, and the van smells like the mall food court. I eat a pretzel as I drive and offer Sparrow a bite, but he seems distracted. Maybe he’s regretting running off with me in his last days. Maybe he’s regretting me altogether.

  I park the van, get out, and walk around the side to collect the packages of food. Sparrow stops me as I’m opening the door. I look up; the sunset is ablaze behind his head in a fiery orange and yellow and blue. He’s never looked more like an Angel than he does at this moment. He opens his mouth but stops, glances at the bags, and seems to refocus.

  “Were you going to say something?” I ask.

  He kisses me, soft and sweet; his warm tongue on my lips nearly melts me. When he pulls away, his hand gripping my shoulder, he says, “I’m running out of time.”

  Oh, good feeling gone.

  I grab the bags of food and drag Sparrow to the hotel. Thankfully, the guy behind the counter barely acknowledges us when we enter. I’m grateful for one less distraction. The elevator doors open for us as though it had been waiting for us to arrive. Sparrow pushes the button to our floor. As the elevator rises, he stares at his wavy reflection in the metal doors.

  We step off the elevator, and I turn to stop Sparrow, my hand on his chest. “I just want to warn you that your present is in there.”

  “And yours is right here.” He holds a small box between his index finger and thumb.

  I take the box and open it. Inside is a silver ring with a black stone. It’s just some cheap costume jewelry straight from China. Probably give me lead poisoning if I licked it. But the stone looks real enough, like a little chunk of shiny coal.

  Sparrow takes the ring out of the box and pushes it onto my finger. “Don’t let me forget, Meg.” His eyes search. “Don’t let me forget you.” He kisses me quick.

  I tug him to our room and open the door. After leading him to the bedroom, I step out of the way. “Merry Christmas.” I reveal the bed covered in downy white feathers.

  Sparrow’s face lights up. His head jerks to the side, and he closes his eyes, ashamed. Then he starts stripping off his clothes.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to feel them on every inch of my body.”

  Sparrow runs and dives onto the bed. White feathers burst into the air, surrounding us. It’s like a feather snowstorm. I pick up a handful to throw at Sparrow. He does the same. Feathers are floating everywhere. One sticks to my lip as I’m laughing. When I try to pull it away, Sparrow blasts me in the face with another handful.

  We drop down onto the mattress, breathing heavy and laughing. As the feathers settle, Sparrow glances out the window. He stands and moves toward it. T
he snow is falling just as hard outside as the feathers were in here.

  I get up and move to him.

  “I can’t believe there’s already five inches of snow out there.” Sparrow opens the curtains wider, watching as though he were an enamored toddler.

  “You’ve never seen snow before?” I ask.

  “Not like this.”

  I lean forward and whisper something in Sparrow’s ear that has to do with measuring.

  Sparrow freezes. “You say the filthiest things.”

  I smile and beckon him closer.

  . . .

  “I’m bored with white.” Sparrow holds up one of the down feathers. “We need colorful ones.”

  “Let’s go get some.” I roll toward him. “You want to go now?”

  Sparrow reaches out, his fingers slide over the ring he gave me, and no doubt he’s remembering our time collecting feathers from every bird imaginable.

  Fun times.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  Concern furrows his face.

  “What’s wrong?” I move off the bed.

  Sparrow stands and starts getting dressed. “Nothing.”

  Suddenly feeling pressed for time, I get up and get dressed, run my hands through my hair, and check the new tattoo on my chest. It looks like it’s going to heal well. I grab my bag.

  We collect the food and what’s left of our case of soda and leave the room. While I’m checking out, I take a look at all the local-interest pamphlets displayed on the side of the counter. There’s one for a bird sanctuary. I take it.

  “Thank you for choosing Hilton,” the clerk says with a smile as I sign the credit card receipt.

  “Thank you.” They’re going to be cursing my name when they see the mess we left in there.

  I meet Sparrow at the car and hand him the pamphlet on the bird sanctuary.

  He smiles.

  After taking a quick look around, I start the van and begin driving out of the parking lot, heading for the highway.

  “Meg . . .”

  I pull over at the sound of fear in Sparrow’s voice.

  “Spar—” I begin to ask.

  Oh no! He’s fading—his entire being is fading before my eyes, his transparency increasing until I can see the pleather of the seat he’s sitting in.