Nightingale Girl

by M. R. Pritchard

  “How is he then?”

  I try to shake my head, but it only lolls to one side in exhaustion. “Different,” is all I say before I fall asleep.

  . . .

  Thankfully, Nightingale doesn’t permeate my dreams this time. When I wake, Noah is nowhere to be seen. I check my arm and find there is a small pink scar and a smear of blood across my skin. I get up and shower.

  After getting dressed in a pair of form-fitting sweatpants and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, I move to the balcony.

  The sun is rising in an explosion of pinks and grays.

  “Breakfast.” Noah’s voice startles me.

  I turn to find him setting out food on the small table in my room.

  “You didn’t ask me what I wanted,” I point out as I walk toward him.

  Noah makes a noise. “Know you well enough. Coffee, chocolate chip pancakes, and sausage.”

  I sit. “Coffee?”

  Noah sits across from me. “Some crazy teenage chick south of here found a truck filled with unopened cans of Folgers. She was smart enough to set up a little French press by herself. Could smell it ten miles away. Had her make you a cup before she turned.” Noah’s expression turns thoughtful. “Strange, isn’t it. Last thing these people spend their energy doing is preparing gourmet coffees and making chocolate chip pancakes and sausage out of wild boars.”

  I drop my fork and stare at him.

  “What?” Noah asks innocently.

  “I was really enjoying this, until you told me all that.”

  “I just don’t understand.”

  “Some of us really like our food. It’s comforting.”

  Noah shrugs, moves his hands behind his head, and leans back. “I can’t eat, so it doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

  I look down at the breakfast he brought me. Wasting it would be a tragedy. And I’m hungry. I pick up my fork and start eating again.

  “Never found much comfort in food anyways.”

  “What then?” I ask, taking a very unladylike mouthful of pancake.

  “Thick blunt packed with Kushberry that’s been hang dried in a fifty-degree room for about four weeks.” He sucks in a breath and closes his eyes before exhaling slowly. “That’s comforting.”

  I take a sip of my coffee, which is really quite good, and let Noah daydream about his pastimes of smoking weed and doing nothing productive.

  When he finally snaps out of it, I find him leering at me as I’m rubbing the last of my sausage in the puddle of syrup on my plate.

  “What?” I ask without looking up.

  “Dressing down today? Is this you letting go?”

  I sigh and eat the piece of maple-soaked sausage. “I just didn’t feel like getting dressed.” I set my fork down and finish off the last of the coffee.

  Birds are settling on the balcony railing, cocking their heads expectantly at us and blinking their beady eyes. A few of them chirp, beckoning us to set out seed.

  “I guess it’s time to feed them.” Noah stands.

  I follow him to the balcony.

  . . .

  I lie awake in bed, my brain buzzing too fast to sleep. All I can think is that it’s been three days since I last saw Sparrow. Maybe he regrets almost draining me and leaving me on the floor like a sack of bones, twice.

  Noah’s gone for the night. We’ve spent our days training the songbirds and playing cards. I keep asking him to find me a Jeep so we can go driving one night, but he keeps making excuses. Mostly he says Clea will kill him all over again. I don’t care; I don’t like being cooped up here like a zoo animal.

  I want a beer and a party, something to drown my sorrows in and forget.

  Knowing the one place where I can find alcohol here, I get up and leave my room. By the time I reach the stairwell, I wish I had something more appropriate on. I’m wearing nothing but a long T-shirt and underwear. Oh well, I’ve worn less into Walmart. A string bikini and flip-flops somehow got past their “no shirts, no shoes, no service” policy.

  The castle is empty; nothing lurks in the hallways at this ungodly hour. I climb the stairs and make my way to the Hellions’ lair, then push open the door to find the place is empty. I focus on the bar and see the bottles of liquor lined up neat. There’s a glass-front fridge, half of it filled with beer bottles, the other half with blood. I lick my lips.

  Just as I’m reaching for the door, I hear footsteps behind me and smell a familiar scent.

  When I met Jim at that party in college, I thought it was hot, him smelling like embers and rock dust. Little did I know he smelled like Hell. Back then I didn’t know he was the child of Lucifer’s head Demon, raised on the earthen plane after his father smuggled him out of Hell. He hunted me down, knocked me up, and dragged me back to the tiny town I grew up in. I hate him for it. I hate him more for trying to kill me twice.

  “Don’t turn around,” Jim says.

  No problem with that. I can’t stand the look of his face, even before it was half-melted off. I know he’s leering at me. I feel him pinch my shirt and lift it so he can see my ass.

  I freeze.

  “Don’t touch me,” I warn. “I’ll kill you.” I grip my thigh looking for my blade. There’s nothing there but bare skin. Shit. This is not the kind of trouble I was looking for.

  “Not touching. Just looking,” Jim assures me. “Have to see what’s so wonderful about you. Birdboy won’t touch none of the Bloodwhores. Thinks he’s better than the rest of us.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  Jim leans in close, and I feel his breath on my neck. “I’d fuck you nice and hard like I used to if I knew your grandpappy weren’t watching.”

  I want to kick him in the nuts and chop his head off. But I can’t do that right now. Besides telling me not to go around unarmed like an idiot, Clea warned me that Jim’s dad will kill me. Really kill me. Vine doesn’t care if my grandfather will kill him back. But if I had my weapon, I could hurt him a little—toy with him like he did to me all those years.

  I wish Sparrow were here—my Sparrow, not what they turned him into. He’d kill Jim all over again for even suggesting he was going to touch me.

  Jim lifts my shirt higher, getting an eyeful, I guess. I wasn’t expecting company. I just wanted a stiff drink, forgetting for a moment that the beings around here don’t sleep at night.

  I have to turn this around and get in control of the situation again. I wonder if a guy could die of blue balls?

  I bend, throw out a hip real sluttylike, and listen to Jim suck in a sharp breath. The underwear is black and lace and barely there. It was meant for Sparrow to see, not Jim. It’s nothing Jim hasn’t seen before, though, I remind myself.

  I had better plans for tonight: I was going to try to seduce Sparrow when he came to feed. Get him to do me like he did me on the floor of that church back when we were nothing but two lost souls, who had no one but each other. Talk about backfire. My old Sparrow’d be pissed right now. He’d get all hot and bothered. I bet his downy white wings would even ruffle.

  I pretend to take forever to choose a beer. I couldn’t care less what it tastes like; I just want something numbing. Settling on Michelob Light, I take two.

  “What’s wrong, Jimboy? Gotta roll a quarters in yer fly?” I let the trailer drawl work real hard.

  “Fuck, Meg.” Jim tugs at my shirt again, lifting it higher. I hear him step closer, feel his heat on my ass.

  I stand, ramrod straight, beers in hand. “Don’t fucking touch me.” I look over my shoulder.

  Jim drops the shirt and steps away, hands up. “If you weren’t such a slut, walking around here half-naked, tempting us all . . .”

  I turn, facing him for the first time since he enticed me with a glass of blood days ago. “Us?”

  Jim tips his head to the shadows where seven forms stand. Shit, Hellions. I didn’t see any of them when I walked in here. But then, I wasn’t really thinking about the trouble I could get in. I was only thinking of the pain caused by Sparrow no
t remembering me—using me up and tossing me away every time he wants dinner—and I wanted to numb it.

  I take my beer and run out of the lair. I run all the way back to my bedroom, slam the door, and down the beers in a few long swallows. I wait for the buzz to hit me.

  When my lips feel numb, and my fingertips, too, it still doesn’t help. I miss Sparrow even more. And the emptiness of barely understanding what the heck is going on down here threatens to consume me.

  The glowy, glowy glitteriness of Heaven gave me a headache like no other, but this place is breaking my stupid heart.

  BURN AND RUST

  “Watch this.” Noah whistles; a yellow finch lands on his hand.

  “Show off.” I sit in a chair that I dragged to the balcony earlier.

  Songbirds peck at the seeds spread across the railing.

  A large gray bird lands, and Noah moves away.

  “What?” I ask.

  “That’s a mourning dove.”

  “So.”

  “My grandmother said mourning doves bring bad luck.” Another mourning dove lands. “And they always come in twos.”

  “Your grandmother had a contact buzz from the years you spent growing weed in her basement.”

  Noah throws seed at the doves, and they fly away. “I’m not taking any chances.”

  “What chances do you have?” I ask. “You’re already dead. And in Hell.”

  “You never know. I get on Lucifer’s good side, maybe he’ll give me a promotion.”

  I shake my head. “No. You’ll be my manservant the entire time I’m here.”

  Noah turns. “How long will you be here for?”

  “Not sure. Until Sparrow is done serving his time as a Hellion.”

  “And then?”

  I look over the Kingdom of Hell. “I’m not sure.”

  Noah sits next to me in another chair. “So we found each other in the afterlife.”

  “I’m not dead. I can just pass through realms.” I point at him. “You’re dead.”

  Noah gets super quiet.

  Crap. I think I hurt his feelings.

  “Do you think I’ll ever see Jack again?” Noah asks.

  Jack is Noah’s older brother. He’s a state trooper on the earthen plane, who saved my ass when John Lewis tried to smother me with a pillow after I woke up from my coma. He also smacked John a little too hard upside the head with his billy club, giving Jack a one-way ticket straight to Hell. I’m not sure Noah knows any of this. Why depress him further?

  “Maybe you’ll see him again,” I reply.

  Noah watches the birds.

  Minutes later he asks. “How long has it been since Sparrow visited you?”

  I think back. “Four days.”

  Noah whistles low. “I thought three days was bad.”

  “I know.” A feather falls off a yellow finch. I pick it up and twist it between my fingertips. “On that note, I should probably go find him.”

  Noah salutes me. “Good luck, Captain.”

  I kick his chair as I pass.

  Before leaving my room, I stop at the closet and open one of the small drawers; inside there’s a handful of feathers I’ve collected over the past few days from birds that have fed on my balcony—gray and black from the chickadee, steel gray from the mourning dove, brown from a finch, red from a cardinal, blue from a jay. I set the yellow feather inside, close the drawer, and head for the Hellions’ lair.

  I’m not sure what Jim is keeping Sparrow busy with, but I’m already tired of him coming to me starved, then nearly draining me dry. So far, three days has been his max. If he waits any longer, no amount of pancakes or pizza will bring me back when he’s finished sucking every last drop of blood from of my body.

  I push open the door to the Hellions’ lair.

  Sparrow is standing at the bar; he’s humming some dark languid tune. I stop to listen. It’s “House of the Rising Sun.”

  He’s humming my number one hated song.

  It’s Jim’s favorite.

  Figures.

  Being down here is changing my lovely Sparrow into some dark albatross. I want to take him away, then shake him until he remembers everything. He’d be pissed if I did it; this is the only way to relieve his family of the curse.

  Let’s get this over with.

  I slice my arm.

  Sparrow turns; his dark wings flex. He’s haggard—too thin for his big frame. His green eyes, once glittery and bright, are now dull. He’s holding a bottle of bourbon in his hand.

  Is that how he’s doing this, filling his gut with liquor?

  “Dinnertime,” I murmur.

  Sparrow’s nose flares. The bottle drops to the ground and shatters. Sparrow latches on. I feel his teeth on my skin, the sharp pinch, his hot tongue. He sucks. Oh shit. My knees weaken. My core burns and spasms. Sweet Jesus. I drop to the ground.

  “Sparrow?” I whisper.

  Jim laughs from somewhere in the room. I didn’t see him when I first came in here. There’s a heck of a lot of growling, and I have no clue where or who it’s coming from.

  “Sparrow . . .” Words get caught in my throat.

  Sparrow’s eyes open, and he looks down at me. His gaze settles on the tattoo on my chest. He swallows. Sucks again. Closes his eyes. I notice a bulge in the crotch of his leather pants. Good to know I’m not the only sick freak turned on by this.

  The edges of my vision start to blur. My breathing turns shallow. I reach for him but I can barely move my free arm. If I could talk, I’d have some choice words for Sparrow right now.

  “Stop.” Noah’s booming voice fills the room.

  Oh goody, my manservant is here.

  Sparrow drops my arm, and I fall to the floor.

  At least now I know four days will almost kill me. I put a pin in that shit and remember it for later. If Sparrow won’t come to me willingly, then I will come looking for him.

  Noah lifts me off the ground and walks back to my room, muttering a string of curse words the entire way.

  “Why in the hell would you walk into the lion’s den and offer yourself up like a goddamned piece of bloody steak?” Noah’s pissed.

  “I didn’t want him showing up here and sucking me dry in the heat of passion . . . or hunger.”

  “Every Hellion was in that room. You’re lucky they all didn’t take a drag.”

  The sound of Noah kicking my door open echoes in the hall. He spins to kick it closed again—much harder than necessary—before crossing the room and dropping me on my bed.

  Noah starts walking away.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To tattle to your mother.”

  Shit, he’s going to tell Clea what I did. “Don’t—”

  “Go the fuck to sleep, Meg. You’re in deep shit.”

  I sink into the bed and listen to the door slam again before closing my eyes.

  . . .

  Sparrow

  “How much have you remembered?” Jim stood before Sparrow, waiting.

  Sparrow shook his head. Admitting this truth shamed him. Sparrow could remember nothing—just an urge of feelings that had not yet come to fruition.

  “Better off.” Jim downed a shot of bourbon, hissing through his teeth after swallowing. He passed a shot glass to Sparrow, who swallowed the liquor down in silence.

  “Not as good as that trashy whore’s blood. Is it, cherub?”

  Sparrow grunted. He felt too weak to talk—hadn’t been back to her since the second time he had left her a heap of bones on the floor. The guilt tore at him; it ripped a hole in his soul and threatened to drown him. He’d seen Clea since then; her sinister stare was all the punishment Sparrow needed. Clea knew what he had done.

  Sparrow was famished. For the past few days they had been all over Hell collecting stone blocks. Jim had sent Sparrow to gather them, saying Sparrow was the only one who could step foot on the hallowed ground.

  Even in the dim sunlight of Hell the labor was intensive. The only positive Sparrow foun
d from the hours spent pounding on thick rock was that the walking dead kept their distance. He didn’t have to send their tortured souls away with the sharp end of his blade.

  Jim moved away, and Sparrow poured himself another drink. The burn of the bourbon was nearly useless when it came to sating his hunger; though, it did dull the haze threatening to overtake him.

  Sparrow began to hum a song he’d heard repeated over and over again in the lair. As he stood there, drowning in his own darkness and shame, doing his best to forget and remember, the door to the lair burst open.

  Sparrow knew who it was before he turned around.

  She was there. Electricity enlivened the air between them.

  Sparrow turned.

  She cut her arm and murmured something. Stood there, bleeding for him. Sparrow knew that the other Hellions in the room would be on her in a second. The dark hunger overtook him. Sparrow dropped the bottle in his hand and crossed the room in a flicker of haste. He couldn’t remember her name or who she was to him, but Sparrow wouldn’t let the other Hellions touch her. She was his; he could taste it on his tongue as he fed from her.

  “Sparrow . . .” He heard her call his name, her voice weakening. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw the colorful ink on her chest, and a fire lit within him, something stronger than the power of turning into a Hellion. Sparrow sucked, filled his bloodstream with her blood, lapped at the soft skin of her arm, and badly wanted to drag her away from the lair and into a dark room to have his way with her.

  “Stop!” A voice boomed, and a force shoved Sparrow away.

  Noah. Sparrow knew the ghost standing before him. Their darknesses were linked, just like his and the other Hellions. But Noah had some strange power: he was tainted with astral magic that would protect Meg at any cost if her life were in danger.

  The ghost bent and scooped her off the floor. Sparrow watched, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, wanting nothing more than to tear Noah’s hands off her. But the collar around Sparrow’s throat tightened, and Noah’s magic kept him at a distance.

  Jim laughed.

  The door slammed closed behind Noah as he walked out of the lair.

  Sparrow stood frozen in place. He licked his lips, tasting sweetness. He knew he was in trouble. This was a depraved bloodthirst that he could barely control.