Nightingale Girl

by M. R. Pritchard

  My back straightens. The Deacons run the Safe Houses. They have their ears to the ground, looking to pay their penance and buy their way back into Heaven. When I was here before, they threatened to turn me in for a bounty of 150 souls.

  “Noah’s coming. I’ll be fine,” I assure Clea. “We won’t be out long.”

  Clea crosses her arms and watches as we walk up the stairwell and turn down the hallway leading outside.

  We pass the Hellion’s lair on the way out. The loud rock music pauses for a second as we walk by the door.

  I grip Noah’s hand and tug him along faster before one of them can come out and stop us.

  We cross the threshold and step out onto the rocky ground at the mouth of the burning caves of Hell.

  “Where do you want to go?” Noah asks as we walk farther away.

  “How do you feel about New York City?”

  Noah laughs; then his face drops. “You’re serious.”

  “Come on, we’ve done worse. Remember that time you taught me how to hotwire a car, and we set off for Six Flags with no money in our pockets?”

  “That was different.”

  “How?” I take his hand. “Watch what I can do.”

  Poof.

  We’re standing in Times Square—the Times Square of Hell, of course. It’s just darker and dirtier than the one on the earthen plane.

  There’s chain-link fencing and barbed wire lining the streets and alleys. Behind that, the dead shuffle and moan. People walk by us: some look normal—the newly dead—and others have the scales and horns of Demons.

  “Let’s find a party.” I take Noah’s hand and start walking.

  “You sure this is a good idea?”

  “I never asked you that when you were getting me into all that trouble when we were kids.” I try to ignore the smell of trash and sour milk, but it’s overwhelming here. From behind the nearby fencing, the walking dead moan but keep their distance.

  We follow the crowd and find ourselves in front of a tall industrial building. Lights and music pulse from inside. There are bouncers with giant twisted ram horns protruding from their foreheads. They stop no one from entering.

  We enter the building with the crowd and walk through a short vestibule loaded with coats and other pieces of clothing. There’s a single high heel; a pair of Chucks; and something thick and gleaming, dripping down the wall. Noah pulls me to the side as soon as we make it to the large warehouse section of the building.

  Wow. The creatures of Hell sure know how to throw a rave.

  There are strobe lights flashing in every color, as a fast techno beat pulses from the speakers throughout the room. The place is one giant dance floor. Bodies gyrate, sway, and shimmy against each other. The scene is something out of a dirty movie. Cages suspended from the ceiling hold scantily clad women with tails and black eyes. Their bodies pulse with the music. There’s a bar along the far wall, and behind the counter are row upon row of Devil’s Springs vodka. Go figure.

  “Let’s get drinks first,” I suggest.

  Noah leads me to the bar and waves the bartender down.

  The guy takes one look at us and pours four shots of vodka. “On the house,” he says with a smile. I catch him looking at the quill tattoo across my collarbone.

  Noah turns to face me. “Sorry, there’s no weed.” He hands me a shot glass. “This might burn.”

  We take two shots each.

  The music pumps louder. I feel the beat in my chest, beckoning me to do something other than stand at this bar poisoning my liver.

  “Let’s dance.” I drag Noah out onto the dance floor.

  The place is packed tight. We have to squeeze between bodies rubbing against one another before we find a spot where we can stand together.

  In no time at all we’re dancing like we’re dating again. I’ve forgotten about Sparrow getting me all hot and bothered and being a giant dickweed.

  Noah puts his hands on my hips and grinds against me; he smiles and whispers something in my ear. The music is too loud, and I can’t hear him. Needing some space, I move away. It’s so hot I can barely breathe.

  The music stops—abrupt silence in its place. Someone screams, loud and shrill.

  Noah stands on his tiptoes to see what’s going on. “Shit.” He takes my hand and pulls me away.

  We’re running between gyrating bodies who haven’t seemed to noticed that the music is off. People rub against us. Someone touches my hair.

  Noah tugs me along faster. “Gotta get out of here.”

  In an instant the party turns violent. The dance floor turns into a fight club. Punches are thrown. A big guy in a tank top punches Noah as we’re running. He trips and falls.

  I feel a slice of pain across my back. Turning, I find a woman with wild purple hair holding a knife out, jabbing it at me.

  What the . . . ?

  I try to pull Noah up, but the lady with the knife comes after us. The big guy in the tank top gets distracted by another guy and goes after him.

  These people are frigging crazy.

  Noah kicks the lady in the knee. She howls and throws the knife, end over end, and it lodges in my arm. I drop to the ground with a scream.

  Shit!

  Noah pulls the knife out of my arm and throws it into the crowd. Blood starts pouring out of the wound.

  “I don’t think you were supposed to pull that out.”

  “Take us back, Meg,” Noah whispers harshly. “Take us back now!”

  “I can’t. Not after being stabbed and sliced up. Can’t you do something?”

  “Not like this. Shit. Shit. Shit. Clea is going to tan my ass.”

  The music blares again. Someone kicks Noah in the ribs. He groans and grips his side—tries to stand.

  A foot kicks me square in the gut. I double over and press my forehead to the ground, trying to fight the urge to vomit.

  Screams erupt throughout the warehouse. Something roars; there’s growling. Wet thwacking sounds and hard thuds pierce the air.

  “What is happening out there?” I try to hide the panic in my voice.

  “We have to get out of here.” Noah crawls to his feet, then reaches down and pulls me up with both hands. We lean on each other. There’s blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. I didn’t know ghosts could bleed. There’s not much time to dwell on the thought. Blood is dripping down my own arm, and my body aches.

  Three men near us go motionless before turning and focusing on me. They have scales on their shoulders and bony pieces hanging off their knuckles. The screaming around us is louder than the techno music. The men close in.

  “Run. Now,” Noah says.

  I lean on him, reaching for the blade on my thigh. I grip my weapon as we run. The shadows of the warehouse are dark; strange noises echo. Noah leads me along the edges. The three men track us.

  Noah stops.

  I push at him. “Get moving.”

  “There’s nowhere else. We’re backed into a corner.” He bends and picks a metal pipe up off the floor. “We fight. Unless you’re ready to get us out of here.”

  Blood is dripping down my arm. I try to poof us the heck out of here, but it doesn’t work.

  “This is not what I was expecting when I told you I wanted a night of booze and weed.”

  “Me, either.” Noah holds the pipe out, threatening the men who seem to care about nothing but the blood pumping down my arm. “I was hoping for some necking on the bluffs, but you chose New York City.”

  “I am never coming here again.” I hold my blade out. “These New York City people are a bunch of a-holes.”

  One of the men lurches forward. Using the pipe, Noah hits him in the stomach with everything he’s got. I move and slice the guy’s head off.

  Another one advances. We try the same move, but this guy shifts to the side and spins, knocking Noah on his ass and leaving me to fend for myself. He throws a punch; I duck and chop him in the leg. The guy howls, and the stump of his left leg squirts blood all over the f
loor.

  “That’s disgusting.” Noah crawls to his feet and grabs his pipe.

  “Better than a smashed brain.” I silently thank Lucifer for the blade.

  A brick comes flying toward us and hits me in the shoulder. Another smashes Noah in the knee.

  “Where the hell did that come from?” Noah shouts.

  I look past the one guy who’s left. There are more lining up. Now blood is flowing out of the wound on my shoulder. “I think those bricks were made of glass.”

  “Goddamn it,” Noah mutters. “I never got you in this much trouble.”

  He’s right. I never bled this much after a night of shenanigans with Noah.

  There’s more screaming and shouting. Bodies start flying through the air.

  “What is going on out there?” I ask.

  Something booms. Sounds like thunder indoors.

  “Whatever it is, it’s big,” Noah shouts over the music.

  The last guy advances on us. I move to the side, but he catches me and slams me into the wall. I smack my head so hard I see stars. Noah’s beating on the guy’s back with the pipe. I swing my blade and catch the guy in the arm. He howls, then stops; his eyes widen.

  I hear Noah mutter, “We’re dead.”

  The guy is flung off me. Through blurry vision I see the seven forms of the Hellions standing before us.

  Goddamn it.

  Jim steps forward. “Nice job, Meg.” He spins and just his thumb in our direction.

  Sparrow steps forward, pushing the other Hellions away from me. He reaches for the front of my torn shirt, taking in the blood covering my body and snarls.

  Jim claps. “Well that was fun. Let’s get these dumb shits out of here. You two really know how to pick a party.”

  Sparrow pulls me to my feet and throws me over his shoulder in a movement that’s so swift it knocks the wind right out of me.

  . . .

  Sparrow

  Blood rippled through Sparrow’s body. The taste of her after he’d touched her, put his hands where he dreamed of for days—it still filled him. The tension had been thick; the noises she made echoed in his thoughts. The taste of her lips on his—

  “Hey, Birdman!” Jim shouted. “Focus!”

  Sparrow was lugging the last of the rock load. The other Hellions were tying the rock with rope for him to carry. Sparrow thought it was odd that they were careful not to let the stone touch their skin, but he knew better than to ask.

  They had dug for a day at some strange dwelling a few hours’ flight from the burning caves. Then Jim informed the Hellions that they needed more rock. Once again, Sparrow took the brunt of the labor. It wasn’t so bad; he found solace working on hallowed ground, and the daily feedings had made him stronger than before.

  When they returned to the burning caves that evening, Clea was waiting patiently for them. There was a fleet of four-door Jeep Wranglers nearby.

  “Clea?” Jim asked with a snide tone.

  Clea motioned for Jim to follow her away from the Hellions and Sparrow. Clea was whispering to him and glanced hesitantly back at Sparrow.

  When Jim returned, he looked pissed.

  “Split up.” He gestured to the Hellions. “We’re going to a party.”

  Sparrow rode with three other Hellions. Trees and buildings were nothing but a blur outside his window. The Hellion at the wheel drove so fast that they reached New York City in just under two hours.

  The crowd of the newly dead was thick, the-city-on-New-Year’s-Eve thick. When the Hellions’ driving couldn’t get them any closer to their destination, they pulled over and parked their vehicles in a straight line along the curb.

  Sparrow didn’t know much about where they were going. All he knew was what he heard the other Hellions in his vehicle discussing as they drove; they were headed to a party to collect someone.

  After the Hellions got out of their vehicles, they started moving, jogging toward the party where Jim had told them to go. Sparrow had half a mind to take flight and get there first; he could—he’d be faster.

  They slowed outside the open doors of a nightclub. Screams and deadly howls erupted from inside the building. The Demons at the door stood their ground, never assisting the ones inside and never stopping Jim and the Hellions from entering.

  As they crossed the threshold to the building, a desperate need to tear something apart engulfed Sparrow. She was there, and she was hurt. He could feel it—sense it somehow.

  Sparrow moved through the crowd, shoving and tossing, his giant boots nearly slipping in the bloody sludge that coated the floor.

  Other things were in there with them, monsters feeding on the freshly dead. They’d be just as strong as the Hellions, if not stronger, depending on how much they ate. Creatures struck out, scratching at them. A few of the Hellions, including Sparrow, had to fight off droves of people, dead and demonized.

  “Nice job, Meg,” Jim said as they cleared the back corner of the building.

  Meg. Jim had said her name, and it was all Sparrow could think of. She looked terrified, huddled in the corner, her weapon bloody from battle. Pride struck Sparrow; she was strong, fighting strong. He’d always known this, something in his gut told him. But now she was bleeding, and her face was twisted in pain.

  Sparrow reached for Meg. He clasped his large hands around her narrow arms, lifted her off her feet, and tossed her over his shoulder. Meg’s body went limp against his back. Sparrow’d knocked her out with the swift movement. This was for the best: she didn’t need to see what he had to walk through. Sparrow knew she wasn’t all innocent, but even he didn’t want to see the carnage of the Hell party they were wading through.

  The crowd parted, mostly. The remaining Hellions fought the horde that pushed against their retreat, leaving a trail of blood and ichor. Jim waltzed behind the row of Hellions, never lifting a finger to fight. Beastly things had eaten here—funneled the newly dead in and fed from them before they knew where they were. Noah slipped in the gore spread across the floor.

  Sparrow reached out and pulled Noah up by the collar of his shirt.

  They left the rave. The Demon bouncers at the door simply watched the team of Hellions as they walked away with Meg and Noah in tow.

  They strode through the streets of the city for what seemed like an hour, at least, before arriving at the caravan of black Jeep Wranglers. The streets were nearly empty now. Creatures called to them from the shadows and below the sewer grates.

  “I can take her back from here.” Noah held his arms out.

  “You will not touch her.” Sparrow’s hand gripped the back of Meg’s thigh possessively, as she hung limp over his shoulder.

  “Clea will—”

  “She’s safe now.” Sparrow pushed at the ghost man, his hand meeting solid flesh.

  Noah stumbled and glared.

  “You’ve hurt her enough already. You’re nothing like the man I first met down here.” Noah glared at Sparrow. “Give her to me.” Noah held his hands out again, demanding.

  “No.” Sparrow could feel the pulse of her femoral artery through her jeans. His hunger reared its ugly head. Fighting his way into the Hell party had taken a toll; his body was bruised and scratched. Sparrow’s own blood leaked down his arms, but he wouldn’t let her go. “Ride with us if you don’t trust me.”

  Noah had astral magic; Lucifer himself had infused him with it when he bound Noah and Meg together. The ghost could tear Meg out of Sparrow’s arms in an instant, but he didn’t. It was as though Noah knew that Sparrow had to keep her close while the other Hellions, and Jim, were on the loose.

  With his free hand, Sparrow opened the door of the Jeep and waited for Noah to get in.

  Noah moved, crawled across the rear bench, and sat behind the Hellion driver. Sparrow got in next to Noah and settled Meg across his lap. She was still unconscious, her breathing shallow. Blood dripped down her arm.

  The Hellion in the driver’s seat turned, his eyes narrowing on the wound.

  “Dr
ive,” Sparrow ordered.

  The Jeep kicked into gear and pulled out onto the street behind the others.

  Sparrow nestled Meg’s head against his chest.

  Meg. It was a name he’d recognized the second Jim said it. Sparrow couldn’t remember it before—hadn’t heard anyone call her by it until now.

  “Put pressure on that,” Noah said.

  Sparrow turned to look at him.

  “Her arm.” Noah pointed to the puncture mark that was draining in a thick trickle of blood.

  “Make it stop,” the Hellion driving said.

  Sparrow pressed his fingers over the wound. Meg made a soft noise against his chest. Sparrow was tempted.

  “Don’t,” Noah warned. “She can’t feed you now.”

  That wasn’t his intention, but Sparrow could barely control himself around her normally; with her blood leaking out it was nearly impossible. He bent his head and licked the wound, sealing it.

  The Hellion driver sighed as if in appreciation.

  The drive back to the burning caves was long, the fleet no longer driving at an emergent pace. Noah watched Sparrow, ready to intervene.

  Sparrow wasn’t going to hurt her. His hand gripped her hip and pulled her closer. Meg. She smelled like Noah and the Devil’s liquor. The thought of Noah touching her ignited a rage deep inside Sparrow.

  She was his; Sparrow knew this with every speck of his being, even if he couldn’t remember the details—even if Jim was slowly working at tearing them apart. After this realization, for a few minutes, Sparrow could barely breathe, and he knew it was Jim validating his hold on Sparrow.

  . . .

  Meg

  I don’t wake to find my faithful manservant, Noah, waiting patiently for me. Instead there is a fuming Hellion named Sparrow. He stands over me. His clothes are ripped. There are scratches on his arms, with blood and black gunk dried to his skin. His hair is matted.

  “Should I thank you?” I ask.

  He growls. Plainly growls like an animal.

  “Thank you.” The words come flying out in a rushed whisper, and I look away from him. My cheeks turn crimson. Not much embarrasses me, but last night, that was some serious shit. I can’t believe we got into that mess. I’m covered in dried blood and dirt, but my wounds have healed.