Nightingale

by David Farland

  At his last school, Bron hadn't been popular. Part of it had to be the clothes. Back in Alpine, his hand-me-downs advertised his poverty. Here, the uniforms made everyone look the same. The only thing beyond that was his haircut and style. It definitely made him stand out.

  He knew that he wasn't bad looking, but everyone here treated him... special.

  Suddenly he almost felt as if there was something more, as if he was suddenly leading a charmed life. Things were really turning around for him.

  "I'll have to think about the wrestling lessons," he said. "I have a feeling that you're more dangerous than you look."

  Down on the floor, Mr. Petrowski called, "Pair up! Pair up!"

  The girl smiled miserably. "Will you dance with me? I don't want to get stuck with another girl as my partner."

  "Sure," Bron said. He got up, pulled her to her feet, laid one hand on her shoulder and another on her hip. "My name is Bron, by the way."

  "River," she said. "River Hendricks."

  One of the teacher's aides came over and suggested, "Move in a little closer." It was the tall young man who had been speaking with Whitney. He pushed Bron gently, so that the two were pressed together intimately.

  "There you go," he said to both. He added, "Sorry to hear about that neighbor girl of yours, Bron."

  Bron shrugged, but River asked, "What girl? What happened?"

  "Bron's neighbor was attacked and raped last night," the boy said. "Bron's the main suspect!"

  How does he even know about that? Bron wondered.

  River suddenly froze in Bron's grip. She gasped and stepped back involuntarily. Suddenly everyone was staring at Bron.

  Bron looked up at the aide and saw that the young man had mocking eyes, a scornful grin. He'd spoken loudly enough so that everyone in the room had heard.

  "I never touched her," Bron said. He realized that he'd spoken too loudly, that he sounded scared and defensive.

  The young man glared at him angrily, then nodded. "Maybe not," he admitted as if he could be wrong, but his next words twisted into Bron's gut like a dagger. "Even you have to know, you weren't good enough for a fine woman like that. On the other hand, that probably made her that much more of a temptation."

  Bron felt something odd, a tingling in his hands, as if an electric current were washing through them. The tips of his fingers went hard, and he knew that if he dared look, he'd see little rings of callus protruding around the tip of each finger.

  What kind of freak am I? he wondered. He clenched his fists in order to hide what was happening, and considered punching the teacher's aide, but knew that a fight would just draw more attention. Besides, he wasn't sure that he could win. This guy was a good three inches taller than him, and all muscle.

  He whirled, face burning, and began to stalk from the room.

  "Wait!" River called. She rushed up to his back.

  The aide laughed and called out, "You two make a good couple. Did River tell you that her dad's in prison? Did she tell you that he's a burglar who goes into empty houses and rips the copper wires out of the walls? What a low-life! You two are perfect for each other."

  The room was noisy, with people chattering as they selected dancing partners. Bron looked to Mr. Petrowski to see if he had heard this outburst, but the teacher was talking to a group of students on the far side of the room. Bron decided that the teacher had pretended not to hear. He'd be no help.

  River had grabbed his hand, and now she whirled as if to hurl insults at the teacher's aide. Bron hit the door and kept walking out into the hall. To his surprise, River followed.

  He turned on her. "Who is that creep?"

  River's jaw was set, angry, and her eyes flashed with indignation. "His name is Justin Walton. He was Whitney's boyfriend last year, until she dumped him."

  It all fell into place, except, "Walton? Like Sheriff Walton?"

  "Yes," she said. "His dad's a sheriff. Justin's family has lived here since the 1850s. They act like they own the place."

  Bron stormed through the halls. He didn't know where to go, what to do. The corridors were nearly empty, and he didn't want to be caught out of class, so he decided to go to the men's room.

  On the way he passed two girls near the theater. One casually asked the other, "Hey, did you hear about the kid that got killed in Saint George on Friday?"

  Bron froze. His heart began to hammer.

  "You mean that car that rolled?" the other girl said. "Freaky, huh?"

  "Yeah," the other said. "My neighbor has a white Honda, and the police are stopping all ofthem."

  Bron felt his stomach churn, and a wave of nausea rushed over him. He went into the restroom, wondering which of the teens had been killed. Could it have been Riley? He would have to tell Olivia—but first, he had to be sick.

  Chapter 13

  The Hunt Widens

  "For well over a thousand years we have hunted our enemies. The search cannot end until the last one is brought down."

  — Lucius Chenzhenko

  At the end of a hot day, Riley O'Hare drove his rental, a white Chevy van, into the parking lot at Tuacahn.

  The view was stunning: red rock cliffs rising above the school and theater complex, vivid green lawns, a picturesque stream running through the complex to cascade into a large pool.

  Something inside him thrilled. He'd checked dozens of hotels over the weekend, and struck out on that front, but he was a hunter by nature, and he felt energized by this virgin territory.

  School was still in progress. That would make it hard to interview students. A sign out front said that this was the first day of class. Even if the prey was here, Riley suspected he might be a new student, and so other classmates might not recognize him.

  So Riley opted for the most direct approach to the task. He strolled up to the school, opened the glass door, plastered with posters for upcoming plays, and viewed the foyer. Trophies adorned the wall. Most schools would have celebrated their sporting achievements, but these were for dance, theater, music, and art.

  Beyond the foyer, he found offices. A secretary sat at a desk, a middle-aged woman with a plump figure. A sign gave her name: Allison Holmes.

  Riley glanced around. Allison was alone. He could have taken her head in his hands, read her memories, but the site was too exposed. The glass walls left an open view to the hall. The principal's office loomed at his left. The principal glanced up from his desk curiously.

  Riley said, "I'm looking for a student here, Bron Jones."

  The secretary looked up from some paperwork, smiled, went to her keyboard and typed in the name.

  "What would you like with him?" she asked.

  "Mom asked me to stop by and give him a message," Riley said. It seemed like a casual enough lie, likely to produce good results.

  The secretary's brow scrunched as if she detected the deception. She peered at the screen for a long moment, and said, "How is that first name spelled?"

  "Bron—B.R.O.N."

  Riley looked forward to seeing Bron again. It was more than just the thrill of the hunt. He'd liked Bron as a kid. Soon, he hoped to welcome him as a brother, and a colleague.

  She shook her head. "We don't have anyone by that name here. Our only Jones is a girl, Sidney. Are you certain you have the right school? Did you try Snow Canyon?"

  "I'm sure that he was registered here," Riley said. He leaned to the side, tried to catch a view of the screen, but the secretary hit a button and blanked it.

  "I'm sorry, we don't have anyone by that name," the secretary said. "In fact, we don't have many young men here at all."

  Riley felt his sizraels surface, the tips of his fingers growing hard and taut. He ached to grab this woman's cranium, draw out her secrets, but the principal stood up in his office, about to stick his head out the door.

  "Thank you," Riley said.

  He exited, but instead of heading out the way he'd come, he stalked deeper into the school, to a wide atrium. He found some classrooms, but there were n
o windows to let him peer in.

  A student came down the hallway, a young man with long arms and curly hair. His slouching look suggested something criminal, and if Riley had been looking to score, he would have figured that this kid was the go-to dealer at the school.

  "Hey," Riley said. "I'm looking for a kid. You know this guy?" Riley held out his cell phone, showed the picture of Bron getting into his car.

  The young man reached out for the phone. Riley looked left, right, and then struck. He unsheathed his sizraels, grabbed the boy's skull in one hand, and lightning arced with an audible snap. The young man fell backward, but Riley shoved him against the wall, holding him upright.

  The boy's name was Kendall McTiernan. He'd started school here near mid-semester a year ago, and his whole life centered on a pathetic little rock band that he managed. His mind was a mess, filled with terrible longings and remorse. He knew every boy in the school by sight, but had never seen Bron Jones before, had never heard his name.

  There was a slim chance that the object of Riley's hunt was a new student, someone that Kendall had never met, but it was a very slim chance.

  Riley ripped all memories of the encounter from Kendall's mind, and left him slumping to the floor. He glanced up, peered around. No one had seen.

  Riley felt a surge of adrenaline, fought the urge to go find another student. Instead, he strode out the side exit to the school. He stood for a moment in the bright sun, inhaled the clean air, and studied the high cliffs.

  A golden eagle screamed and leapt from a precipice, went hunting on steady wings, swooping to the south.

  It seemed like a good omen, as if nature encouraged Riley to widen the hunt.

  Chapter 14

  Creatures of the Night

  "To define yourself is to enter a sort of prison. By telling yourself what you are, you limit what you may become."

  — Bron Jones

  On the first day of school, Olivia decided to leave early. Club auditions wouldn't begin until tomorrow, so she decided to cut out earlier than she normally would.

  As Olivia stopped by the office to check her mailbox, the secretary stopped her.

  "A young man came by just a few minutes ago," Allison said, "looking for Bron."

  Olivia's heart slammed to a halt. Her hand froze at the mailbox. "What did you tell him? Where is he?" Olivia imagined the worst.

  "I sent him away," Allison said. "He told me that his mom said to give Bron a message. I knew he was lying, so I told him that he had the wrong school, and sent him packing."

  Olivia nodded her head, grateful for small favors.

  "What's going on?" Allison asked.

  Olivia scrambled to come up with a cover story. "Bron had a girlfriend at his last school. Her old boyfriend was jealous. I think that the young man you met may have been looking for a fight. Do you have him on the security cameras?"

  Allison swiveled in her chair, flipped on a monitor, behind her, and then went to channel three. She backed up the camera by fifteen minutes, until it showed Riley entering the school, pausing momentarily to look at the trophy case. The camera got a good side view of his face.

  "Do me a favor," Olivia said. "If this boy comes back—or any of his friends—just do what you did today. Send them packing."

  "Okay," Allison said. "Do you think we should call the police?"

  "I doubt that they'd be any help," Olivia said. "No crime has been committed." Allison nodded. "Now do me another favor. Show me the parking lot view."

  Allison went to work on the cameras, showed Riley arriving in a white van, then leaving not three minutes ago. As Olivia watched, her stomach cramped with nervousness.

  Things were getting messy. Olivia wasn't supposed to tell a nightingale what was going on, but between the Draghouls hunting him, and Galadriel's strange illness, Bron needed to know more, and now!

  Bron spent most of his last period in the bathroom, locked in a stall, panicking. When the last bell rang, he fought down his nervousness and strode down the hall.

  Whitney waved at him and flashed a smile. He smiled back, turned to say "Hi."

  A hand clapped his shoulder, and he jumped. Somehow, he knew that it would be one of those freaks from Best Buy. He turned to see Olivia.

  "Bron," she whispered discretely, "we need to get out of here. Now!"

  "What's going on?" he asked. The halls were crowded with kids, giving him a sense of anonymity.

  "Just come to the car," she whispered.

  Whitney came down the hall. "Hi, Mrs. Hernandez," she said. She looked as eager as a puppy.

  "Nice to see you, Whitney," Olivia offered. "We've got to run to an appointment. See you tomorrow."

  She steered Bron toward the door, hurried to beat the crowds. Bron waved to Whitney, who made the phone signal and said, "Call me!"

  Then they rushed outside.

  "You heard?" he asked softly. "About that boy?"

  "I heard," Olivia answered.

  "It was an accident!" Bron apologized.

  "Keep quiet," she said. "We'll talk in the car."

  Immediately, he realized from her tone that this wasn't going to be just any talk. This was going to be the talk. Olivia smiled as she passed another teacher. They crept out of the school in the midst of a crowd.

  As they exited Olivia halted in the shadows and stood peering over the parking lot. Bron felt acutely aware that she was searching for something, someone—some sign of the enemy. The sun was so bright that every shadow became impenetrable. Any of them could have held a lurking figure.

  She pulled Bron out into the sun and hurried downhill to the parking lot. When they reached the car, Bron felt a sense of relief wash over him. Tuacahn was far from the main drag down in Saint George, and though it was only ten miles outside the city, the setting was remote, off the beaten track.

  They climbed in the car, and Bron asked, "Are we ready for that talk?"

  Olivia opened her mouth as if to speak, closed it. She started the car, put it in drive, and joined the caravan of students heading down from the hills for the day. When she reached the main road, she drove past some homes, and finally pulled off onto a gravel road that led to a stalled housing development.

  She turned off the engine, and sat.

  There were no houses here, no plants. Everything had been bulldozed. The world was pared to the basics—stone, sky, sun, shadow.

  Bron studied Olivia's face. He could see worry lines in her brow, and stress in her lips. She seemed to be looking inside herself more than at him. She finally let out a deep breath, and prepared to speak. "You understand what man is, homo sapiens sapiens?"

  "Yeah," he said.

  "You know that ... creatures evolve. You know that there were once homo sapiens neanderthalensis, a humanlike species that lived beside early man for hundreds of thousands of years? Fossil records show that they lived in caves together, hunted together, and lived as friends. They stalked woolly rhinos, traded beads made from shells, buried their dead beneath blankets of flowers. But they were different from each other, two different species. They couldn't interbreed."

  Bron wondered where she could possibly be going with this. What did it have to do with the boy who was killed?

  "Recently, a new species has been discovered, which lived at the same time as them, in the same area of Asia, near Kazakhstan. Did you know that? There were three distinct species of early humans in Eurasia, and there was another in Indonesia."

  Bron felt confused. "What are you trying to say?"

  She said bluntly, "Bron, I'm not human. Neither are you."

  Bron studied her face for a long moment. He broke out in a long laugh. "That has got to be the greatest joke ever!"

  Olivia's face betrayed no hint of mirth. Her mouth was straight, and worry lines creased her eyes. He wondered if she might be crazy, or on drugs.

  "I know that this sounds hard to believe. Let me show you something." She held out both hands. "Look at my fingers."

  She had dainty hands
, a musician's fingers, toughened and wizened. He'd seen her guitar calluses before.

  "Watch carefully...." she warned as she raised her palms toward him. He saw muscles flex inside her wrists. Suddenly on each thumb and fingertip, a single oval suction-cup sprang up.

  "Ah!" Bron shouted, and instinctively leapt away from Olivia. He grasped blindly for the door handle, and nearly fell from the car before he realized that she had suction cups on her fingers. Just like his.

  He demanded, "What are those?"

  Olivia held her hands up so that he could see. "I won't hurt you, Bron. I'll never hurt you, but I had to show you this. These are called sizraels. They're... a mutation, an advantage that our species has over normal humans. You have them, too. There is no sense in pretending otherwise."

  He stopped, stared at his own hands for a long moment, trying to let this sink in. He couldn't deny it, so he asked guiltily, "What... what are we supposed to do with them? Do you use them to, like, climb walls?"

  She grinned. "We're not flies, Bron. We can't climb walls, or crawl around on the ceiling like Spider Man. Our sizraels are far more... dangerous than that."

  She relaxed her wrist, and the sizraels vanished. "You see?" she said. "They're like the claws on a cat. We can make them appear, and disappear. Mostly, we keep them sheathed."

  Bron began breathing hard, taking great gulps of air. It felt as if the hair began to stand up on his head. He shivered.

  "Take it easy," Olivia said. "I won't hurt you."

  "Yeah, but—"

  "I won't hurt you." Her tone was convincing enough, and he calmed a bit, but he was still scrunched against the far door.

  "Just my luck," he whispered. "I finally get a cool mom, and you're not even human." Olivia didn't smile at the compliment. This wasn't an occasion for humor.

  "So what do you do with them?" he asked.

  "That's kind of hard to explain," Olivia said. "You're familiar with mythology, right?"

  "I'm taking a class this semester," he admitted.

  She struggled to elucidate. "You've heard about creatures like me," she suggested. "For thousands of years, humans have been aware of us. We call ourselves masaaks, to differentiate ourselves from humans. I use my sizraels to ... help draw memories from other people, or to insert new memories into them."