Nightingale Girl (9 page)

Sparrow felt something as she advanced. They were linked, somehow, but right now he couldn’t place how she fit into his life. He couldn’t remember her—wanted to, but instinct told him this was not the time or the place.

The other Hellions were watching, and although Jim never moved, Sparrow felt the invisible coil around his throat tighten.

“Sparrow?” she asked as she grabbed his arm.

Every muscle in Sparrow’s body stiffened with her touch. Jim made a grim face. Sparrow’s throat tightened. In a movement that felt familiar and right, he tipped his head to the side to study her with interest.

“Sparrow?” she asked again.

Her voice was a pinpoint of sunshine calling him across vast darkness. But something was wrong, and Sparrow did the only thing he could at the moment: flicked her hand off his arm and grabbed her wrist. “Who are you?”

Jim chuckled, and Sparrow felt the coil around his neck tighten, nearly choking him. He didn’t move. An image of Jim with his hands on
her
crossed Sparrow’s memory, and he was filled with a rage darker than anything he’d ever felt in his life.

She argued with Jim, and the interaction made Sparrow want to react, pull her behind him, and thrash at the Hellion leader. But he couldn’t. He was a Hellion now, and whatever his burden now was, it prevented him from lashing out at his commander.

Sparrow didn’t listen to the words they said to each other; he was too interested in the softness of her wrist underneath his fingers. Her skin was smooth and strong, familiar. Sparrow had the compelling urge to tug her away and hide her deep in the dark recesses of the burning caves. Save her for himself. But he didn’t—couldn’t. He wasn’t in control; Jim was.

With a strong jerk she tore herself away from Sparrow and stormed out of the room. Jim followed, a few leg lengths behind her. Sparrow wanted to stop him—wanted to run out of the room, pick her up, and fly off into the night. But he was held in place by an invisible force. Jim slammed the door closed behind her as she left the lair.

Turning, Jim’s cool gray gaze landed on Sparrow. His crooked smirk made another appearance.

“Remember her?” Jim asked as he thumbed toward the closed door.

Sparrow said nothing.

“You’d do good to forget her, Birdman. Nothing but trouble, that one.”

Sparrow didn’t know what to think, but something deep within him implied that Jim was wrong.

The clanging of metal caught his attention. Sparrow turned and focused on the chains hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room.

“Remember those?” Jim’s voice was dark.

Sparrow stood still, never conveying a thing. Something tugged at the edges of his memory; it had to do with the chains and blood and that woman who was just here.

Jim laughed as he walked across the room, turned the radio on, and poured himself a tumbler of amber liquid from the bar.

The steady beat of techno music thudded heavily in Sparrow’s chest as Jim watched him from across the room. The other Hellions stayed where they were. Sparrow was apart from everyone, and he had a feeling that it would always be so. He might be a Hellion now, but he’d never be truly accepted as one of them. That was fine with Sparrow. He didn’t trust these creatures as far as he could throw them, and judging from the bulging muscles of his biceps and the hollow echo of strength in his center waiting to be fed, that was pretty damn far.

. . .

Meg

I wake with a startle and sit up straight. I had another dream that my teeth fell out. I run my finger along the inside of my mouth and make sure they’re still there. After wiggling my finger over my canines, incisors, and a few molars, I’m relieved that none of them are loose.

Damn Nightingale.

I throw myself back onto the bed and stretch. The sheets are black satin and feel smooth against my skin. I could stay in this bed all day. My stomach growls—scratch that.

I get up and head for the bathroom. The tiles are dark slate with bone-colored pieces mixed in. It’s not as big as the one in Gabriel’s Kingdom, but it will do. Still beats the tiny bathroom I had to share with John Lewis when I was a kid. I strip and get in the shower.

The water comes out like heavy syrup. I stick my hand in the spray and rub my fingers together, waiting for it to warm. The water is soft. Reminds me of the sulfur water at my old friend Sara Shepard’s house.

I try not to think about Sara and what a terrible friend I was to her.

I get clean, then get out and dry myself. At the mirror, I style my short hair with my fingers before heading to the closet. Running my hand over the clothing, I settle on a pair of dark blue jeans, an off-the-shoulder top in red, and the leather jacket I wore yesterday.

In one of the drawers I find Clea has provided me with some skimpy underthings. Sweet Jesus, I’ve never worn thin, lacy stuff like this before. I mean, I’ve gone a few days with nothing plenty of times, but this—I hold up a pair of skimpy panties—this stuff will get a girl in loads of trouble. Clea definitely didn’t get this at any of the stores I’ve ever shopped at. I choose some underthings that don’t feel too trampy and get dressed.

As I’m pulling on a pair of leather boots, my stomach growls louder than before. Damn, I’m hungry. I really should have eaten something before going to bed last night. The last time I had a real meal was before we left Gabriel’s Kingdom. I regret living off junk food on the earthen plane for the past few days. I’m starving.

I cross the room, pick up my blade and holster, and strap it on before leaving my room in search of food.

After walking up and down the hallway, I don’t find a kitchen—only locked doors and empty rooms. I take the stairs and check the next floor down. Nothing. I go down another floor. Still nothing. My stomach grumbles louder. I try the next floor down. Nothing again. The deeper I go into the castle, the darker and dingier it gets. The noises get worse—the snapping-jaw sound louder, the ripping sound faster—all adding to my angst.

The rumbling in my stomach echoes along the rocky hallways. This is like a bad dream. I stop and rub my eyes, just to make sure I’m not still sleeping. When I open them again, the dark hall still stretches before me—the world’s simplest maze with no chunk of cheese at the finish. I’d kill for cheese right now. I keep walking, my search turning frantic the hungrier I get. My hands start to shake; after a lifetime of eating high-fructose junk, my blood sugar has never been this low.

I turn shadowed corners, check locked doors, run down the main stairwell to more of the lower levels, searching no matter how badly the sounds from the abyss below scare me. A few hours have passed, at least. I can’t do this much longer. After checking every level for a kitchen of some kind, I think to ask the creatures I pass in the halls, but they shy away from me, pressing themselves against the walls as though I am a leper. If only they could see themselves. The creatures of Hell are a strange-looking bunch: horns and scales and odd tufts of black hair.

Part of me wants to call out to Clea or Lucifer, but I can take care of myself. I didn’t make it this far in life by crying when I couldn’t find something I wanted. I didn’t cry when John Lewis sold all my stuff that time I went to juvie, didn’t cry when my sneakers were two sizes too small in middle school, didn’t cry when . . .

I continue searching, feeling like I’m stuck in a labyrinth, until I find myself standing outside of the Hellions’ lair. I know there’s alcohol in there. I could get a beer or something stronger to stop my guts from aching.

I don’t even have to knock; my stomach rumbles to announce me. The door swings open, and Jim’s standing there.

“Hey, Meg.” He looks me up and down approvingly. “Looking for something . . . or someone?”

I remember this tone of his voice. Back when we were engaged and living together, he’d use it on the days he decided to be nice. Never on the days that I burned dinner or forgot to water the flowers. Hearing this tone was always a rare event.

“Where the hell is all the food in this place?” I ask. I reach out and grip the doorframe, but my arms feel rubbery and weak.

Jim laughs loudly. “They didn’t tell you?”

Heavy metal rock music is playing from the stereo system.

“Tell me what?”

He steps away from the door and opens it wide so I can enter. He’s wearing jeans and a dark button-down shirt. As soon as I step past the threshold, I know that this is a bad idea, but I can’t seem to help myself. I spent plenty of my life hungry, but nothing like this. I can’t take it one second longer.

Jim motions for me to follow him to the bar area. He opens a small stainless steel fridge under the counter. There are rows of pint-size bags. Jim selects one, then reaches into the cupboard along the wall and takes down two glasses. He opens a drawer, pulls out a pair of scissors, and cuts the corner off the bag, then he pours the contents of the bag into the glasses.

It’s red, thick.

I blink.

That’s blood.

Jim turns, holding out a glass for me to take.

“There’s only one meal in the bowels of Hell. It’s the only thing you’ll ever need down here. Better than that shit you used to cook.”

I want to slap him but instead take the glass. Maybe I should ask for bourbon. I hate bourbon, but at least it would fill my stomach. The liquid in the glass smells coppery and strangely tempting. My mouth waters. I swallow down the little bit of saliva that’s coating my throat, working up the courage to do something. My stomach twists.

Jim lifts his glass, drains it in one swallow, and licks his lips. “I’ve never known you to shy away from a good dare. Do it. I promise you’ll like it.”

I move the glass closer to my lips. This is fucking crazy. I sip. Shit, it tastes good. Really good. I take a large swallow and wipe my mouth. There’s something so wrong about this, but it feels so good and right. The grumbling in my stomach stops immediately. Warmth floods my veins, and my stomach feels full. I’d rather have a buffet in Heaven, but this—I’ve never felt like this after gorging myself on Heaven fare.

Jim steps closer. “It feels good to be gangster. Doesn’t it?” There is amusement in his voice.

“Gangster?” I stare into the glass, wanting to drain it while being completely disgusted with myself at the same time

“You know.” The corner of his mouth that still works tips up in a smile. “Criminal, dark, sinner, a villain. That’s you through and through.”

I look away. Suddenly I feel dirty. Drinking blood is for vampires and shit. What the hell am I doing? The urge to down the remainder in the glass then rip open another bag with my teeth is strong.

“Say it.” He steps closer, much too close. “Say it feels good.”

I don’t want to admit it, but I’ve never felt sated in Hell, until now. “Yes.” I respond through gritted teeth.

“Yes, what?”

“It feels good.” I drink the rest of the blood in my glass before slamming it down on the nearby bar. “
So good
to be gangster.”

“Knew it.” Jim spins away from me. “Now comes the fun part.” Mischief glints in his gray eyes. Jim crosses the room and opens a door in the back of the lair. “Boys. It’s dinnertime.”

The Hellions enter. I stare at Sparrow, shocked; he looks like he’s lost about ten pounds. Jim crosses the room again, this time opening the front door to the lair.

There’s a line of women standing out there.

“Fresh meat.” Jim makes eye contact with me. “Newly dead. Their blood is still warm. Haven’t turned yet.” He ushers the women in. “Feast.” He orders the Hellions.

“What about the blood in the fridge?” I ask.

“The fresher the blood, the stronger they are.” Jim points at the Hellions.

A few of the Hellions step forward, grab a woman, and latch onto her neck or arm. They are sucking her blood. My eyes are glued to Sparrow. He’s just watching the other Hellions, until he takes a step forward. It feels like my stomach is filled to the brim with heavy stones.

Jim laughs.

Something in my soul shrivels and turns to ash.

Oh, hell no.

Fuck this.

Fuck Jim.

Fuck Sparrow.

I’m out.

Poof.

I leave the burning caves and find myself at the small castle on the lake near the Canada of Hell, where I once spent a night with Sparrow. That seems like forever ago.

I can’t look at Sparrow. Can’t go near him. I don’t know what to do with myself. I want to kill something or break something or go to a bar and take home the first guy I find who doesn’t look like he has a venereal disease.

I hate this. I hate this. I hate it!

A loon calls from across the lake.

My heart cracks.

I am stronger than this. John Lewis didn’t remind me each morning that I killed my mother the day I was born so I’d grow up weak.
You killed her, and don’t you forget it.
His words echo in my memories. He said I burst from her womb so fast that I took the placenta with me, and she bled out before help could come. Later on I learned the truth. I didn’t live through all that bullcrap so I could give up so easily now.

I kick at a rock and send it flying into the nearby bushes. It hits something with a thud. Branches tremble; a moan echoes. One of the walking fleshbags ambles out, reaching for me, moaning like a tipped cow. I grab the blade from where it’s secured on my thigh. I didn’t make it through months locked in a jail cell while the dead threatened to eat me just to let Sparrow sucking the blood of some newly dead woman break my spirit.

The blade vibrates in my hand, then slices like butter as I chop the head off the walking corpse. I wait for another one to walk out of the brush.

By the time I’m done releasing my frustrations on the dead, night has fallen. They’ll be sleeping in piles, no longer a bother until sunrise. I walk out on the nearby dock and collapse to my knees. The sleeves of my leather jacket are coated with the fluids of the departed, sticky and thick. I strip off the jacket and dip the sleeves in the water. As I scrub away the gunk, I want to scream.

The loon calls again, an eerie tremolo that echoes over the water. Dark and haunting. Reminding. Something fluttering on the edge of the dock catches my attention. It’s a dark-brown feather. I tug it out from the splinters of weathered wood and tuck it into my pocket.