Nightingale Girl (20 page)

Nightingale smiles wide in my direction.

If the only good thing I ever did in my life was make Nightingale smile, it was all worth it.

When the birds eat all the seed, I get more and refill her open palm.

The curtains to my room billow as Noah returns. I smell breakfast.

Leaving Nightingale to socialize with the birds, I walk into my room and sit at the table. There are two plates. Pancakes and waffles on one, the fried eggs on another. I dig in.

“You’re not nearly as famished as you usually are after Sparrow feeds.” Noah’s eyes roam over my clothing, noticing my lack of visible skin. “Did you—”

“Shut up.” I don’t want to talk about sucking Sparrow’s blood with Noah.

His eyes narrow. “Whore.”

I point my fork accusingly at him. “And what were you doing last night? Meeting up with your snake-haired mistress, or did you find someone a little sweeter?” I tip my head toward Nightingale.

Noah smirks.

Knew it. I bet he was exploring the darker side of Sparrow’s little sister. “Pig.”

“Strumpet.”

I give up on the name-calling and finish my plate of food.

“Some birds out there that we haven’t had before.” Noah points to the balcony. “Looks like birdgirl is a regular old Snow White singing in the woodland.”

I get up and grab
Birds of the Northeast
off my nightstand and head to my chair on the balcony.

Noah refills Nightingale’s hand with seed. I flip through the book, searching for each new species that lands on her hand: grosbeak, fledgling cardinal, shrike, northern mockingbird, tufted titmouse, warbler, towhee, mountain bluebird, red-winged blackbird, common grackle, gray catbird, brown-headed cowbird, and more that I can’t identify with this book.

Some aren’t native to this area, but it seems the birds in Hell don’t follow the same rules as the ones on the earthen plane.

The dead below us moan and shuffle in response to all the noise from the chirping, whistling, and Nightingale’s laughter.

I close the book and run my finger over the textured hardcover.

“Is that Sparrow’s?” Nightingale is standing in the room, focused on the book in my hand.

I nod.

“He’s had those for years. Not going to be happy when he finds out you have it. I was never allowed to touch them.”

I remember the way Sparrow took the book from me that day in his living room and placed it back on the shelf.

“Where’s the rest?” Nightingale asks.

“His house.”

“I wish they were here. I’ve always wanted to look through them.” She frowns before turning back to the balcony. A tiny chickadee hops on her hand and tweets. Nightingale whistles back to the little bird, and it pecks at the seed in her hand.

I get up and head for the bathroom. After locking myself inside—
poof
—I’m in Sparrow’s living room. I head for his bookshelf and grab
Birds of Paradise
,
Birds of the Arctic
,
Birds of the Northern Plains
,
Birds of the Pacific Northwest
,
Birds of the Southern Gulf
, and
Birds of the Eastern Deciduous Forests
. My arms are filled when I hear a noise coming from Sparrow’s kitchen.

“Meg?” It’s Gabriel’s voice.

Crap. I hope Gabriel doesn’t have a harsh punishment in his kingdom for burglary. I don’t wait to find out—
poof
—I return to my bathroom in Hell.

After unlocking the bathroom door, I carry the books to the table near the window. Noah and Nightingale peek through the glass at me. Noah frowns, stands, and walks into my room.

“Please tell me you didn’t just do what I think you did,” he says.

“Depends on what you think I did.” I crack open
Birds of the Eastern Deciduous Forests
.

Nightingale skates into the room and squeals. “You’ve got a bunch of them!” She glides over and plops down in the chair next to me. “Sparrow is going to flip when he sees all of these.”

“Let’s not tell him,” I suggest.

Noah sits across from us and picks up
Birds of the Arctic
. Nightingale starts flipping through
Birds of the Northeast
, the book I’ve had in my possession for weeks now.

Nightingale whistles low, and it sounds like a warning. “He’s going to lose it when he sees you creased these pages. Absolutely pop his cap.”

“I don’t think she understands what that means.” Noah grins.

I look warily at them both.

I’ve already felt Sparrow’s wrath, after Noah and I went clubbing and nearly lost our lives. Remembering the way Sparrow growled and threatened to drain me dry makes sweat break out over my skin.

I close my book and stand. Not wanting to see an angry Sparrow-Hellion like that again, I begin moving the books to the inner depths of my walk-in closet.

“Why are you hiding them?” Nightingale sounds disappointed.

Noah chuckles. “She fears the Sparrow Man.”

“He’s not that bad.” Nightingale flips a few more pages. “Unless he sees
this
.”

She holds up the book. There’s brown sticky syrup stuck between the pages.

Noah laughs. “He is going to beat your ass.”

Nightingale nods and makes an agreeing face. “He will.”

“Be quiet. Both of you.”

“What?” Nightingale turns another page. “I can’t lie. He’s probably going to beat your ass. He loves these books more than anything. Always has. Ever since we were kids.”

Noah makes a face, glancing at Nightingale, then me.

“She can’t lie,” I say. “She’s pureblood Angel.”

“I can’t.” Nightingale’s voice is chipper, like it’s no big deal that she’s in Hell and the only person here who can’t tell a lie.

“You lie all the time.” Noah’s eyes narrow on me.

“Half blood.” I raise my hand as though I’m taking an oath. “Tainted with dirt . . . and shit.”

Nightingale whistles a doomful sound before holding up
Birds of the Northeast
again. Pizza sauce stains a page.

Oh crap. I run out of the room and up the stairs.

I’ve never once confessed my sins. Never once with all the bad crap I’ve done. I may not believe in God, but I believe in Sparrow. Damaging his books has my soul yearning to beg for forgiveness before he’s remembered that those hardcovers about birds are even his. I shiver as I make my way up the stairs. Nightingale says he’ll beat my ass, but Sparrow has never hit me. He’s the only one who’s never laid a finger on me with malice, besides Noah—deliberately at least. I don’t count him almost sucking me dry; he didn’t know any better at the time.

I did some pretty not-nice things to Sparrow when we were two souls lost in Hell. For Pete’s sake, I almost shot him in the head, but he never touched me. He respected my wishes until I learned to trust him. That’s more than I can say for most people in my life.

Sparrow is the only man who has showed me love and caring and truth, and even if changing into a Hellion has made him forget a few things, he’s never hurt me physically. I would never recover from him beating my ass. Deep down I know this. I have to confess to him before he finds out.

I shove open the door to the Hellion’s lair. I’m out of breath, and my heart is pumping wild in my chest.

“Sparrow?” I call out.

The place is empty. There’s no movement, no sound, nothing. None of them are here.

“Sparrow?” I look around the room and notice the chains dangling from the ceiling. I wish Jim would take that shit down. But I guess when your dad is the vice president of the underworld, you can have crap like that littering your place of work.

Maybe I could wait a bit. I head for the bar, sit on a stool, and wait, tapping my fingers on the glossy countertop.

No one shows.

I wouldn’t mind waiting around for a bit longer, but the place is creepy. I give up. Not wanting to make this a wasted trip, I grab four beers out of the fridge before leaving.

When I get back to my room, Noah and Nightingale are gone. They left their books out on my table. I set the beer down, collect the books, and hide them in my closet with the rest. As I’m closing the door, a breeze blows through my room, carrying the faint scent of something familiar with it. I think I see a shadow move in the corner. When I turn, nothing’s there.

I return to the table and open a beer. Birds chirp on my balcony. Walking sacks of flesh lament below.

Hell is filled with contrasting sounds.

While listening to this strange orchestra, exhaustion hits me. I shouldn’t have traveled between realms, after what I did with Sparrow last night. I sip at the beer as I cross my room, set the bottle down, and crawl across my bed.

Lord I’m tired.

I lie down and stare up at the ceiling for a moment before falling asleep.

. . .

There’s hooting outside my window. It wakes me enough to get up and investigate what’s going on.

The elf owl is there, hopping around on the balcony banister. I’m not sure why it keeps visiting. We’ve never set out food for it. A moth flutters by in the moonlight, and the owl jumps up, grabbing the insect in its beak and swallowing it down. The owl hoots and looks over the forest below, then to the side. I walk closer, follow its gaze, and notice a large shadow flying close to the mountainside. For a moment I think it might be Clea, transformed into the Argentavis, but as the figure gets closer I recognize that it is Sparrow, flying haphazardly.

The owl takes off as Sparrow gets closer. He’s covered in red dirt, something black, and wetness. He drops down onto the floor of the balcony in a heap.

“Sparrow?”

He groans. “I need you, Meg.”

I run for my blade and grab it off the couch. As I’m running back to him, I strip off my jacket and let it fall to the floor. I drop to my knees, cut my wrist, and hold it out.

Sparrow latches his mouth over the wound and sucks.

Warmth floods me. I try to tamp it down, knowing well that this is not the time, not when he looks like he just flew back from a battle . . . or something.

In the moonlight I notice that all the little bite marks from the night before have healed.

Sparrow stops and licks my arm to seal the wound. He holds my hand over his chest, taking deep, even breaths.

“What happened?” I ask.

Sparrow turns. He says nothing, his eyes vacant.

I take in the dirt on his body, the wetness that looks like tar. Moving, I take his arm and pull him to his feet. I shove my shoulder under his and lead him to the bathroom. Sparrow’s breathing heavy, like he’s run a marathon.

“Can you get undressed?” I ask.

Sparrow just stares at me, his eyes dark and faded, never moving.

I start unbuttoning his vest. Sparrow growls.

“Shut up,” I scold him. “You smell.”

I push the vest off his shoulders and bend to start untying his boots. After getting them off his feet, I reach for the zipper of his leather pants. Sparrow closes his eyes. I unbutton, unzip, and pull them down his legs. I try not to stare but—sweet Lord in heaven—he’s not wearing underwear.

Sparrow leans against the counter like he’s exhausted, like I didn’t just let him take a quick sip of my bloodstream out on the balcony to spark him back to life.

I leave him to start the shower. My hands leave muddied prints on the shower knobs. I can’t help but think that it’s dirt mixed with blood. I adjust the temperature before returning to Sparrow’s side.

“Let’s go.” I shove my shoulder under his and lead him to the shower.

He stinks of death and rich dirt that smells oddly familiar.

There’s a memory of me planting flowers at the cabin in Canada that floats to the surface. Jim made me spend a good chunk of my inheritance on the cabin. Nothing good ever came of that place. I ignore it and focus on Sparrow.

I push him into the shower, and he just stands there under the stream of water, leaning against the wall, too exhausted to move.

“Do you need help?” I ask.

He says nothing.

I sigh and begin stripping off my clothes. I leave my underwear on, because, well, it feels wrong to stand naked with him in the shower when he looks like he’s half-dead.

I detach one of the handheld showerheads from its holder and begin spraying him down. The bottom of the shower fills with murky water. After replacing the showerhead, I reach for the soap and start washing him down. There are scratches on his arms and small bloody pockmarks.

“Turn around.”

Sparrow rolls against the wall of the shower; he flexes his wings, showing me his back. There are deep cuts and scarring across his skin that I don’t remember. My stomach feels queasy; something is not right.

“What happened to you?” I ask.

Sparrow doesn’t answer.

I do my best to wash the wounds, before scrubbing his hair. I rinse him off, and just as I’m about to turn the water off and get us some towels, Sparrow grabs me. He turns me to face him. Shit, he looks really, really hungry. Like he could eat me whole. I don’t think there’s enough blood running through my veins to rejuvenate him.

“Sorry,” Sparrow whispers, before quickly pushing my head to the side. “I’m sorry for this.” He latches on to my neck, and he’s not the least bit gentle about it.

My knees give out instantly. I feel warm and tingly; my vision blurs. In seconds, I am nothing but a sack of bones in his arms.

. . .

Sparrow

Sparrow leaned against the wall of the shower. Meg was washing him, stripped down to her underwear. Every mark of ink on her body was visible. He remembered tasting her the other night, filling her, taking what he wanted. He’d offered himself to her, something that was new to both of them and completely satisfying. Yes, her pain had filled him, but this new taste had been sweeter, deeper—rich and thick in his mouth. When her pulse throbbed in her neck, Sparrow could do nothing more than focus on the steady beat as she cleaned him. What happened after, there was no excuse; he couldn’t stop himself.

Meg was a limp rag doll in his arms by the time he finished. Sparrow rolled his thumb over the marks on her neck, rubbing away the blood. He carried her out of the shower stall. Water dripped on the floor, leaving a trail behind him. It was evidence: a trail to what he’d done. Sparrow feared the wrath of Clea. There was plenty Sparrow couldn’t remember, but if there was one thing that Sparrow knew for certain, he feared the fury of Lucifer’s daughter.