Nightingale Girl (24 page)

I drop onto the bed and curl around him.

Sparrow, though weak, rubs my arm and starts to sing “Never Say Goodbye.”

There is my old Sparrow Man.

. . .

“You should visit Elise.” Clea is in my room watching Noah as he stands alone on my balcony.

He’s been pouring out seed for the birds and staring off into the sky. Guilt throbs deep in my chest. Nightingale has been missing for almost two days. I should have just put up with the dreams and left her safe in Remiel’s Kingdom.

“Why?” I ask Clea, afraid to leave Noah and Sparrow right now.

“Take Sparrow with you,” she suggests.

“What if I don’t want to go? I don’t think this is a good time. He just got his strength back. He’s just starting to remember.”

Clea touches my shoulder. “It’s important that you see. As a mother.”

My back straightens. The snowy owl is the soul of my dead daughter, Elise. I was never given the chance to meet her in person; this is all I’ll ever have of her.

“Okay,” I decide. “I’ll go. But we need to keep searching for Nightingale.”

“I know.” Clea smiles sadly. “I’ll get you a Jeep.”

I turn to collect Sparrow. He’s no longer sitting at the table behind me. I check the balcony, then the bathroom. I finally find him in the back of my walk-in closet.

He’s crouched near the floor. The dense thud of books being set together echoes in the small place. Sparrow stands, holding the stack of bird books.

Uh-oh.

Sparrow walks around me, through the living space of my room, and sets them on the table. He flips open
Birds of the Northeast
. The sheets make a crackling sound as they’re pulled apart. His finger touches a dog-eared page.

My eyes flash to his.

A devilish smile crosses his face.

I back away.

Clea pops in the room. “Jeep’s ready. You two better get moving.”

Thank sweet baby Jesus. Saved by my mother.

I run out of my room, down the hall, up the stairs, and out of the burning caves. Clea got us a shiny midnight-blue Jeep Wrangler. I jump in the passenger side and buckle in.

My heart thunders in my chest as I watch the entrance for Sparrow. He waltzes out of the caves, his hands tucked in his pockets, his gaze never leaving mine. He rounds the Jeep and gets in the driver’s side.

“It’s a few hours’ drive there,” Sparrow says, ignoring the fact that he finally remembered about the books.

“I know.” I sound like a scared child.

“You could just
poof
us there,” Sparrow suggests.

I couldn’t
poof
myself across the room right now. I can’t focus. “I’m trying to conserve my energy.” I turn to him. “Do you remember how to drive?”

“I got this.” Sparrow starts the Jeep, shifts it into gear, and slams his foot down on the gas pedal so hard the wheels screech. All I smell is burning rubber and dust. I scream, and my hands fly to the door and the center console, grabbing whatever I can in a death grip.

Sparrow laughs and starts bellowing out “It’s My Life” at the top of his lungs.

I don’t care if this is his life; I fear for my life for a few miles, until he finally slows down. “For Christ’s sake,” I mutter, rubbing my hands together; they ache from holding on for dear life.

“That’s for damaging my book.” He winks at me.

I exhale, relieved. A near-death experience is more than enough punishment for me. I’ll never touch those books again in my life.

Sparrow turns on the radio; “Livin’ on a Prayer” is playing. He turns the volume all the way up. He motions for me to move closer. I hesitate for a moment before I scoot over and lean against him as he drives to Route 37. All he needs is a feather in his hair, and he’d be set.

After a few hours on the road, Sparrow comes to a stop in front of a clearing between the trees. Pushed back from the road is the decrepit barn of Route 37.

We wait for “Captain Crash & the Beauty Queen from Mars” to finish. Sparrow’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and bopping his head to the beat. He flicks the radio off as the song ends.

We get out and make our way through the tall grass, headed for the barn. Sparrow calls to the snowy owl from the shadows: a screeching hoot, a strange dark whistling, a hiss. A white head peeks through a hole in the siding, followed by a neck, brown spotted and smooth.

“She’s not coming.”

I don’t want to admit it, because I’m not as into birds as Sparrow and his sister, but I’m disappointed.

“Put your arms around my neck,” Sparrow says.

I reach up, on my tiptoes, and curl my arms around him. Sparrow grips my hips, and his wings spread wide; he bends slightly, then launches us into the night sky. He flies to the hole in the side of the barn.

The snowy owl hoots, softly, sounding like a mother cooing. I reach out to her, but she moves deeper into the darkness of the barn.

“Look.” Sparrow points.

Resting my hand on the wood siding, I lean in. There is a nest, scraped together from the wood of the barn, and three eggs.

The snowy owl hoots, then hops nearer.

“Do snowy owls mate for life?” I ask Sparrow.

“No. They are nomadic.”

For a moment I stare into the golden pools of the snowy owl’s eyes.

Sparrow lowers us to the ground.

“Why is that?” he asks.

Sparrow does not know that this is the lost soul of my unborn daughter. This is Elise. She is two-thirds darkness, one-third light.
“The brightest light in the darkest of places,”
Clea once said.

“Never mind,” I say, not wanting to explain. Sparrow’s body may be healed, but his brain is still whacked. I have yet to trust him as easily as I did in the past. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get back to trusting him after what’s happened down here. I’m still trying to decide if I should go my own way.

“I almost forgot.” Sparrow reaches into his pocket. “Clea sent this for you.”

He holds out a large black feather.

“Clea?” I ask.

He nods.

I hesitate.

He moves it closer. I want to slap it out of his hand and run away. Nothing good has ever come from one of her feathers.

“She said you have to take it,” Sparrow urges, pointing it at me.

I reach out, my fingers grasping the quill, just above his fingers. An arc of electricity lights up the feather as we’re both touching it. Sparrow’s eyes widen; his pupils shrink to pinpoints.

Screaming. There’s so much screaming. Hellfire and brimstone. Blood. Pain. Black feathers everywhere. Black owls circle us, faster and faster. The entire time, an eerie trill is being whistled. “Save me!” Nightingale’s voice screams.

When it’s done, I open my eyes to find both of us on the ground.

“That was strange . . .” Sparrow stands, then reaches down to help me.

“We have to find your sister.” I get to my feet.

Sparrow looks away, gritting his teeth.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I think . . .” His voice sounds pained as he presses his fingers to his head. “Vine is calling me.”

“Vine—”

A pulse rocks the air around us. Suddenly, Sparrow goes flying, as though he’s being tugged backward by some unknown force. His hands scrabble, and his wings beat uselessly, as his large frame hurdles across the treetops.

“Meg . . .” He sounds shocked.

“Sparrow!” I scream.

Poof
—I go nowhere.
Poof
—nothing.

My ability to transport isn’t working. I run toward the road as the snowy owl hoots from her nest. The Jeep is still parked on the shoulder of the highway, keys still in the ignition. I jump in and start the engine. Shifting the vehicle into gear, I take off for the burning caves.

. . .

Barreling down the road, I weave around the walking dead who are still searching for Nightingale. A thousand thoughts run through my head. Why can’t I
poof
the heck out of here? Why did Vine call Sparrow like that? And where the heck is Nightingale?

I take the back roads. Route 37 to Route 3. Route 24 to Route 11. I make my way south, speeding as fast as I can, praying only that a forest creature doesn’t waltz into the road. The speed doesn’t scare me. I grew up on these roads in the earthen plane—they’re pretty much identical—and drove them going way too fast plenty of times with Noah. Got pulled over enough times that I should’ve learned my lesson, too. But a raccoon or an idiotic opossum could really fuck up my plans right now.

Just as I turn on Route 26, about to pass through Fort Drum, dark shadows litter the road ahead. A horde of the dead are on the move. I have to slow the Jeep but consider plowing right through them. I don’t have time to wait for the walking flesh sacks to schlep across the road. Just before I come to a complete stop, Noah suddenly appears in the passenger seat.

“Jesus,” I shriek. “Thanks for scaring the shit out of me.” Guess I didn’t have to worry about a forest creature.

“Where you been, Meg?” He sounds annoyed.

“Me and Sparrow went on a little trip down Route 37.”

“For two days?” Noah asks.

I slam on the brakes. “What?”

“You’ve been gone
two
days. No one had a clue where you and Sparrow were.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Where were you, Meg?”

“We went to the barn on 37.”

The walking dead are closing in on us.

“And . . .”

“Clea sent a feather.” I recall what I saw: the screaming, the black owls. “It knocked us out but only for a minute or two.”

When I look at Noah again, he’s shaking his head. “Two days. You’ve been gone two days. And then all of a sudden, Sparrow shows up at the burning caves without you. Nightingale is still missing, and you . . .” He looks me up and down.

“I can’t
poof
anymore. I tried, but I can’t.”

Noah scowls. “Some shit is going on right now.”

I shift the Jeep into gear. “Yeah, I think so.”

I press my foot down on the gas and weave around the dead, knocking a few over as I press the pedal down harder. A few heavy thunks, and we’re clear of the pack.

Just before I get to Lowville, Noah touches my arm.

“What?” I ask.

“I think we should go look for her,” he says.

“Nightingale?”

“They’ve done nothing to find her. Vine, Lucifer—they never left the caves. No one is looking for her.”

“The dead are.” I point to an old lady with a half-rotten face, dragging her busted foot down the side of the road.

“Clea sent them. She’s the daughter of Lucifer. Do you think she’d really—”

“She’s my mother!” I snap. “She’s not like the others down here. She torched Jim and the other Hellions to protect us.”

Noah’s mouth snaps shut for a few minutes. “She’s pure darkness,” he finally says.

A moment of silence passes. He has a point, even if I don’t think Clea would do such a thing.

“We need to look for Nightingale,” Noah urges. “I have to find her.”

“Where?”

“The cabin.”

That is the absolute last place I want to go.

“Sonofabitch.”
The wheels of the Jeep squeal as I turn on to Route 12 and speed all the way north to Wellesley Island crossing.

. . .

I slow as I get to the border gates separating the United States and Canada. A guard steps out of his shack and walks toward the Jeep.

“Can’t let you filthy Americans in.” He settles his hands on his paunch belly and glares at us, real assholelike.

I’m not climbing a dead-infested waterfall again. That was some bullshit Sparrow and I had to do last time we walked here.

“Let us through,” I say.

The guard clucks his tongue and shakes his head.

“What if I told you that you are in Hell, and there’s no border to protect?” Noah speaks up.

“Dumbest shit I ever heard.” The guard tips to the side and examines the windshield. “Where’s your inspection sticker?”

“Don’t need one.” I smile.

“Stupid American kids. You think you can just—”

“Fuck Canada.” I shift and stomp on the gas pedal. I plow right through; metal screeches as the gate bends. The chain snaps, and we’re in. I don’t slow down. Shifting gears, I drive faster, eager to get away and find Nightingale.

When that guard realizes he’s dead and he’s got no borders to protect, he’ll forget about me. In my rearview mirror I see him trying to use his radio. When he realizes it’s useless, he chucks it to the ground and glares after us.

“Wow.” Noah clicks his seat belt on for the first time since he’s been in the Jeep with me.

“Don’t like being called stupid.”

“You’re not stupid. Never were.”

This is why I trust Noah. Even when I’m being an asshole, he sticks up for me. That’s what real friends do: they spend a summer in juvie by your side; they tie the laces on their shitkicker boots and run through the mud with you; they buy you Christmas presents.

“Flying here was much faster,” I mutter.

“It was.”

“I bet they’ll come looking for us.”

“I’m sure we’ve got time. Took them a few hours to find us in New York City.”

I speed down the 401, passing the bus that takes survivors to the Safe House. I turn onto small dirt roads, then rumble over poorly built bridges and narrow trails, until I pull up in front of the cabin we left just a few days ago.

“There’s something shitty about this place,” I warn Noah, feeling uneasy.

“We’re in Hell,” he reminds me.

“Yeah.” I unbuckle my seat belt and get out. “I know that, but there’s something about
this place
.”

Noah gets out, too, and we head for the door to the cabin. My hand hovers over the doorknob.

“What’s wrong?” Noah asks.

“I’m worried about Sparrow.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“You think? It’s like I barely know who he is anymore.”

“Did you ever truly know who he was?” Noah asks.

That’s a good question. In the short time I’ve known Sparrow, he’s been all over the spectrum—completely insane, lucid and strong, dark and out of control. The problem is, no matter who he is, I’m still drawn to Sparrow. It’s those memories of him protecting me when we didn’t know who we were—I just can’t shake those.