Nightingale Girl (6 page)

Sparrow’s eating a Twinkie when I walk out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. I grab the second one from the package on the table and take a bite out of it.

“What do you want to do today?” I ask as I chew.

Sparrow hands me a can of orange soda. “Not sure.”

“There’s a pool downstairs. Want to swim?”

Something flickers across his face.

The last time we were near a pool together, I was washing off the splatter of the dead after nearly killing him. My trigger finger twitches, and I close my eyes. I almost shot Sparrow dead that day. He was teetering on that rocky cliff after I blew out the brains of one of the walking dead. The creature was trying to eat his face, and I panicked—remembered things I tried to bury. I hope Sparrow forgives me for that.

He must’ve, since he’s still standing here.

“I don’t have a swimsuit,” Sparrow replies.

“You shower. I’ll run down to the hotel gift shop and get us some swimsuits.”

I pull on jeans and a T-shirt over my damp skin before grabbing my bank card and room key. The shower starts in the bathroom, and the sounds of Sparrow moving around in there echo. I head for the elevator, worried that he might not be there when I get back. I don’t want to leave him, not for a second.

The gift shop only has a one-piece tropical-print suit and a pair of swim trunks with palm trees all over them. I pay for both and then dash back up to the room.

Just as I’m walking through the door, Sparrow’s stepping out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

“How was it?” I open the bag from the shop and hand him the swim trunks.

“Lonely.”

I smile. “Next time.”

His left shoulder “tics” hard, nearly throwing him off-balance. I start to go to him, but Sparrow holds his hand out, stopping me from coming closer.

“It’s fine,” he says, looking away.

Something breaks inside of me, watching this torture overtake him. I want to hide him away and protect him, or hurry up and get his time as a Hellion over with so he can go back to normal. Whatever his normal is.

A tiny emotion flashes through my heart: what if I hate Sparrow’s normal?

I shake my head and reach for the bag with my bathing suit. We change, grab towels from the closet near the bathroom, then head to the pool. The uneasy feelings of sudden loneliness and loss begin to creep up on me.

The smell of chlorine lingers in the hall. Sparrow reaches around me and pulls the door to the pool area open. He waits for me to walk through. I toss my towel on a chair and head for the water, trying to figure out the right thing to say to him at this moment. This threat of him becoming a Hellion is creating a ridge between us, and I don’t like it at all. I’ve never had anyone in my life quite like Sparrow.

As I’m dipping my toe in the pool, trying to figure what to say, Sparrow touches my arm, and I hear his sharp intake of breath. I look up and find Gabriel standing on the other side of the pool.

Oh shit.

“Brats.” Gabriel’s voice echoes throughout the pool room. “Just like your mother, running away” comes next. “Goddamned kids.” He’s staring me down with his electric-blue gaze. Before I can say one word, he’s standing next to me in a flash. “You swore on his life not to leave the Seven Kingdoms of Heaven.” Gabriel points at Sparrow. “On. His. Life.”

I step back.

“My father didn’t tell you?” Sparrow steps forward. “The other Council members know.”

“What?” Gabriel asks.

“He didn’t do his time.”

“Hellion?”

“Yes.”

Gabriel frowns. “It’s the curse then?”

Sparrow nods.

“Fucking idiot,” Gabriel mumbles as he walks in a tight circle. “Fucking idiot!” Gabriel turns to face us, angrier than a hornet. “He never went when he was called?” Gabriel asks Sparrow.

“No,” Sparrow replies.

“Imbecile!” Gabriel clenches his hands into fists. “You have the curse. And your sister—is she crazier than a shit house rat?”

“Yes. He keeps her locked up.”

Gabriel nods, understanding. “Your banishment must have delayed the curse catching up with you or we would have known years ago.” He looks Sparrow up and down before walking toward him and placing both of his hands on Sparrow’s broad shoulders. “Darkness must taint your soul. This must happen. All Archangels who ever did an ounce of good paid their dues as a Hellion.”

There is a dark glint in my father’s eyes.

“Does that mean you, too?” I ask, curious as to how many of the Archangels have walked on the dark side.

Gabriel glances at me. “Yes. That is where I met Clea.”

Holy crap. He met my mother when he was doing his time as a Hellion. I know what the Hellions did to me; does that mean . . .

“No.” Gabriel’s tone is harsh. It’s as though he read my mind. “It was of her own free will. Clea was more. I brought her back with me when I finished my time. Lucifer was pissed.” Gabriel suddenly laughs loud, and it echoes throughout the poolroom, making my ears ache. His eyes close for a few seconds, as though he’s remembering the past. He sighs. “This is noble.” Gabriel pats Sparrow so hard on the shoulder his body jerks. “And you will go together.”

“I swore—” I start to say.

“It is forgiven,” Gabriel declares.

“But Clea’s feather showed you something.” Clea gave a feather to each of us, but Gabriel still hasn’t told me what he saw. “Was it a warning?”

“Now is not the time to discuss that.” Gabriel presses his lips together, refusing to tell me. He turns. “Sparrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Christ, boy. Remiel is pissed that you took off without a word. Don’t forget what you’re made of.” Gabriel flicks him hard on the forehead. “Sparkles and fluffy clouds and shit.” Gabriel turns to face me and frowns. “The owl is the bringer of death.” Then in a flash, Gabriel is gone.

The owl? Is that what Clea’s feather revealed?

I suddenly don’t feel like swimming any longer. I turn to Sparrow, taking his hand in mine. “Let’s go back to the room.”

Poof.

. . .

“We could have taken the . . .” Sparrow’s lips move, and his brow furrows, like he can’t remember, but he’s still trying to get the words out.

It feels like there is a stone in my gut.

“Elevator?” I ask.

Sparrow nods as he tosses his towel over the back of a nearby chair. He moves around the room, opens a can of soda, digs through the bag of snacks, pulls out some chips, and starts eating.

I do the same, both of us staring off into space as we chew. The snacks are good. I kinda miss the delicacies of Heaven fare, though. Thinking of food reminds me of the hunger that was never sated in Hell. We have to go back to that. I touch my stomach, remembering the nights of searching for a safe place to eat or sleep. Sparrow killed a deer for food. He helped keep me alive. Something inside me tells me that this time it’s going to be very different.

I think of Noah. The last true friend I had before Sparrow. He got busted for possession and died in a bus accident on his way to the prison in Auburn. I met back up with him in Hell. Noah never repented, so he turned into a walking sack of flesh and tried to eat my face. Sparrow cut his hand off, and that was the first time he saved my life.

That’s all I’ve had, Sparrow and Noah. There was Jim, but he doesn’t count. Anyone who killed your unborn baby and let seven Hellions rape and try to murder you definitely doesn’t fall under the category of “nice guys I dated or was engaged to.”

Sparrow sits at the table across from me. He’s eaten an entire bag of chips, and now he’s reaching for a package of Sno Balls.

The countertop is littered with empty soda cans. The paper bags we carried our snacks in are crumpled and nearly empty, too. I should have gotten more food.

Angst wells up inside me. I suddenly want to do something bad, something very bad. The darkness inherited from Lucifer feels like it’s going to burst out of my body. I want to steal something or deface a sign or go to a bar and—

“I want another tattoo,” I announce as I stand up.

Sparrow smiles. He stands, moves closer, and runs his finger around the quill on my collarbone. “Of what?”

I shrug. “I’m not sure,” I say. But I do have an idea.

Sparrow frowns. Going back to the tattoo parlor and letting a stranger put his hands on me for more than a quick touch-up is a big deal. He knows I don’t like to be touched.

“I don’t like that man’s hands on your body.” Sparrow grips my hips and drags me toward him. He kisses me—hard at first, then so desperately that I can barely breathe. It’s like he can’t stand to lose me. I can’t stand to lose him. Sparrow pulls away and holds my face. My throat feels thick. I swallow down the words I decided not to say.

“Don’t forget me, Meg. Don’t forget that I love you more than anything. The things they’ll make me do . . .” He presses his forehead against mine—doesn’t finish whatever he was saying. Instead, for the next hour Sparrow shows me exactly why I shouldn’t want anyone else’s hands on my body, except for his.

. . .

There are snowflakes in the air as we head to the tattoo parlor. I called the guy who darkened my quill earlier, and he had an opening available.

“Christmas is coming,” I say as I drive the minivan.

“Yeah.” Sparrow smiles, but his hands are all over the feather duster that was left in the car. He tugs a feather out of the duster and shoves it in his pocket.

I pretend I don’t see that. Other people might be thrown off by what he’s doing, but it’s way easier to watch than when we were in Hell and he was plucking feathers straight out of the birds’ wings. Alive or dead, he filled his pockets with hundreds of feathers.

Sparrow’s humming “It’s My Life” as I park the van, and we get out. We walk to the tattoo parlor hand in hand. He holds the door to the shop open for me, and, as I pass by, he does something strange: he whistles the eerie tremolo of the loon.

My favorite bird is the loon. Sparrow knows this. He hasn’t mimicked its call since he asked me what my favorite bird was not long after we first met.

Before I can say anything about it, the guy at the counter says, “Hey again.” He checks out Sparrow’s outfit. He’s still wearing the Canadian tuxedo, since I never got us new clothes. “Cool threads, man.”

Sparrow whistles something that sounds like a blue jay call.

The guy at the counter looks confused. I should tell him not to mind my man, who has apparently decided to communicate with birdcalls.

Just then the lights flicker. In the millisecond of darkness, the tattoo man looks as though he’s backlit with blue light.

I blink, and the lights come back on—full force—and there is nothing but a normal guy standing in front of me. Maybe I’m seeing things from all the junk food I’ve been eating over the past twenty-four hours. Never experienced anything like that before, but my blood sugar is probably at a critical high.

The tattoo guy watches me intently. “Are you . . . ?”

“What?” I ask, but the guy seems to change his focus.

“There’s a book over there. Pick out what you want.”

I head for the books filled with tattoos. I have an idea of what I want already. After flipping a few pages, I find it: a dainty watercolor of a sparrow in flight. Just as beautiful as Sparrow is handsome.

“Where ya want it?” the tattoo guy asks. He glances at Sparrow, seeming uneasy.

I could go full tramp and get it on the small of my back or maybe my butt cheek. But I want to see it. I want it close. “Here.” I point to the space over my heart.

The guy nods and motions for me to follow him.

I sit in the reclining chair as the tattoo guy preps his tools and then my skin. I have to take my shirt off this time and pull my bra down a little bit. Good thing I’m not self-conscious.

Sparrow stiffens and watches from the waiting area. The look on his face is one of possession and near jealousy.

The tattoo man starts working his magic. I feel the familiar sting of the needle, the annoying burning sensation.

Sparrow’s eyes are riveted to mine the entire time.

I’m not sure how much time passes before the tattoo guy leans away from me, assesses the tattoo from a few different angles, dips his tool in a new ink pot, and adjusts some coloring. He presses a towel to my skin, then moves away.

“Think it’s done.” He hands me a mirror.

I inspect the ink. The tattoo looks better than I expected. Pinks and blues and yellows all come together, with the wispy outline of the sparrow. Reminds me of a sunset.

“Perfect.” I smile.

Now I will always have Sparrow close to my heart.

I put my shirt on and get up to pay the guy, then take Sparrow’s hand, and we walk out the door to the minivan. Just before I let go of his hand to walk to the driver’s side, Sparrow pulls me against him and kisses me hard on the lips.

“You like?” I ask.

“Love.” He smiles and releases me. His hand moves to his pocket. I bet he’s stroking off to a handful of feathers. It wouldn’t be the first time.

We get in the van, and I start it.

“Christmas is coming,” I remind him. “Should we get presents?”

The first time I got a real present on Christmas, I was fourteen and Noah bought me a hemp-twine bracelet with teal beads. I didn’t have anything for him. That was the year we spent a summer in juvie together; the thrill of doing 120 miles per hour down the thruway was almost worth losing two months of my life.

“What if I’m not here for Christmas?” Sparrow asks.

Gripping the steering wheel, I drive past the hotel.

“We’ll do Christmas tonight.”

I drive to the mall and get a few hundred dollars from the ATM. I give Sparrow a handful of twenties.

“Get me something. Meet me back here in thirty minutes.”

I don’t care if he gets me nothing at all. I want to do something for him.

We walk in opposite directions. I head for the nearest home store and find the largest, fluffiest down comforter I can find. After tugging the plastic case off a shelf, I pay for it, then leave the store to find a shadowed corner.

Poof.

I’m back in the hotel room. I rip open the package, then search the kitchenette for a sharp knife. After finding one in the third drawer, I cut the down comforter open and shake the feathers all over the bed. I shove the empty fabric back into the packaging and stuff it in the closet.