Sing Sweet Nightingale (11 page)

The corner of my lip twitches. “Unless you feel like eating salt soup.”

After I shower and change, I find Horace peering into the bowls, shifting the salt aside with a wooden spoon.

“Don’t do that.” I flick the spoon away, and Horace grins.

“Is it soup yet?”

I roll my eyes and hand him one of the bowls. “Help me scoop these out.”

We gather a few of the larger chunks of amethyst, malachite, and black jade, and I carry them to the car with me when we finally get ready to go. I don’t know exactly when, how, or if I’m going to use them, but I’d rather have them with me. Just in case.

The Teagans are a couple streets over, but we drive anyway. The old man may pretend he’s as strong as he was in his forties, but he’s pushing eighty now.

Everything is fine until I turn onto the street. As soon as I do, the back of my neck starts tingling. The closer I get to their house, the more those tingles turn into pinpricks that spread down my arms and raise goosebumps on my skin. The last time I felt like this, I met K.T. The time before that, I got jumped by two idiots with knives, and one with a 9mm and a twitchy trigger finger. Without this slight warning, I would’ve died instead of adding a gunshot graze and two knife wounds to my collection of scars.

What’s waiting for me here?

I don’t have the time to guess before I see it.

There at the end of the street is the two-story Craftsman house with red trim, like it was plucked straight out of my dream and dropped into Swallow’s Grove. Or, no, I’ve got that backward. It was plucked right out of Swallow’s Grove and dropped into my dream.

I press the brake, stopping a hundred yards from the house.

“Horace.”

“Is this it?” he asks, peering out the window at the house we’re stopped in front of.

“Horace!” I point up the street at the house. “That’s the house.”

“Oh.” Horace leans forward, squinting to see the house in the dying light. “Hmm. Nice work on the—”

“No, Horace.
That
is the
house
. The house from my dream.”

“Ho-ly succotash. What are the chances of her father knockin’ on our door the day we pull into town?” Horace’s eyes get wide, and he glances between me and the house. “Every time I think I got a grip on this crazy shit going on in your head, I realize I don’t know the half of it, do I?”

My eyes tracing the red trim of the house, I shake my head. “Not even close.”

Horace takes a long, slow breath, whistling as he exhales. “So? What now?”

“Are you kidding?” I slowly press on the gas, and the car rolls closer to our destination. “I’ve been looking for her since we got here. We’re going in.”

“Don’t do anything unnecessarily stupid, kid,” he warns as I park on the street and we get out. “Whatever’s goin’ on with the girl, I don’t think her folks have a damn clue. You scare them, and you won’t be able to ask her anything.”

I stop on the sidewalk, forcing myself to close my eyes and breathe. One of the most useful things Calease taught me was meditation. It’s been months, but I hate admitting anything that demon taught me was useful. At the same time, I’m willing to accept help from her if it means taking down the rest of her kind.

I breathe in cycles of four until my pulse returns to normal and my hands stop trembling.

Opening my eyes, I look up at the house. In there is a blonde who has a key to the dreamworld. If I play it right,
all
the answers I need may be here.

“Should I grab my sunglasses?” I ask.

It takes a second, but then Horace shakes his head. “They’re gonna have to see you without ’em sooner or later. Might as well ease them into gettin’ used to you.” He takes a breath. “Just don’t be stupider—”

“Than I need to be,” I finish for Horace. I glance at him, but his eyes are on the house. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

We start up the paver-stone path leading to the front porch. The daylight is disappearing faster now, but the warm yellow glow pouring from the windows lights the place up like a beacon. Horace knocks on the door, and we wait a couple of seconds before a woman opens it.

“Hello!” She smiles wide and steps aside to let us in.

In low heels, she’s Horace’s height. Her golden-blonde hair hangs straight past her shoulders, and her wide eyes are honey-brown. She looks exactly like the girl in my dream, just twenty years older. If she hadn’t spoken, I’d think this was Mariella and I’d just underestimated her age.

“You must be Mr. Lawson.” Grinning, she holds her hand out to Horace. “Frank has told me so much about you. I’m Dana.”

“Horace, please,” the old man says as he shakes her hand. “Never did get used to being called Mr. Lawson. This here is Hudson.”

Dana looks at me—
really
looks at me—for the first time and jumps. It’s a tiny hitch in her shoulders and a widening of her eyes, a catch in her breath and a slackness to her jaw, but it’s there. The shock of looking at something impossible. Scarily demonic. Black eyes belong on obsidian statues and in horror movies, not on a teenage boy standing in a well-lit, comfortable entryway.

To her credit, Dana recovers fast. She smiles shakily and holds out her hand. Would she let me in her house if her husband wasn’t such a fanboy of Horace’s?

“Horace!” Frank’s grin is as wide as when he stopped by the house. “So glad you both could join us!”

“Frank, you remember Hudson?” Dana asks. The slight tremor in her voice gives away her fear.

“Of course!” He turns to extend his hand to me and freezes mid-gesture. He flinches, swallows, and his movements slow, like he has to literally force himself to complete the motion. “It’s, uh, it’s good to see you again, Hudson.”

“Thanks for inviting us,” I say. I need to play nice. I can’t do much about my eyes, but I can hope Horace’s influence will make them give me a chance.

“Is Hudson your grandson?” Dana asks as her husband quickly steps away from me.

“Nah. Hudson here saved my life a few years back.”

I tense and glance at Horace. What the hell? That story isn’t really dinner-conversation material. But Dana’s eyes widen, this time with interest.

“Really?”

As we move into the living room, Horace tells Dana and Frank all about my daring rescue four years ago. The way he tells it, I sound like some sort of superhero. It’s ridiculous. Or so I think until I notice that, the more they listen, the longer Frank and Dana can look at me without wincing when they meet my eyes. Maybe the old man isn’t as crazy as I thought.

“Hudson fell on hard times recently, so I basically adopted him,” Horace says when he finally wraps up his exaggerated tale. “My own grandkids are scattered, so it’s nice havin’ someone around to help me out.”

I shake my head. “You’ve helped me out a lot more than I help you, Horace.”

The old man glances at me and winks, but otherwise he ignores me.

“That was very brave of you to do, Hudson,” Dana says, smiling at me without fear or hesitation for the first time.

An alarm starts beeping somewhere, and Dana looks toward the noise. “Sounds like dinner’s ready. Frank, will you go let Mari know?”

Dana leads us toward the kitchen while Frank heads upstairs. My pulse picks up. I remind myself to stay calm and breathe in cycles of four, but it doesn’t help. This time I can’t stop the tingling running across my skin.

Dana and Horace are talking food—not having a good kitchen in the house is bugging the hell out of Horace—but I barely hear them. I stay near the stairs to keep an eye out for Mariella.

I see the glow before I see her. The orange light is so strong it’s hard to believe the house isn’t on fire, but when feet appear at the top of the staircase, I can finally see that the light isn’t coming from the house. It’s coming from
her
.

My heart beats so fast I can’t tell the pulses apart—it’s one harsh thrum inside my head. If I’m a Smurf, this girl is an Oompa Loompa. No. Not even. It looks like she walked out of a horror movie. She really is on fire, burning from the inside out.

I’m staring, but I can’t help it. Everyone would be staring if they could see what I see.

Horace nudges me with his elbow, and I close my eyes. The light is so bright it seeps through my eyelids until I switch filters. Opening my eyes and looking through my more normal vision, Mariella’s fire is down to a soft orange shimmer surrounding her body, finally dim enough for me to see the girl underneath.

She’s wearing slightly baggy jeans, black sneakers, and a shapeless, gray long-sleeved shirt. Her hair is bound in a single long braid that hangs over her shoulder and ends at the top of her thigh, and she has something in her hand she’s rubbing like a worry stone.

“Mariella, this is Horace and Hudson,” Dana says, beckoning her daughter closer. “This is our daughter, Mariella.”

“Well, ain’t you the spittin’ image of your mama,” Horace says, smiling at Mariella.

Dana wraps her arm around Mariella’s shoulders and kisses her forehead. Mariella’s lip quivers a little, but she doesn’t quite smile.

“You gonna be a senior this year?” Horace asks. “Hudson here is starting his senior year up at the high school next week.”

He keeps smiling, but now there’s tension in the air. Dana and Frank glance at each other. Mariella tilts her head to the side, watching everything, saying nothing.

“Um, yes, Mari will be a senior this year,” Dana says before the silence hits the highly awkward five-second mark. “She has a condition, though. Selective mutism. Mari hasn’t spoken a word in a few years now.”

Only because I’m watching so closely do I catch the tiny flare of Mariella’s nostrils and the way her eyes lift to the ceiling when her mother says “condition.” She seems amused by the phrase “selective mutism”—her lip tics when Dana says that. And she acts proud when her mother mentions how long it’s been since she last spoke. Her shoulders pull back a bit and that tiny lift to the corner of her mouth gets a little more pronounced.

Mariella’s not trapped by the demons; she’s
thrilled
by their hold on her. Or she’s impressed by her own silence, at the very least.

Jesus. This girl is locked into their world more than I ever was. How am I supposed to get through to someone who won’t talk and probably won’t listen to a damn word I have to say?

K.T. called Mariella
Mission: Impossible
. I’m starting to think she underestimated.

Mariella’s eyes meet mine, and in one look, she sizes me up and completely dismisses me.

This
is the girl who has the answers I need?
This
is why I moved across state lines?

Oh, yeah. This is gonna be a fucking
blast
.

Eight

Mariella

Friday, August 29 – 7:08 PM

Hudson is unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. The sheer size of him is
insane
. Why would anyone need to be that tall? His hands are about the size of my head. He could probably snap my neck in half without blinking.

And he won’t stop staring at me. Why won’t Hudson stop
staring
at me?

His eyes are the worst. Everything else, even the fact that he’s built like Goliath, is normal compared to those too-large, too-black, too-glittery eyes.

My hand tightens around my nightingale, and I breathe in deep, trying to calm down.

Years ago, Orane taught me a meditative breathing cycle. It was during the first few months of my promise, when it was excruciatingly difficult to resist speaking. He taught me how to clear my head and calm my thoughts, promising that, when I held onto my nightingale and meditated, the dreamworld’s light would grow, protecting me.

I do that now, but as soon as I begin, Hudson’s eyes widen. He shifts forward, and my breath catches, the air locking in my throat. He freezes, then steps back until he’s leaning against the wall.

What just happened? He couldn’t possibly see the way the light began to spread out from the nightingale, sliding up my arms and down my legs…could he?

I try it again.

His hands clench into fists, and his entire body tenses. I keep breathing. He looks away, his jaw tense.

Who
is
this guy?

“Everyone grab a seat,” my mother says, squeezing my shoulder one more time before walking toward the stove.

The dining room table is built for six, but we’ve rarely had more than the three of us sitting here, especially after I went silent. My father takes the head of the table, guiding me into the seat on his left. Everyone else fills in around us. I end up across from Horace and my mother. Which means…

The chair next to me glides back silently. Hudson sits, and the legs scrape against the wood as he scoots closer to the table.

I’m not used to the table being this full. It doesn’t help that Hudson is so broad I’m dwarfed next to him. And it’s like he’s surrounded by electricity. The closer he gets, the more these static-like zaps run up and down my arm. No, it’s more like my arm is waking up after restricted blood flow. That sharp pins-and-needles sensation makes it hard to sit still.

My mother scoops salad onto everyone’s plate. I try to concentrate on the crunchy green food and the tangy dressing smell in the air, but it’s impossible. My arm is tingling too intensely to ignore. It’s only been a couple of minutes, but I’m already starting to twitch. And what is that
noise
? It sounds like someone is setting up a PA system outside and getting feedback.