Sing Sweet Nightingale (43 page)

Forty-Four

Mariella

Thursday, October 16 – 3:59 AM

Since neither of us was going to sleep anyway, I spent the rest of the night sitting on the couch with Hudson, teaching him how to keep people—me, specifically—out of his head. By the time my parents and Carroll come downstairs around eight, he’s almost mastered it.

“I must have been more tired than I realized,” Mom says over breakfast. “I don’t think I moved once the entire night.”

Hudson glances at me and then away, the slightest tinge of concern lingering in his thoughts.

“Sudden relief of a chronic stressor can release a flood of chemicals in your brain that help you sleep,” Carroll says between massive bites of pancake. “I didn’t move last night either.”

His frown getting a tiny bit deeper, Hudson shifts his food around his plate with his fork. I put my hand on his back, but before I can repeat my promise not to use my powers for evil, I hear new minds on the edge of my awareness. People I recognize.

I look toward the front door, mentally tracking their progress up the street. “K.T. and Dawn are almost here.”

Dad laughs. “I’m surprised they stayed away as long as they did. They said they wanted to give us some time to catch up when we called them yesterday, but it sounded more like they were in the middle of a project they didn’t want to drop.”

Definitely the second one. I can hear it in their thoughts, the excitement that they finally figured out how to track down DreamWeaver, the webmaster of Dawn’s favorite New Age blog,
The Mystical Demystified
. That’s what they were working on yesterday, and that’s why they didn’t burst through the door as soon as they heard I’d opened my eyes.

I get up to wait for them by the front door and Hudson follows, his hand finding mine. Smiling, I lead him onto the porch and lean against his chest, pulling his arms over my shoulders. He hums quietly, the sound low and almost like a purr as he leans down and kisses the top of my head.

K.T. pulls to a stop in front of the house and waves at us, a huge grin splitting across her face. She points in our direction, and Dawn waves, too, the motion so furious she almost knocks her own glasses off.

“Don’t get mad, but I had to pull in outside help,” K.T. says as she runs up the yard, a backpack of crystals on her back and her arms held out for a hug.

In her thoughts, I see Danny hunched over a laptop, his attention locked on the screen and K.T.’s attention locked on him.

“It’s fine, K.” I smile and hug the only friend who held onto the memories I’d forgotten. Pulling back a little, I meet her eyes. “As long as you didn’t tell Danny
why
he was helping.”

K.T.’s forehead wrinkles, and her cheeks flush a little. “How’d you know it was Danny?” Hudson steps up behind me and taps the top of my head with one finger. “Telepath.”

“Seriously?” Dawn laughs. “I am
so
glad Hudson walked into my store. You people are
awesome
!”

“Telepath?”
K.T. thinks.
“For real? Supercali—”

“—
fragilistic
expialidocious,” I finish for her.

She laughs, only a tinge of nervousness in the sound. “Wow.
That’s
going to take some getting used to.”

“So Danny found DreamWeaver?” Hudson asks.

“Yeah. He’s always been a computer genius. I told him I needed a no-questions-asked favor, and he said yes. I asked him
after
I tried, though. We couldn’t figure out how to find more than an email address.”

One word is ricocheting around her head. A place, actually. Alaster.

“Where is Alaster?” I ask.

“Eastern side of the state,” Dawn says, grinning and bouncing slightly. She’s so excited her words almost run in time with her thoughts. “In between Albany and New York. And DreamWeaver isn’t the only person who might be there.”

My heart skips a beat. “Survivors? You think you found other people who survived the Balasura?”

K.T.’s head tilts. “The what?”

Hudson explains the new vocabulary I discovered, but my vision loses focus as something else appears before me. Some
where
else.

Nestled in the foothills of the Adirondacks, the town is small enough to call itself a village. Mostly residential, Alaster has a single business center with some shops and a diner. One of those shops is a New Age store where a girl with blue hair and dark eyes is waiting. For what, I don’t know, but she’s waiting.

Taking a deep breath, I refocus on my surroundings in time to hear Dawn explain the oddities of Alaster.

“And then we found out that this place has had a crime rate of zero for the past decade.” Dawn shakes her head. “
Zero
. I mean, come on! For ten years? Even the nicest of small towns has something. Sometimes just people getting drunk and stupid, but still. Something! Alaster has no theft, no murders, no vandalism, no social service cases—nothing. And weirder, no one else has noticed that this place is, like, perfect.”

That little bit of information is plenty for Hudson. He’s already intrigued. He’s remembering J.R. and his fight with Calease, ignoring his disappointment that I didn’t come back from my own battle with the answers he came to Swallow’s Grove looking for, and hoping that Alaster might give him another lead. Or at least one more piece to this impossible puzzle.

Even before I ask the question, I think I know the answer.

I raise an eyebrow and smile at Hudson. “So…road trip?”

His thoughts are spinning, but an answering smile creeps across his face.

“Hell, yes. Road trip.”

Acknowledgments

It takes an entire cast to write a novel, so, in order of appearance, my thanks are as follows:

First to my mom, Corey, for never letting me give up on anything, even if it seemed impossible sometimes. I love you, Mom. Thank you for absolutely everything.

To my dad, David, who developed my love of fantasy at an early age. I love you!

To my sister, Haley, who’s always one of my first readers and helps me push through by asking for more. I know you’ve read this already, love—probably a hundred times by now—but it’s officially a book! Read it again!

To my sister, Colleen, who promised to put aside her general dislike of books long enough to read mine. I love you, baby girl!

To my dear friend Lani Woodland who asked me one day, “Do you have a short story you can submit to an anthology I’m putting together?” and, when I told her no, said, “Well, can you write one?” Without you, this particular book would not have been born. Thank you for being so supportive. It’s hard not to smile when I talk to you!

A thank you in three parts: To Kate Nash and her song “Mariella” from the album Made of Bricks, to Silversun Pickups and their song “Creation Lake” from the album Pikul, and last, but possibly most important, to shuffle on my iPod for putting these two songs back-to-back at 7:30 AM while I was still half-asleep. Who can explain the spark that lights an imaginary fire? However it happened, these three combined provided the fuel.

To Rita J. Webb who accepted Lani’s anthology, but said to me, “I think this story might work better as a novel.” Thank you, Rita, for pushing me in the right direction.

To the staff at my Starbucks, especially Claudio, Matt, Matt, and Prescilla. You guys kept me well caffeinated and entertained during my marathon editing sessions! And you were all appropriately impressed when you found out why I was camped out in the corner of the café every single night.

To my friends and colleagues who tossed in their two cents when I went begging for edits: Lani Woodland, Taylor Thompson, Patrick Shawn Rowell, Asja Parrish, and Mary Gray.

To the Washington, D.C. chapter of RWA who awarded me the 2012 Marlene Award for SSN and gave me the confidence to send my story into the world.

To my wonderful editresses Patricia Riley and Danielle Ellison who heard the pitch for my story on a rooftop in New York and looked at each other and said, “Oh my God” and “I know, right?!” I think I knew at that moment I wanted to work with you both. Since then, nothing has changed my mind. Thank you for your support, your insight, your Skype calls, and for just being you.

To the entire Spencer Hill family, including but not limited to Kate Kaynak, Rich Storrs, Cindy Thomas, Britta Gigliotti, Briana Dyrness, Anna Masrud, and everyone I haven’t yet had the chance to meet. You guys rock!

To Michael Stearns who gave me a chance and introduced me to my wonderful agent, Danielle Chiotti. And to Danielle, thank you for keeping me calm and on track. Thank you for your faith and your passion and your awesomeness. Most of all, thank you for looking at my incredibly weird situation and seeing the potential instead of the complications. I hope I continue to impress you.

Thank you to my cover designer Jeremy West whose talent is kind of insane. I’m excited to see where the next few years take you, Mr. West!

Last but definitely not least, thank you to everyone who picks up this book and gives it a chance. I haven’t met you and I might not ever, but you’re making it possible for me to do what I love. Thank you.

About the Author

Erica Cameron knew that writing was her passion when she turned a picture book into a mystery novella as a teen. That piece wasn’t her best work, but it got her an A. After college, she used her degree in Psychology and Creative Writing to shape a story about a dreamworld. Then a chance encounter at a rooftop party in Tribeca made her dream career a reality.
Sing Sweet Nightingale
is her first novel. Visit Erica on the web at
byericacameron.com
or
thedreamwarsaga. com
. You can also find her on Twitter
@ByEricaCameron
.