Sing Sweet Nightingale (7 page)

“That is better,” he whispers, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

I blink, trying to clear my head. What were we talking about?

Orane chuckles and lifts me into his arms. My head is spinning. I lean against him for support. How can his kisses still affect me like this? Two years of kissing him, and each one feels like the first time.

Once I’ve caught my breath, I look up into his eyes. “You’re not going to escape so easily, you know. I want to know.”

Orane smiles and leans down to kiss my forehead as he carries me into my theater. “I am sure you do. But enough talking for tonight.”

He walks down the aisle and places me in the center of the stage. Once he’s sure I can stand on my own, he puts his hands on my shoulders and runs them down my sides. His hands create the shape of the dress, and the light follows, swirling around me until I’m clothed in a ball gown of jet-black satin with golden nightingales embroidered at the edges. The sleeves sit low on my shoulders, and the tight, corset-style bodice hugs my waist. I run my hand over the wide skirt, realizing my arms are encased in gold satin gloves. A black and gold fan hangs from my left wrist.

Smiling at his creation, Orane steps back and bows, his violet eyes never leaving mine.

I wish I had a mirror. From what I can see, this dress is the most beautiful he’s ever created for me. “You’ve outdone yourself tonight.”

“It does not compare to you.” He takes my hand and lightly kisses the tips of my satin-covered fingers. “Will you sing, sweet nightingale?”

I snap the fan open and peer at him over the black lace. “I suppose. Opera, do you think? I think this dress demands an aria.”

Before Orane reaches his seat, the first strains of “Habanera” from
Carmen
fill the air.

My set doesn’t last long tonight, but it’s stronger, the songs I pick more powerful than usual. It’s not simply a performance; it’s a celebration of hope.

Orane might have found a way to let me stay forever. I was content to live in silence in my world so long as I could keep visiting his, but now? Now I might be able to stay.

For the first time, when the portal opens, I barely resist the pull. Sooner rather than later, I will walk into Paradise and never leave again.

Five

Hudson

Thursday, August 28 – 11:11 AM

“What in the seven levels of hell did my son see in this place?” Horace asks.

We’re standing on the street on Thursday morning, staring up at the house, after taking inventory of the place. From here, I can see five different spots where the brick needs to be repaired and pick out where shingles are missing on the sloped roof. The porch sags, and the windows are dingy. But if I let my eyes go out of focus and ignore all that, I can kinda picture what the place might look like after a little—never mind—a
lot
of TLC.

“It has good bones?” I suggest.

“It’s got
old
bones,” he mutters.

I smirk. “Yeah? So do you. Doesn’t mean they’re all bad.”

He smacks my arm, but he’s grinning. “Just wait till you get to be my age, and then tell me how good old bones are.”

We go inside to make lunch, but since the fridge doesn’t work, we’re limited to food we can keep in the pantry. Which means PB&J. J.R.’s favorite, right after pizza. I have to force myself to chew the damn thing.

The dream hits me again in the middle of clearing away our lunch plates. I barely manage to set the plates down and back away from the counter before I collapse.

I come out of the dream gasping for breath. My hands sting, my entire body is flushed with heat, and each movement sends waves of nausea through my stomach. Damn it I hate this feeling.

Shuddering, I try to regain control of my body. This is the third time in twenty-four hours I’ve had the dream with K.T. and the burning blonde. Three times, and I’ve only been able to pick out three new details:

One: Even after she tears the ribbon from her skin, the burning blonde can’t make a sound.

Two: The flames aren’t coming from the ground; they’re coming from under her skin.

And three: After I drag her out of the fire a third time, she grabs my arms, her eyes boring into mine. As soon as she touches me, her flames engulf me, too.

I can’t get the images from that dream out of my head. Focusing on the blonde before the fire starts crackling at her feet helps. A little.

The determination in her eyes is compelling. She stood so calm at first, but then fought tooth and nail. Reaching up, I grab my sketchbook off the counter. It tumbles into my lap, my pencil following it down. No matter how I adjust the portrait I started yesterday, I can’t capture that determined look. It doesn’t feel right. I’m forgetting some crucial detail that brings her face together and makes her… her.

No matter how much I try to focus on her face, watching her scream silently as she burns alive is…Well, haunting and horrifying are both understatements.

Someone knocks on the front door as the post-dream nausea starts to pass. Horace comes from the office he’s been setting up in the back of the first floor and does a

double-take when he sees me sitting on the floor.

“Again?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I drop the sketchbook and grab the edge of the counter to haul myself to my feet. And then fall right back on my ass when the wood cracks off in my hand. My fist automatically closes around the chunk, and I wince as splinters bite into my skin.

“Piece of
shit
house,” Horace mutters, his face flushing red. “Never gonna find a profit flippin’ a place in this condition.”

The person at the door knocks again.

Horace huffs. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’!”

I get up slowly, trying not to break anything else, and follow Horace toward the door. As I go, I pick the bits of wood out of my palm and watch the tiny slices in my skin seal themselves.

A thin man with light-brown hair and round cheeks is standing on the porch, shaking Horace’s hand. Before I come into view, I knock my sunglasses off the top of my head. They drop onto my nose, and I settle them better as I step up behind Horace.

“It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lawson,” the guy says. His smile is broad; he really does look thrilled to meet Horace.

“You an architect or a contractor?” Horace asks with a laugh.

I lean against the wall inside the door and watch as the guy flushes. “Well, uh, a—an architect. How did you know?”

“I’ve been retired too long for most people to know who I am, son. And my boy Greg’s been keepin’ a much lower profile than his ancestors were known to.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, and the guy shifts uneasily, like he isn’t sure what to say. Horace never has that problem. He reaches out and pulls me closer, a huge grin on his face.

“This is Hudson, by the way,” Horace says. “What was your name again?”

The man glances at me, but his attention is almost entirely on Horace. “Frank Teagan.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, then I head back into the house. The guy’s obviously here for Horace.

I dig Horace’s laptop out of the chaos of half-unpacked boxes and plug in the wireless card he bought. I need to look for New Age stores. I find two within an hour’s drive that might have raw, unworked stones. Good. I need to restock.

My recent obsession with crystals and gemstones started with a dream. As freaky as my visions of the future can be, they’re also damn useful. The first one saved my life.

I dreamt I was walking through a parking lot at night when twenty wraiths appeared in the sky and attacked. Seconds before I was about to die, the entire scene froze and then played in reverse. Once I was back at the beginning, the scene repeated. This time, I held an amethyst geode the size of my fist. When the wraiths attacked, I threw my arms up and blasted them away with a beam of purple light.

When I woke up, I thought it was my fears and paranoia manifesting as a nightmare. Then, walking to the library the next day, I passed a street fair. The first stall on the row was full of crystals, and sitting on a shelf was an amethyst geode
exactly
like the one in my dream. I grabbed it, eyes locked on the clear blue sky for wraiths, and bought it. None came.

That night, a portal opened above my bed, and orange light filled the motel room. The amethyst was already glowing, creating a wall of soft light that pushed back at the dreamworld’s energy. I grabbed the amethyst, and as soon as my hand closed around the stone, the wall grew brighter. Stronger. Almost solid. One of Calease’s gifts let me use my own energy to reinforce the stone’s power, but it wasn’t until that night I realized I could do that. It was instinct.

Demons beat against my purple force field so hard the amethyst shattered, but the burst of energy released from the exploding crystal shoved them back into the portal and saved my life.

I’m pretty sure that’s what happened anyway. The explosion also knocked my ass out for a few hours.

After that, I taught myself about the metaphysics of gemstones and crystals, guesstimating what might apply to the demons’ dreamworld. Once I had a grasp on the subject, I spent most of the money I had left buying bracelets of malachite, black jade, and jet, and also a pendant of tiger iron. With them, I was able to hold off the demons when they tried again a few weeks later, but each attack has been stronger than the one before. I need more stones before the next one comes.

Before I decide to go shopping, my phone rings. Only Horace and K.T. have the number and Horace is downstairs, so I take a wild guess.

“Hey, K.T.”

“My friend Danny is throwing a party Saturday night,” she says. When I ask where, she rattles off an address. “It’s west of Main, and if you go—”

“Yeah. I know where it is.”

“Really? How?”

Because I stared at a map of the town until I had the damn thing memorized. I knew it’d come in handy. To K.T., I say, “I drove around a lot yesterday.”

“Oh. Good memory. Guess I’ll text you if anything changes?”

I can tell she’s about to hang up, but I can’t let this chance pass. There has to be some way for me to get the information I need about the blonde without sounding like some deranged stalker. I just have to figure out how to phrase it.

“Hey, can I pick your brain for a second?”

“That doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“I’ll try to make it painless.” There has to be some way to ask about a blonde girl I’ve never met. “It seemed like you know everyone…”

K.T. laughs. “It’s a small town.
Everyone
knows everyone.”

Then it clicks. “I was running this morning. Saw this girl and hoped you could tell me her name.”

“If you’ve already found a girlfriend, I can promise you you’ve broken the hearts of about half the girls in the senior class,” K.T. says.

Shit. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? The last thing I need is a girl I’ll end up lying to and putting in harm’s way. People I love tend to disappear, one way or another.

K.T. must pick up on the tension in the silence on my end of the line because she laughs. “I’m joking, Hudson.” The knot in my stomach relaxes a little. From the tone of her voice, I can picture the grin on her face. “What does your mystery girl look like?”

It’s as though the flames in the dream have burned her straight into my brain. There’s no way I could forget the blonde’s face, but I stare down at the sketch anyway.

“She’s a little taller than you. Maybe five-seven? Long, blonde hair—like
really
long—and she lives in a house with red trim.”

The line goes dead quiet. I can’t even hear her breathing.

“I think you should find a different blonde,” K.T. finally says.

“What? Why?”

“Mariella is…” She pauses and sighs, but that name is ringing through my head like church bells.

Mariella. Ho-ly shit. The burning blonde has a name. Mariella. It’s pretty.

“You know the phrase ‘hard to get’?” K.T. asks.

“Yeah.”

“Forget hard to get. Chasing Mari would be like
Mission: Impossible
.”

Goosebumps rise along my skin. I think I’m missing something.

“Why? Guys not her thing?”

“Umm, I don’t know. The thing is…Mariella hasn’t said a word in four years.”

Oh. The ribbon. The orange ribbon wasn’t a symbol. Or it was, but I should’ve taken it more literally than I did. That must’ve been her promise to them. Silence.

Shit. K.T. may have been right about the
Mission: Impossible
thing. How can I get answers from someone who won’t
talk
? One of the librarians in Trenton helped me learn sign language years ago to communicate with this old homeless man who helped me out when I was living on the streets, but sign language only helps if Mariella knows it, too.

“Can’t talk or won’t?” I ask.

“Won’t.” K.T. says it with certainty, but then she backtracks. “I’m pretty sure it’s won’t. She just stopped one day.”

Yeah, that sounds about right. It was probably subtler than that, a gradated slip into silence that people didn’t notice until she flat-out refused to answer. That’s how the demons work. Your life is there one day, and the next day it’s gone. It belongs to them because of a promise you didn’t understand.