The Short Life of Sparrows (21 page)

The feel of the long, clawed fingers as they rubbed my head resurfaces in my mind. Distracted by the thought of its hollow eyes on my face, I trip, landing in an unforgiving pile of pine needles. I brush an arm against my face, feeling the sting of a few below my ear.

“Keep a hold of me,” Rowe instructs, lifting me back up. I’d cry, but I’m too shaken to do anything except try to match Rowe’s speed. I don’t care that it makes me sound like I’m four years old—I just want to go home and hide under the quilt on my bed. I shiver, recalling how earlier in the night I’d laughed at Rowe’s talk of the dark and the things that live in it.

The safe glimmer of torches in the Willow Circle greets us when we break from the trees at the bottom of the hill. No Seers are there, but a group of Nightbloods who hadn’t returned to the mountain with Murdoch stop their chatter. They glance at Rowe and me, scowling at the two of us for being with Isaiah.

“Nothing to see,” Rowe snaps at them. “I’m supposed to see them to their doors.” He kicks an empty chair as we pass them. “The rest of them are waiting on you. So maybe you ladies can cluster at a more appropriate time.”

We cut across the field. A candle in the front window beckons to me, and I notice that Lil has lit one and left it burning where Isaiah sleeps as well. Isaiah says nothing once we get to Lil’s fence, and he turns for the shed.

“Damn it,” Rowe yells, hitting a fence post with his fist.
I’m wondering if I should hug him or pat his arm—if anything could comfort him
. I can feel his frustration as his back squares to me. It horrifies me, how he stares off into the field as he puts his hands to his hips.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Then whose is it?”

“You couldn’t have known that would happen tonight.”

“You’ve been right to loathe me,” he replies. “I thought I could show you that we’re not so bad. But none of us are any better than the things we summon—the curses we make. Dream of another man. Stop pulling me in every night, because I can’t take it anymore. You deserve someone who won’t end up bitter and drained of all ability to care. I can’t keep seeing the things I see up there and be good for anyone, including myself. This entire night was a mistake. And I was a fool to think I should show you any of it. Now you see why Seers don’t share living space with Nightbloods. It could have killed you. Stay away from me.”

I falter. I don’t have anything of comfort to say to him, because I’ve never thought of him with the intensity he seems to think of me. The dreams are driven by something other than Rowe and me. I start to fear that being alone with Rowe in these dreams is not only upsetting to me, but breaking him.

Nobody among the Nightbloods came forward to challenge the creature preying on Isaiah and me—nobody but Murdoch and Rowe. My stomach flips. I see Rowe running toward me as the beast cornered Isaiah and me. Nobody faces the kind of evil we saw, unless they’re desperate to save someone else.
Rowe tried to save me tonight
.
And yes, I find that I need to hug him for it
. But Lil’s form emerges in the open door, and the grim way she holds her lantern signals that I’ve worried her enough for one night.

So instead I mutter goodnight and hold out his coat. “Be careful up there.”

Rowe dips his chin, throwing his coat on as he withdraws into the darkness. Stalling inside the picket fence, I can see our mantle through the windowpane—a collection of knickknacks, the framed painting of the oak tree, the steady fire beneath it. Our fireplace is a hearth to warm cold feet and heat water for tea, not blue flames that attract wicked and dreadful things. Although our house is a crumbling and creaking assortment of walls that need repaired, it’ll never be as pitiful as the drafty, unsightly Nightblood shacks up in the trees. Even if I have little respect for most of the Nightbloods, I concede that I’ll never see them with the hate that I used to. I wish there was a sensible reason to invite Rowe to stay. Because the place he’s returning to could never really be called a home.

“Do you want to tell me where you were?” Lil asks, moving aside so I can enter the doorway.

“You wouldn’t want to hear the truth,” I say, walking for my room. As my door clicks shut, I fall to the floor. Tugging at my dress, I pull it away to distance myself from the thing that touched it.

26

ISAIAH

I
’ve never deluded myself with sentimental fantasies about granted wishes or angels who materialize when called. I haven’t thought much of any whispered story about evil creatures either. The real monsters are all born the way the rest of us are. Ten fingers. Ten toes. It’s what makes them so unbelievable, that they can hide within sight, if they so choose. That’s what I’d always believed until something tickled at my back—with a claw shaped like a massive fang.

Like peppermint for an irritated stomach, a prayer is prescribed to soothe a troubled mind
, I thought. And just as you can outlast a stomach ache if you have the nerve, you don’t need to ask the wind to solve your problems if you have a little discipline.

If you wait it out, whatever it is will eventually go away—right? But just try to hold onto your logic and your wits when you hear a thing wheezing and clacking its greasy tongue near your ear. Oh, I’ve bumbled my way through many desperate prayers in the last hour. More than praying, I’d call it begging.

Don’t let the demon and his disgusting, gaping mouth any closer
.

Just get us out of here
.

Please save Calli, if nothing else
.

I don’t want to feel a thing. Please
.

Please
.

The last prayer I said was reduced to one word, because I couldn't think or rationalize anymore. 
Please 
was all I had as a weapon. Anybody who says they wouldn’t fall on their knees and attempt a prayer after being stalked by pure hatred—something with dribbles of moisture oozing from its stretched skin—is lying. And any man who sees what we saw and doesn’t leave a lamp burning into the morning hours—even after it’s gone—is a fool.

Maybe those Nightbloods are better off having a dark nature and wild eyes. Kind and good—gentle and loving—can’t coexist with foulness like the kind we barely escaped. Not without being ruined somehow. Seers aren’t the only ones who are hoping for sleep to be merciful tonight.

27

CALLI

T
he aspens glisten with a hint of morning as I wander through them, letting the damp earth yield under my shoes. Nothing helped me fall asleep--not washing my skin or changing my clothes. Resting was beyond pointless, and the hellish being that hovered over me wasn't the only reason I failed to shut my eyes. If Rowe hadn’t run to shield Isaiah and me—if Murdoch hadn’t used magic to hold the demon back, what would’ve happened to us? The creature was made of real flesh and bone—talons and eager teeth. It replays in my head, the sickly, hungry stare of the demon as it smacked its lips. Magic saved me from unimaginable tortures, maybe even death. The thought sticks to me, forcing me to wonder if I’ve been very wrong to judge the coven ways.

Magic has always been something I’ve perceived as selfish and indulgent—a tool for revenge or attention—a lazy solution to problems. It’s been a means of division for me, a device that’s separated me from the rest of them. Because Lil and Mildred never taught Daphne or me any of the formal chants, observing others doing spells has left me resentful and defensive. I wouldn’t tell anybody so, but I have to admit it as I walk with just my new doubts to accompany me.

The Nightbloods can’t be as self-involved as I supposed, if they spend each evening and morning worrying about what horrors the Seers have seen. There was nothing selfish about how Murdoch’s face reddened and perspired as he barred that hideous monster from doing as it wished.  There wasn’t anything arrogant about Rowe ending my fever, especially after my constant efforts to convince him that I have no interest in him. Pacing the length of my bedroom all night relieved me of dreaming of his face, but I almost want to see him. Getting some air hasn’t given me any clear perspective, because I don’t know what to believe about anything—or anyone—including myself.

I knot the shawl around my shoulders, weary of bunching the gray wool to me. Not having a destination, I turn back toward home. Some of the timber behind the house still lays there, although Isaiah has managed to roll most of it into a pile for cutting. As I put a hand through my hair, my fingers catch on a snarl. Sitting down on the spotted trunk of one of the aspens, I gather the fuzzy mess of static in my hands to rake out the tangles before braiding it.

“You’re up early.”

I finish braiding my hair, at a loss for the rest of my appearance. Rowe settles beside me, the tree carcass bowing under the added weight. My stockings are missing. Without a mirror’s confirmation I’m still certain there are severe bends under my eyes He weaves his fingers together, resting over his knees. “I thought I'd better check on you when you didn’t dream. I hope you weren't roaming the woods all night in that threadbare shawl. You just got over being sick. It’s a wonder you haven’t died of a cough, the way you take care of yourself.”

Being chastised never brings out the sweetness in me, so I return his hen-like prodding with a shrug. A trace of sun lingers on the toes of my boots, teasing the relaxing shadow of dusk. 
I don’t even know what he’s doing here
. 
Didn’t he just finish telling me that Nightbloods and Seers are better off separated—that there’s no good reason for he and I to be around each other?  
I push at the ground with my foot, making small ridges in the pliable dirt. “Your speech about going our own ways was short-lived.”

He ignores the jab, scratching nervously at the scruff on his chin. “We know who was responsible for those Seers going missing. I just want you to be prepared for it. It’s not what any of us expected. Things are going to get very ugly today. And Murdoch is gathering the coven when everybody wakes up. He has to.”

My gut rolls, and my fingernails curl into the bark. “Nothing can be as ugly as last night.”

“I don’t know about that. I’m warning you, because I’m afraid you’re going to cry when you realize what Murdoch and the Elders have to do.”

He wrinkles his eyebrow, nodding as he watches me kick at the soil. He’s too worn out to bicker with me. Resigning myself to leaning forward as well, I realize I’m also too tired for it. It’s not like him to even suggest that he’s afraid of anything—especially something like me crying. He sucks in a heavy breath, as if it’ll bring him the confidence to say words he doesn’t want to. “I’ve never completely agreed with our coven making everything secretive. I don’t see how it helps our younger Seers, to be oblivious to so much. Awakenings—where us Nightbloods stay—what we spend our time doing.”

“Why
do
they insist on not discussing Awakenings? It’s aggravating that nobody allows Seers to talk about them. Mine was unnerving, not to mention confusing.”

He rubs at his chin again, starting to say something before freezing up. “It’s really not my place to tell you what your Awakening means. I don’t know what specifically happened in yours, but I can guess as to who was in it with you. Anyway, I didn’t come down here because of that. … You’ll figure it out. And you should be able to accept your Awakening on your own terms. Not anybody else’s. I came down here to apologize for taking you up there. It was stupid of me—even if I only wanted to explain things to you. I’m sorry for it.”

“No. Don’t be,” I say. It’s all that comes out of my mouth.
No
, meaning
I’m sorry for thinking the worst of you
.
No
, meaning
thank you for wanting to protect me while so many Nightbloods stood there gaping.
As he shifts, the side of his leg and arm encounter mine. He doesn’t seem to be aware that there’s plenty of sitting room.
Or he’s comfortable with it
. There’s unmistakable intimacy to it—when two people sit together like we are, with no attempt to kill the silence with words. Regardless of why he leaves so little space between us, I’m glad he can’t tell that the inside of my stomach is doing swan dives. The longer we remain this way, the more it says about how things have changed between Rowe and me. I’m not ready for it. So I search for any topic to shatter the tangible connection that’s growing. “I’m curious about what it would be like to do magic.”

A puzzled expression steals over his features. “You’ve never learned any chants? Not one?”

“I’ve glanced at Lil’s books and read some pages. And I’ve heard a few spells enough times to memorize the words. Isaiah tried to help me with a curse recently. It didn’t work though. I’m not any good at it.”

He stiffens, a fleeting darkness on his face at the mention of Isaiah’s name. I fidget with my skirt as I gather the determination to say it. “If it didn’t destroy other things to channel for magic, I think I’d be tempted to use it.”

He tips his head, staring at me as if I’ve said something outrageous. “Your innocence baffles me sometimes.”

“If you’re going to insult me—” I instinctively fold my arms. It’s a talent really, how he can so often turn butterflies in my stomach to a nauseating vapor with one sentence.

He rises from the log, extending his hand. “I’m not trying to offend you. Here. Stand up. I’ll show you.”

“Show me what?”

“Stand up,” he says, tugging my hand. I’ve already mentally exited the conversation with him—my guard couldn’t be any higher than if I had a knife pointed at his jugular. He closes my hand in his, despite my limp and unenthusiastic response. “Calli, this won’t work unless you want it to.”

“What exactly do I want to work? I already told you, I won’t draw from anything living at the risk of harming it. And I don’t relish looking like silvered leather from casting magic anyway.”

“Oh, you’re given to extreme dramatics. Your skin isn’t going to lose its color from one chant. The only reason the Coven Mistresses are so damn ugly is because they’ve been chanting and snapping their fingers twenty times a day for decades.”