The Short Life of Sparrows (3 page)

As I cross the fields and duck into a pocket of aspens, the path winds toward the sacred place where all coven gatherings happen. A tall and jagged mountain nestles itself behind the Circle. The pines on the ridges are so deep in hue, that they appear more navy than green.

I follow the skipping light of the torches into the Willow Circle. This night is mine right up to the moment I get my Awakening Dream.
“Be gracious and thank everybody for coming,”
Lil instructed.
“I don’t give one fig how the rest of them dance and drink, you have to keep your wits close about you tonight,”
 she warned me.

Most of the time I try to do as Lil tells me, because she’s smart. And because she’s the closest to a mother or relative that I have. But tonight, nobody is going to tell me how to behave. Not even Lil. Spending the entire time thanking bony, old Coven Mistresses wouldn’t be sincere of me. Why would I thank them for counseling me to keep the results of this Awakening Dream a secret?
Oh, yes, Coven Mistresses, thanks for insisting that frightened girls have their first dream in front of everyone like some sort of macabre demonstration. That after I have my first vision, I'm supposed to deal with the strangeness of it on my own. It’s most kind of you to clap over a Seer’s terror—to smile over her awkward transition into womanhood.
My gratitude will be notably absent tonight.

The Willow Circle buzzes with Seers fifteen and older. It’s the only other rule we have about these gatherings. Children are tucked into their beds early, because when the Nightbloods arrive we throw a real party. It’s not as if there’s any bond between them and their children. Nightbloods come and go as they desire. My father is probably among the black-clad men, but I wouldn’t know who he is or even care to shake his hand.

Hiding the small children is the one coven tradition that makes sense to me. The dancing gets more suggestive, the conversations shift to whispers—and the Coven Mistresses would be mortified if the youngest knew how much they drink when the men visit. It’s unsettling really, to watch shriveled people dance with each other, like they’re recreating a bedroom scene from their twenties. I couldn’t imagine how it would scare a child to see an Awakening Dream unfold anyway.

A chilly gust of wind lifts at the hem of my skirt. All warmth empties from the air, and a sharp cold claws through my lace sleeves. When our men are in concentrated numbers, a thick fog gathers. Tonight is no different. A blood-red mist blankets the silhouettes of the scabbed aspen trees. The cloudlike vapor drifts upward, dampening the brightness of the firelight.

Nightbloods catcall all around me, laughing as their shadows sift in from the woods. As I step into the clearing, I get sloppy cheers from some of them—a sign they’ve started celebrating my birthday early. I scan the crowd as I hear the music surge louder. It’ll all be fast and fun melodies. Who cares what’s on the menu that Aunt Lil and Aunt Mildred planned? So long as there aren’t any slow songs before my vision starts. I’m not about to cry or get restless over it.

Like a display of tarts, some of the Seers have their hair curled to fall strategically over their almost naked bosoms. Their dresses cling to their curves in such a way, that I wonder how any of them can drink or eat anything. Loneliness hangs over our coven like a dank and moldy curtain.
It makes me lose my appetite
. I’m assured that I picked the perfect dress. It’s tight and cascading, but my breasts aren’t squeezed too high in my bodice—begging every Nightblood to drool like I’m a glazed slice of ham.

The Elders lurk near the back tables, keeping their hooded cloaks over their faces. Only their wrinkled noses show from under their black robes. While they sit and talk with the Coven Mistresses, the younger men walk around the village sampling the food and wine. Their clothes are fitted and black, highlighting their arms and torsos as if they have to boast of every muscle they have. I’ve been fool enough to be swayed by one of them before, and it ended with me finding him in a barn with someone else. Of course, I was barely fifteen, and I allowed the sight of another Seer named Alissa with her skirt up to reduce me to sobs. I know better than to loosen my clothes ever again, or to be charmed by anything they say. Keeping my focus on my drink, I don’t make eye contact with anyone as they begin to hover over other girls who’ve had their Awakenings.

A small group of men filters through the crowd, coming straight for me. Their gold rings and chains glitter in the scarlet firelight. They follow two steps behind the tall blond one.
Rowe
. His blond hair is oiled back, a hint of his razor sharp smile hitting his high cheeks. He’s lean and scrappy, but he carries himself like he knows a dirty secret about everyone he passes. Nothing about him is difficult to look at, which is the problem with Rowe. But I’ve seen him leaned against a tree one too many times, his silver tongue rammed down another eager throat. Since he thinks that every woman is waiting on him, it only encourages me to blatantly ignore him. The way he moves gives him the air of a slinking wolf—beautiful from a distance,
but still a wolf
.

I’m relieved when Daphne waves her arms at me, beckoning me to hurry into the amassing circle of girls. “Come on already, Calli. Don’t waste good music.”

I plant my glass on a table, laughing as I watch the other Seers twirl and arch their bodies. I’ve never seen Ordinaries dance before—but I’ve been told they’ve got nothing on Seers. When we move, we make it count. It’s like we become an extension of the music, a visual manifestation of the beat we hear. My boots click at the packed dirt as I circle forward, flicking my wrists above my head. Daphne grabs my hands, and we spin and bob with the others. The top half of my body rotates as I lose myself to the flow of the rhythm. Running my hands down my sides, I don’t care that some of the ringlets Lil painstakingly rolled the night before have fallen back into my face.

I look over the Nightbloods, wondering who I should ask to dance first. Daphne usually rolls her eyes, because I’m apt to ask the pudgiest or the quietest one. But when I say pudgiest, I really mean the least pretentious. Ordinaries think it’s vampires they have to be weary of—but they’re ignorant of how seductive and alluring Nightbloods are. If our men weren’t so snobbish as to keep to our own kind, Ordinaries would have some silly herb to ward away Nightbloods too. I think Lil has her life figured out more than the other Seers—to have never had children—to have never taken a lover. She’s right. 
Nightbloods stroll about with divine faces that hardly mask their real intentions.

Still—their presence makes it easy to forget how irritating I find them or how nervous I am about midnight. I close my eyes for a moment, letting their palpable enthusiasm rush through me. Some are better than others, but Nightbloods can easily alter your mood, move objects with their minds—even call up the wind if they wish. It’s a cruel reality for me, since I’m one of the few in the coven who abstains from magic. Lil forbids me from trying it altogether. I never want my deeds to be written on my face like the Coven Mistresses anyway. They’re all about as seductive as two day old corpses.

As the music changes, I search the crowd again. Rowe studies me and my yellow dress. The deliberate gesture is a silent invitation to me. The plunging fabric along the back of my gown abruptly feels like a mistake. Unfortunately, he’s one of the best dancers
. The bad boys always are
. But carrying on with him is like shoving your arm into searing flames. There’s no sweetness, just slick words and blue eyes that trap every shallow Seer into staring at him too long. An overwhelming urge to dance with him courses though me, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m set on having fun—or if he’s luring me in his head
.
 

Ah
. The Ordinary boy—not really a boy—he must be close to my age. He sits at the corner table, his thick shoulders hunched on the ivory tablecloth. It’s not the open body language of somebody wanting to dance. I walk directly to him. Extending my hand, I stand near enough that he has no choice but to look up at me.

“So you’re the guy Lil hired?” I ask. “I’m Calli, her niece. Would you mind terribly if I asked you to dance?”

His deep brown eyes squint a bit. “I’m Isaiah. Nice to meet you. And no thank you. I really don’t dance very well.”

“Good,” I say, jerking him up by his hand and leading him into the chaos. “I don’t like show offs, so you and I will probably get along fine. Just hold my waist. I’ll lead our turns.”

His broad hand flattens on my back, and I nod, trying to encourage him as he attempts to match my steps. “See? It’s not so bad.”

He hesitates, his hand unable to stay rested in place without touching my skin. Instead of giggling at the peculiarity of my first dance with a man who considers modesty, I count the tempo aloud for us. 

“I’m hired here.” He takes in the glares of others. “It’s nice of you to talk to me, but I need this job. I can’t be angering anyone here during my first week.”

My fingers unlace from his as the song stops. “Sorry,” I mutter, realizing that I’ve accidentally made him the center of attention. Even some of the Seers talk behind their goblets of wine, whispering as they look at me distastefully. I don’t need their friendship since I have Daphne, but I still refrain from sticking my tongue out at them.

Isaiah takes a step back. “Thanks for the dance though.”

Grazing my elbow, Rowe stops by the bonfire as he pulls a stack of dry leaves from his jacket pocket. Holding his other palm over his shoulder, a squatty boy of no more than fifteen hands him a piece of brown paper. A devilish glint in his frosted eyes, he rolls the leaves up inside the paper before bending to light the paper in his teeth. A bittersweet smoke clouds the air between our faces as he blows long puffs of it into Isaiah’s face.

“You’re the Ordinary, I take it?” he asks, lifting one of his angled brows. “I’m Rowe. Glad to put a face to the name.”

Isaiah returns his welcome with a guarded handshake. “I didn’t actually give you my name.”

Rowe chuckles as he takes another careful drag from his crude cigarette. He exhales, the crooked side of his mouth curled up as he glances at me. All of the Nightbloods with Rowe have Isaiah and I surrounded. Rowe tightens his gaze on me before arching his scruffy chin back at Isaiah. “So,” he says, blowing a haze through the side of his lips, “there aren’t enough skirts back home for you to chase after? You’ve got to hang on one of ours too?”

“He’s not hanging on anybody,” I say. “And it’s really none of your business, Rowe.”

The air chokes with the smoke, and I try not to give Rowe the satisfaction of coughing. “Lil invited him, and I just wanted someone to dance with. That’s all.”

Six of them are shoulder to shoulder, making a semicircle to keep Isaiah and me from walking away. Isaiah studies the treetops with feigned interest—as if they’re all no more than a bit of wind that has rustled his hair. I do my utmost to keep from smiling. This Ordinary is smarter than I thought he’d be. With his knuckles down, Rowe runs his hand above the flames. “So any good presents yet, Calli?”

My arms are instantly folded to my chest, and I forget that disregarding him is my plan. “I was very specific about not wanting any presents.”

“But it’s Nightblood tradition, at every Awakening.”

“Not this one. Maybe some Seers don’t mind pretending that it’s an innocent gesture. But my birthday isn’t going to be turned into some sort of coded bidding war where you all show off what you can do. A skirt, I think you just called me? Yes, that’s exactly why I’m declining gifts from any of you tonight. Let’s just all dance and enjoy the food, please. And leave the Ordinary to be. If any of you so much as produces a rose or dove in your bare hands tonight, I’ll vomit from how unoriginal it is.”

Rowe’s lips curl back from his pearly teeth, and the others snicker when they see he has decided to find my remarks funny instead of insulting. He raises his palms up flat in front of me. “Don’t worry. It wouldn’t be in a dove’s best interest to be handled by a Seer with so much bite. No presents then. But this is a party, so let’s make it a good one, shall we?”

With his fist turned sideways over the fire, Rowe mutters the words quietly. The flames double their size, winding and braiding through one another in shades of silver, gold, and black. The bonfire glitters, leaving the tablecloths and tree trunks to look as if they are indeed sparkling. A cheer goes up, drinks slosh from their glasses as everyone’s arms shoot upward. My cheeks are burning red now, and I try to forget that I’ve never seen a Nightblood do such a thing at an Awakening. It’s gaudy—extravagant. I should’ve kept my stupid mouth shut and settled for every clichéd bracelet and bouquet Seers are all too happy to receive.

“Let’s get back to dancing.” I say it before I realize the thought wasn’t a silent one.

“Oh good,” Rowe chimes, pulling me into his chest. “I’m looking for someone to dance with too.”

Isaiah makes his way through the Nightbloods and around the swirling Seers, vanishing. I don’t have time to feel sorry for how I’ve embarrassed Lil’s hired hand, because Rowe spins me out from his arm. The drums thump louder—as does my chest. Drawing me back to his shirt, I smell traces of cedar wood and spiced brandy. His fingertips relax into my waist for a moment before he moves his hands to the small of my back. The determined way his thumbs press to the appliqued edges of my dress makes my breath twist in my lungs like a dishcloth being wrung out.

“You look perfect,” he slips into my ear, as my hips curl forward and back with his.

“You’re full of it, but thanks,” I say, a nervous laugh falling from my lips as he turns me in faster circles. His athletic frame bends above mine. He leads me past Lil, and I fake that I can’t see the way she cautions me with her eyebrow. His attention meanders between my face and the curve of my collarbone. At first, I feign that I haven’t noticed the awkwardness of it. His eyes travel further, and I’m suddenly resisting the impulse to slap him across his arrogant face.