Sing Sweet Nightingale (3 page)

I stare at my hands, my chest, my legs, willing the soft blue glow to go away. It doesn’t.

Trying to get up isn’t easy—my head spins and my knees buckle—but I manage to make it to the bathroom. I don’t like what the mirror shows me. My entire goddamn body is surrounded by a blue glow.

Holy shit. I’m a Smurf.

I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes until it hurts.

“Go away, go away, go away,” I mutter.

When I open my eyes again, the world almost looks normal. I’m still glowing, but it’s dimmer. Almost ignorable. Taking a breath, I squint and flick on the lights so I can assess the damage.

The light washes out my vision, but it comes back into focus quickly.

I look in the mirror and blink. Again. And again. What the hell? That can’t be right. I
can’t
be seeing that right.

My once-pale blue eyes are solid black. Not just the irises. Both eyeballs are
solid
black. Like someone ripped my eyes out and replaced them with black marbles.

I look away from the mirror and shut my eyes tight. It’s a trick of the light or something. It has to be a goddamn trick of the light. Just a trick.

The first things I notice when I force my eyes open again are the bloodstains on my shirt. The same shirt I was wearing yesterday.

My hands clench on top of the counter. I drag in a breath, and it comes in jerking gasps that stab my lungs.

Yesterday.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, I had a family and a home and a dreamworld I thought was as close to heaven as you could get without dying.

I have none of that now.

My brother is dead. My parents threw me out of the house—again—with barely enough to fill a small suitcase. And my dreamworld? I was right when I figured that, if God ever did exist, he turned his back on humanity centuries ago.

Calease wasn’t an angel; she was a demon.

Breathing is getting harder. It’s like the air is filled with poisonous gas.

The room starts spinning. I need to find that dark corner of my head I built when I was twelve, when my parents kicked me out the first time. The only way I’m going to survive this is by pushing away the burning in my chest and the pain eating away at my mind like acid. It’s hard, nearly impossible. My head feels like it’s about to bust open, and I think I’m about to black out. I force my eyes open and bite back a scream.

There are two of me.

A glowing white image is superimposed on the glowing blue version of myself. The double is me, but it isn’t. It has my face and my body and those screwed-up eyes, but I’m dressed like some medieval knight. Chainmail, helmet, gauntlets, sword—the works.

What am I seeing?

The answer filters in from a different part of my mind. With it comes a whiff of honey. Before tonight, Calease’s world always smelled faintly like honey.

This is what Calease saw when she looked at me. This vision filter was how she picked her victims; it showed her the children who had skills worth taking and what they would be if she gave them the right push, turned their skills into something beyond the ordinary. My skill is fighting. No one ever taught me, but I always knew when to dodge and how to throw a punch. It was instinct. Like it was instinct to throw myself into fights when I saw someone else floundering. Calease saw me as some white knight, riding in to rescue the downtrodden and the bullied. That might almost be cool if she hadn’t done everything she could to rip it away from me.

When I made it out, I must’ve taken a lot of what she could do with me.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

I yank off my torn, bloody shirt and lift my right arm to peel off the bandage over my ribs. My body must be numb. I can’t feel the wounds. Forty-six sutures and I can’t feel a goddamn one of them. The tape pulls at my skin. It doesn’t hurt like it should.

When it’s off, I understand why.

There
is
no wound. No blood, no scar, not a
scratch
. If not for the stitches embedded in my skin, I wouldn’t be able to point out where the cut had been. I rip the bandage off my left shoulder, and it’s the same thing. A long line of black stitches is the only sign that I almost died yesterday.

I take a deep breath, finally slipping into the numb, detached place in my head that gives me some distance from everything.

Okay. Guess I picked up way more from Calease than I thought.

Now what the fuck am I supposed to do with it?

Calease mentioned others like her once or twice. She told me I wasn’t the only human she “mentored.” How many others have fallen for her lies? How many demons are out there, lulling their victims into complacency with visions of paradise and pretty promises? I can’t be the only one. And J.R. can’t be the only collateral damage in this war they’re waging against us.

But I can try to make sure he’s the last.

As all-powerful as these demons seem, they can be taken out. I’m proof of that. If I can find a way back into that world, maybe I can wage a war of my own. Or at least find a way to shut down those portals for good.

It sounds like a suicide mission, but right now I don’t care. There’s nothing left for me here anyway. I just have to find a way to make J.R.’s sacrifice mean something.

I have to make sure what happened to us never happens again.

THREE MONTHS LATER

Two

Mariella

Sunday, August 24 – 12:00 AM

I grip the horse’s mane tight and urge her faster.

Already outpacing the wind blowing across the lake, she becomes a streak of white, her hooves cracking against the ground like thunderbolts. I rise and fall with each stride. As impossibly fast as we’re flying, as hard as I’m pushing her, and as synchronized as we are tonight, it doesn’t matter.

Orane is about to catch up with me.

“Is that the best you can do?” he shouts as his chestnut stallion pulls even with my white mare. Grinning, Orane kicks his steed to greater speeds, galloping slightly ahead.

Grinding my teeth, I grip my mare’s sides between my knees and lean down across her neck, pressing myself against her to match her movements. I thought cutting across the lavender field would give me the edge I need, but Orane is better. And this is his world. He created it. No matter how much time I’ve spent here over the past ten years, I won’t ever know this place like he does. And Orane never lets me win.

“Faster,” I whisper into my mare’s ear.

The willow tree is the finish line, and it’s already in sight. My mare puts on one last valiant burst of speed, jumping a creek that feeds the lake and crushing the forgetme-nots beneath her when she lands. The sweet fragrance fills the air. I hardly notice it. My focus is locked on the first branch of the willow tree.

“Fast, Mariella. But not fast enough,” Orane calls as he guides his stallion into a tight turn, tagging the branch with his hand and claiming victory with a wide grin. His violet eyes dance, and his long auburn hair flies around his face.

I slap the branch mere seconds later, but it might as well be hours. Even so, I can’t keep from smiling as Orane pulls his stallion up onto its hind legs and vaults from the saddle like a circus performer.

“One of these nights, I’ll find a way to beat you,” I say as I slide off the back of my mare. She nuzzles my neck and whinnies, snuffling softly against my skin as she slowly vanishes.

“You almost won that time.” Orane rests his hands on my shoulders and presses a kiss to my neck.

I close my eyes and lean against his chest, but the shivers running over my skin as his fingers trace patterns on my bare arms can’t distract me from the blatant lie of his statement.

“It wasn’t even close.”

“It was closer than before.” His cheek presses against mine, and I feel him smile.

He’s right, but at the same time, he isn’t. For ten years, we’ve played every game known to man and many no one on Earth has heard of. He always wins. It’s usually by a slim margin, but—no. Actually, it’s
always
by a slim margin. Like he’s holding himself back to make me think I have a chance of beating him.

From anyone else, it’d be patronizing. From Orane?

It’s a good thing I can’t resist a challenge. I smile and turn in his arms, sliding my hands up and around his neck. In a loose white shirt open to the chest, black pants, and boots, he looks like a pirate. Or the hero on the cover of one of my mother’s romance novels.

“If I asked you to let me win one night, would you?” I run my fingers through his hair, relishing the satin-like softness of the strands.

“You might never forgive me if I did,” he says.

Smiling, I have to admit he’s right; I would hate it if he stopped challenging me. “Sometimes I think you know me better than
I
know me.”

“You are my favorite subject to study.” Orane settles his hand on the small of my back and pulls me closer. Which I don’t mind at all. He’s always so careful with me, keeping a tiny bit of distance between us. My pulse picks up speed. Maybe tonight will be different.

I trace the lines of his angular jaw, his dimpled chin, the exaggerated arch of his eyebrows. Orane stands patiently under my fingers, a smile pulling up the corners of his lips.

Turning his head, he kisses the tips of my fingers, and I lean into the soft caress.

“What else would you like to do, Mariella?” he murmurs against my hand. “We have some time before you must leave.”

Closing my eyes, I rest my head against him, breathing in his soft, floral scent. I hate thinking about leaving Paradise. Every night since two weeks before my eighth birthday, I’ve been invited into this dreamworld. And every night I have to leave again. It’s the leaving I hate most.

“We haven’t been to the opera hall yet,” I say.

Orane grins and leans down for a kiss. His touch sends a frisson of energy down my spine, and I can barely contain the desire to slip my hands under his linen shirt and finally explore the skin that has been forbidden to me for so long. But like each time since our first kiss two years ago, he gently pulls back, planting one last, light kiss on the tip of my nose.

“I hoped you would suggest that.”

He offers his arm. As I take it, the air around me shimmers, changing my riding clothes into a flowing, white lace dress, accented by a wide black belt with flowers decorating the front. I run my hand along the textured fabric and sweep my long blonde hair over my shoulder.

We walk along the shore of the lake, passing the towering willow tree and the orchard of cherry trees in full blossom, their flowers not simply the usual whites and pinks, but a wild rainbow of reds, blues, and golds. The sky above us is trapped in a perpetual twilight, never fully dark, but never quite day.

In the distance is our destination, the opera hall he created for me years ago. The cream-colored marble is carved in intricate designs, and the dark wooden doors stand open. I don’t have to close my eyes to picture the interior. I helped him design it all.

Statues stand in nooks along the walls, and hundreds of seats covered in red velvet fill the auditorium. A luxuriously soft, black-velvet curtain hangs from the proscenium arch, and despite the empty orchestra pit, the finest music I’ve ever heard will rise into the air the moment I begin to sing.

Once we’re inside, Orane tells me about the modifications he’s made to the acoustics—the better to amplify my natural talent, he promises. He leads me through the door, down the aisle of the auditorium, and up to the stage. Once I’m in place, he retreats into the darkness of the orchestra seats, his face lost under the glow of the stage lights.

“What will you have tonight, monsieur?” I ask, sinking into a deep curtsey. “Opera? Jazz? Contemporary folk?”

“Sing a song about love,” he calls.

“That narrows it down to about all of them.” I laugh, standing straight and mentally sifting through my repertoire. “At least give me a style.”

“In the style of Etta James then,” he replies. “So long as you sing, nightingale, I do not care.”

Etta James? Perfect. I concentrate on “At Last,” my favorite of her songs, and the invisible orchestra begins to play, the opening chords rising into the air around me.

I take a deep breath, and my voice rises up, carrying the song to the farthest reaches of the theater. Pushing the boundaries of the melody, I take it higher and higher, pouring myself into the song and giving it to Orane. My performances are a gift. My gift for him. I sing for hours, flowing from R&B to pop to folk to opera to alternative. I sing until my throat burns and my hands are shaking.

As the echoes of my last song fade from the air, the house lights rise. Orane is standing in the center of the orchestra seats, applauding, but the warmth of his approval can’t mask the tug under my ribs, the breathlessness that hits me and gets worse with each second. Orane approaches the stage, climbing the center steps and gliding toward me with his hands outstretched.

“Time to go already?” I ask the question, hoping the answer is no.

Orane nods and brushes my hair behind my ear, then leans forward to kiss my cheek. “It is only a day. You will be back tomorrow night.”

To my right, the portal opens—a doorway of glowing white light around a darkness so black it seems solid—but I ignore it, holding onto the dreamworld as long as possible.

“Remember your promise, my sweet nightingale,” he whispers.

Sighing, I roll my eyes. “
Every
night, Orane? It’s been years. I remember.”

Orane smiles. “Yes. Every night. Your silence is too important to take a chance. If anyone else in your world should discover this one, the consequences would be dire. The war that ravaged this land two centuries ago—”

“Killed thousands until we closed off the borders,” I finish for him. It’s a story I know better than the history of my own world. It’s been my bedtime story for ten years. And after I almost slipped four years ago and spilled my secret to my parents, making this promise to Orane was easy. Necessary. “I would never risk your life, Orane. I know what’s at stake. Talking isn’t more important than protecting you.”

I lift my hand to his cheek and repeat the vow I made four years ago and have fought against instinct to keep all this time. “I promise, my love. Not a word.”