Sing Sweet Nightingale (8 page)

“Look.” There’s steel in K.T.’s voice. “I’m telling you right now—don’t mess with Mari.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m telling you not to.” K.T. huffs and mutters something I don’t quite catch.

“I don’t want to mess with her.” That’s the last thing I want, but how do I say that to K.T.? “She…I don’t know. She looked like she needed help.”

Or at least a bucket of water dumped over her head.

K.T. snorts. “Don’t go thinking she’s some damsel in distress for you to rescue. The Mari I remember from elementary school would’ve kicked you for suggesting it. She could always take care of herself.”

Except this time she may be up against something completely out of her league—a demon wearing an angel’s mask, and a hellish nightmare hiding within a paradisiacal dreamworld.

I wonder if Mariella’s been under their influence longer than I thought. K.T. talks like she hasn’t seen Mariella in years. Since elementary school. When did this start for Mariella then? Middle school? That’s crazy young. If she met the dream demons when she was eleven or twelve, they’ve had the better part of a decade to burrow inside her head. The damage to my life was bad enough after four years with Calease. I can’t fathom what six or seven might’ve done.

“It won’t kill me to try,” I tell K.T.
Except, you know, it might
.

“I guess.” K.T. sighs. “If you mess with her head, I’ll personally hunt you down, but otherwise, good luck. If you can get her to talk, you’re a freaking miracle worker. Hell, if you can get her to actually
smile
, her parents might throw you a party.”

When I hang up with K.T., I realize the lie I made up for her might be true. I could actually find Mariella’s house. This is a small town, and the houses in this neighborhood—with the exception of Horace’s dilapidated Victorian—are all about the same size as the Craftsman in my dream. What if she’s a street or two over?

I run down to the den that is serving as my bedroom—all but one of the actual bedrooms are uninhabitable—and change.

“Where you tearin’ off to?” Horace calls as I jog toward the door.

“Gonna see if I can find that house.”

“Don’t get yourself lost. And, before I forget, we’re havin’ dinner at the Teagans’ tomorrow night.”

I look over my shoulder to the kitchen and spot the missing piece of wood that snapped off earlier.

“Uh, that’s probably a good thing.”

“Piece of shit house,” he mutters again. “I don’t want to work on the restoration, it’s so bad.”

I roll my eyes. Bullshit. He’s already sketching out the plans in his head. Horace may have retired, but he has a hand in almost everything his family’s company does. And he loves a good restoration project.

“Well, if you’re going, git!” He shoos me out of the house, and I run down to the main street. I have two choices. Left or right? It’s a fifty-fifty shot.

Eenie. Meenie. Miney. Left.

I turn and start running, my feet automatically finding a comfortable rhythm and my body quickly adjusting to the motion. My sneakers thud against the pavement and—especially since I’m wearing a long-sleeved shirt to cover my arms, and sunglasses to hide the oddness of my eyes—people barely give me a second glance as I pass.

For over two hours, I move south, jogging up and down every street, following the map in my head and crossing off each street as I go.

The Craftsman house with red trim isn’t anywhere to be found. At least, not south of us. As I run back to Horace’s, I tell myself I have time. I don’t need to find her tonight. But the itch forming along the back of my neck and across my shoulders says otherwise.

I hate this. It’s like I’m racing a clock ticking down to doomsday without knowing how much time I have left.

Over takeout that night, I ask Horace if he minds lending me the money to pick up some new stones. In answer, he takes something out his wallet and slides it across the table. A credit card with my name on it.

“Since you’re so damn stubborn about paying me back money I don’t mind losing, it’s easier to keep track this way.”

Saying his family has done well is a huge understatement. Horace is far from flashy about it, but he’s got so much money that buying this house outright—in cash—didn’t phase him. He keeps trying to tell me that it doesn’t matter to him, but it matters to me. It’s his money, not mine. As soon as I can manage it, I’m paying him back for everything.

If I don’t get myself killed first.

We say goodnight, and he heads up the creaky steps to his bedroom, leaving me in the darkness alone.

It was hard for him to believe at first, but I don’t sleep. Not much. Before I figured out Calease was a demonic, soul-sucking, evil bitch, I spent every night for four years in her world. In my third year, I mentioned I hadn’t been able to sleep for more than a couple hours a night.

“A side effect, I am afraid,” she’d said. “Those who spend time here no longer require as much rest as most of your kind.”

And she was right. The longer I spent in her world, the less I slept. I’m down to needing about an hour a night. If that.

One side effect she
didn’t
mention—probably because she didn’t expect me to live long enough for it to matter—is my memory. I remember everything. Every conversation I’ve ever had, every meal I’ve ever eaten, and everything I’ve ever learned, done, seen, or heard. It’s like my mind has turned into a computer with infinite storage. I remember even if I wish I could forget. Like the night Calease showed up for the first time.

Everything about that night is burned into my head as indelibly as Mariella’s face. It’s a memory I can’t keep from reliving, torturing myself wondering what might’ve happened if I hadn’t been so desperate when she found me.

I’m fourteen and sleeping behind a long row of filing cabinets in the basement of the library. Trying to sleep. The zipper on the front of my leather jacket keeps scratching me, and something in my backpack is jabbing me in the neck. When I sit up to move, pain shoots across my left side.

Hissing, I ease my T-shirt up, carefully peeling it off the road rash from my latest run-in with the Bishop Kings. My shirt sticks near the top. I grit my teeth and yank. Part of the scab pulls away.

“Shit!”

Blood starts oozing from the reopened cut. I grab the gauze, take out the last packet, and tear it open with my teeth. Even though I’m working gently, pressing the gauze against the road rash makes my whole side burn. I don’t even want to think about trying to reach the patches of broken skin on my upper arm. I’ll need more bandages, but I don’t want to steal another box. Groaning, I nudge my backpack into a better position and ease myself back down.

The Bishop Kings’ idea of warning me off involved a blindfold, a plastic bag, duct tape, and shoving me naked out of a moving car. They didn’t like that I’d helped put three of their inductees in juvie for almost killing Horace. I’ve barely left the library since.

Breathing around the ache in my ribs and the erratic twinges of pain shooting out from my side, I try to calm down. I’ll lay low for a while and stay the hell out of everyone’s way. If they can’t find me, I’ll be fine.

I almost laugh. Fine? Bullshit. If I have to keep stealing food to stay alive, I’m gonna get caught eventually. Unless the Bishop Kings catch up with me first. Maybe they won’t have to. Last winter was colder than ever. Despite hiding in the basement of the library most nights, I barely survived. If I don’t figure something out soon, I may not make it through the next winter.

I force myself to lie quietly until the pain begins to ease and my breathing evens. I’m starting to drift off to sleep—
finally
—when my vision is stained red.

My eyes shoot open, expecting a cop’s flashlight, but that’s not what I find.

Near my feet is a glowing archway. The light is white and shimmery, like iridescent glitter, and it’s so tall the top nearly brushes the ceiling. Inside, instead of seeing the cement wall of the basement, I’m looking at evenly spaced wooden pillars and a reed-mat floor. Standing on that mat is a woman with curves that would make a Playboy model jealous. She’s wearing a long, butter-yellow dress, and her white hair hangs down to her waist. She looks like an angel when she smiles at me, holding out her hands.

“Hudson, come with me.” Her voice reminds me of the breeze rustling through the trees near the lake. Soft and subtle and calming. “Let me help you.”

Did I die? Maybe the scratch on my side got infected. Maybe I’ve been slowly bleeding to death from internal injuries for the past week. Who knows? If this is death, if
she’s
what’s waiting for me on the other side, then fuck it. I’m letting go.

I push to my feet, wincing as the gauze shifts and sends little twinges of pain through my body. I was really hoping death wouldn’t hurt this much.

At the edge of the portal, I hesitate. If this is a dream, it’s the realest dream I’ve ever had. And if it’s not…If it’s not, I have no goddamn clue what’s going on.

“Come, child,” she says, beckoning me forward.

Holding my breath, I reach through the glowing arch for her hand. I jump a little when my fingers meet warm, solid flesh. And then I step into her world, and the glowing portal closes behind me, sealing me in.

I should be scared, on edge, body tingling and ready to run. But I’m not. For the first time in so long I can’t remember, my muscles start to loosen. Closing my eyes, I hear birds chirping in the distance and the quiet splash of water running over rocks. There’s a sweet scent on the cool breeze that reminds me of honey.

This place is impossible. Like something out of a movie or fantasy novel. I stare down into her glacier-blue eyes and ask, “Who are you?”

“My name is Calease,” she says. I want to ask her more questions—like where the hell am I and how did I get here? Before I can, she takes both my hands in hers and asks, “What do you want most in the world, Hudson? If you could ask for anything, what would it be?”

Her words are like a well-placed chisel against a wall of cracking marble. One blow and everything I’ve been blocking out for two years busts back into my head.

Training myself not to think about the past took a long time, but what choice did I have when my parents passed me off to Social Services for being a pain in their asses?

It’s not like I did it on purpose. Not once have I started a fight. Not once did I go looking for trouble. Trouble has a way of finding me, over and over and over again. I protected dozens of people who weren’t willing to step up and do me the same favor. But I passed by the house not long ago and saw something that shot me through the chest. My mother was holding a baby wrapped in a blue blanket. I have a brother.

Despite everything that’s happened in the past two years, there’s one thing I desperately want.

My voice cracks when I whisper, “I want to go home.”

“I can help you do that. If you will let me.”

“Why would you help
me
?” No one helps me. The old man I saved, Horace, asked if I needed anything, but he’ll forget me soon. Everyone does.

“Because you are special,” she says, placing one hand on my cheek. “And because someone should.”

The memory leaves me chilled. I grab a chunk of amethyst and rub my thumb along the edges of the crystal, trying to calm down. It doesn’t work.

I take a shaky breath and try to ignore the burning in my eyes. I don’t care that my parents kicked me out again. I
don’t
. Horace has taken better care of me in the last three months than they ever did.

Remembering always dredges up too much to shove it back in a cage—too much anger, too much pain, too many of the memories that came after. So many of those memories include J.R. Body trembling, I cross the room and dig through one of my boxes until I find it.

This picture is one of the only ones I have of J.R. The kid looked a lot like me. The same white-blond hair and blue eyes. Well, we used to have the same eyes before I came back with a demon’s vision and powers. He’s on my shoulders, his tiny arms wrapped under my chin like a hatband to keep from falling off, and he’s laughing. He was always laughing. And he could always make me laugh.

I have it because my mother threw it at me when I stopped her from lighting my shit on fire. The original frame and glass shattered when it smacked onto the pavement. The broken shards left little cuts and divots all over the picture, the worst one a long scratch that strikes straight across my chest. I screamed at her for throwing it then, but now? I probably should’ve thanked her. The only other picture I have of us is the one they used in the newspaper article about J.R.’s death.

Staring at that picture reminds me why I’m here. There are answers in Swallow’s Grove. K.T. is connected somehow, and Mariella has to know something. Maybe she’s another survivor; maybe she’s a potential victim. Whatever it is, I have to find her. I have to find her before someone else gets killed because of a world most people don’t know exists.