Free Nightingale Girl by M. R. Pritchard Page B

down at the watercolor tattoo on my pale skin, the colorful sparrow battling the haze of Hell. It looks amazing in the moonlight.
    I take a deep breath and swallow down a scream of frustration. I let myself get sucked into the sweet promises of Heaven. All the glitter and purity, it’s bullshit. I just wanted someone to call my own. I forgot who I was, what I came from. All in an effort to hold on tightly to someone I barely know and figure out where I belong. And now it’s all fucked up.
    Somehow, I have to make Sparrow remember.
    But first I need to get some sleep.
    . . .
    Sparrow
    A fire burned deep in Sparrow, one bred of dark needs and insatiable power. This was nothing like the bright, pure light he was familiar with. Both were warring within his soul; it made his head hurt, his heart ache. Something was missing .
    “Birdman’s awake.” He heard the soft chuckling of a man.
    Sparrow sat up, moved to his feet, and stood in robotlike movement. Sparrow was towering over the man with the viciously scarred face. Jim. That was his name. And like a collar tugging around his neck, Sparrow knew that Jim had complete control of his soul. Sparrow didn’t like it. He turned his head and twisted his neck to try to lessen the feeling. Instead, it tightened further.
    “Soon you won’t even feel it. Can’t give you free run of the place.” Jim had a lopsided grin.
    Although he couldn’t remember details, Sparrow had a feeling he was the reason for the scars.
    Jim poked Sparrow in the stomach and made a sound of disappointment. “The change went easy on you, cherub. Others came out darker skinned and vicious. Drooling at the chops.” Jim thumbed toward the grouping of six Hellions. They watched Sparrow, eyes half-lidded with menace. These were now his brethren. “But they weren’t princes,” Jim added as an afterthought.
    Sparrow caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the bar countertop. Of what he remembered, he knew that he looked different now. There were darker shadows to the angles of his face; the wings on his back felt tight and heavy. He had a feeling that learning to fly with these was going to be drastically different from the last time.
    There was tension in the room as Jim inspected Sparrow, walking around him as a panther would its prey. Finally, Jim turned his back and collected something from a cupboard along the wall. He turned and threw clothing at Sparrow.
    “New uniform.” Jim motioned to a door. “Go get dressed.” His tone was clipped and annoyed.
    Sparrow walked away, clothing clutched to his chest. Through the door was a large room where there were cots and nothing else. Sparrow had the feeling that the Hellions had no personal belongings. They were warriors, used and discarded; those wasted would be refilled by other souls waiting in the annexes of Hell.
    Sparrow chose a bed at the end of the room, dropped the clothing on the cot, and began removing what he had on. His fingers felt strange when he tried to unhook the buttons of the thick vest he wore. Angry blood pulsed underneath his nail beds. Frustrated, he gripped the material at his neck and ripped it apart. Next went the pants. He threw the torn material in a nearby trash can.
    Sparrow dressed in the leather pants and vest. Both had a thickness that rivaled the skin of his new wings. There were ties on the back to accommodate the bony appendages coming out of his spine; he cinched it tight and found security in the clothing, which conformed to his body so well. Last were the boots, large and steel toed. Sparrow tied them tight around his ankles before he left the room.
    The other Hellions were standing near a pool table. Not playing but just standing, murmuring in dark-tongued conversation.
    Sparrow sensed something, movement outside the lair that he was now to call home. The door burst open, and a young woman walked through. Dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, her hair was short and dark, her eyes a fiery blue as they