War Bird

30. Makes Me So Blue.

After dinner, I make my daily visit to Birdie. She has her own room in the Hawk quarters and there’s a rota of Nightingales who get to check in on her there. It was once a closet of some kind, but the Hawks dragged in a mattress and loads of blankets and knick-knacks and stuff. It’s tiny, but pretty cosy. Her little face brightens up in a smile as I poke my head through the door. She’s snuggled up under the sheets, cuddling a raggedy bear that some soft-hearted Hawk must have lent her.

“Marla!” Her accent makes my name sound exciting and different.

“Bonjour.” It’s the only French word I know. “You ok?” I plop down next to her, and she immediately attaches herself to my side. She must have understood my question, as she nods happily, and lets out a noisy yawn.

“I’m sorry all this happened to you, Titch.” I stroke back her soft hair, so like Ribbon‘s downy tufts it makes my heart ache. “We’ll keep you safe here until...” I stop. Until what? The Hawks kill the Traitor who wiped out her family? They must be struggling to find any remaining family to take her in, but that don’t explain why they locked her away in the Rookery when they first brought her here. Looking at her now, quietly stroking her teddy-bear’s head, I can’t quite believe the harshness of what they did to her. The Rookery is where interrogations happen. Torture and...Ugh. Not going there. But the Commanders wouldn’t have put her away like that unless they believed she had something important to tell them, right? Or unless...no. They couldn’t be afraid of a little kid like this? Kull hadn’t been too pleased to see Birdie roaming the tunnels, that was for sure.

“Hey, Birdie,” I whisper. She looks up at me, bleary-eyed. “Is there something we need to know? Something important that you’ve been keeping a secret?” 

She frowns, bottom lip sticking out, then mumbles something that of course, I don’t understand. Then it hits me. How could I forget? There is a way I can learn what’s important about her. I tilt her face to look back up at me. “Sweetie,” I say. “I need to find out exactly why they’re keeping you’re here. So I can help you. Do you trust me?” She doesn’t say anything but smiles and wraps her arms around me. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

I can’t exactly remember how I performed the Participant Bond last time, but I have to give it a go. I hug her, squeeze tight. “It’s going to be alright,” I tell her. I rest my chin on her sweet-smelling hair and close my eyes. Show me, show me what you know. My mind reaches out, searching for hers.

The first thing I see is blood, and lots of it. Red so bright I can taste the metallic-ness of it. I see a small, simple kitchen, with a wooden table and dark red tiles. A pan boils empty on the stove, steam rising to leave a moist patch on the low, white ceiling. A woman with Birdie’s eyes lies still on the floor, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. I have this feeling I’ve seen her before somewhere, but I know I haven’t. I want to study her face more, but something catches my eye. The other side of the table, a man with dirty blond hair stands with raised fists. His back is bent, his tanned face twisting in pain and grief. I follow his gaze and all the hairs on my neck stand to attention. 

A hooded figure stands before him, one hand raised with what looks like an ugly spell ready to throw. It’s the same character I saw from the vision Private Stanley showed me, the same figure that hovered over me and Finlay during the quake. The Traitor, Hitler’s hired gun. In his other hand is Birdie, limp and pale. Her eyes are open but are more like slits as her hands flutter uselessly around her throat. No wonder. The Traitor’s hand is twisting the collar of her dress so she’s fit to choke. I know it’s just a memory and there’s nothing I can do, but man, I want to run over there and do some damage to that son of a bitch. Birdie looks so tiny and helpless in his grasp, how dare he?

“Let me take me the girl, and you’ll live.” The hooded figure says in a strange, husky voice. I can’t tell how old he is, or even if he’s English. His words rasp like a rusty saw, making my ears buzz.

“Non!” Birdie’s father yells, spittle flying through the air. He shouts more desperate words, flinging stun spells at the Traitor, who easily dodges each one like it ain’t no trouble.

“Fool!” The Traitor snarls. “Do you think I like killing my own kind? I had hoped now I had found the Child I could stop this carnage.”

Birdie’s dad sags to his knees and lifts his clenched hands, tears falling like hard rain. He brings his palms together and my stomach turns as I watch the broken man beg for his daughter’s life.

“Stop your whining,” The Traitor orders, swishing towards him. “It has to be her blood. Hers, not yours.” 

Blood...I suddenly remember that bleeding Hawk, on my first day in the compound, telling me about the 'Old One of Faith', who 'wanted blood.' Could his mental ramblings actually have been about this freak?

“I’ll be the most powerful Sorcerer in the world,” he’s saying. “I could reward you with all the riches you could ever desire. Your own palace. Human slaves!” The Traitor pauses as the terrified father screams and cries. “You could have a seat at my right hand as I ascend to my righteous place as the ruler of all the Known Worlds. Can you imagine? Sorcerers right where they are meant to be! Dominating the Universe, all its inhabitants through all the dimensions. The Lower Beings, the Immortals...all of them bowing down to me. As it should be.” The Traitor looks at the Father with those horrid, glowing eyes. “Well, what say you? Join me! Will you trade me her for the power of twenty Sorcerers?”

Birdie’s Dad stops his gabbled pleading and just stares back, chest heaving. His tired body sways and he closes his eyes, just for a moment. Then he rises to his feet, planting each one down solidly, like he’s about to take root. He folds his arms and curls his lip.

“I will never follow you,” he says in a deep, proud voice. His accent is thick but I easily understand him.

“A shame,” the Traitor says, flicking his wrist, and just like that, Birdie’s Dad crumples to the floor, his head hitting it hard with a dull thud. Tears leak out of Birdie’s eyes as she tilts her face to look up at the Traitor, who smiles hungrily at her. “And as for you!” The Traitor reaches from inside his cloak and pulls out a dingy grey bag, then shoves Birdie in it and slings it over his shoulder like she’s a sack of taters! The Traitor walks to the door, then stops and tilts his head, staring at the door handle. He takes a couple steps back. There’s a tiny clicking sound and the Traitor looks up, out of the small kitchen window. He drops Birdie to the ground and simply says, “No.”

And that’s it. I’m guessing that the clicking noise was the Ed’s Kestrel party that had rescued the kid. Maybe I’m being a baby, but I don’t want to see that fight. I know Kestrel Hardy died in it, and I don’t wanna see no more blood if I can help it. I reel out of the memories, gasping hard. The dark walls of the cupboard swim back into sight and I pull in air like I’ve been underwater for ages. Birdie is still snuggled up to me, now sound asleep. Phew. The Bond can’t have been traumatic for her then. I lean her back on to the bed and tuck her in, making sure I prop the Teddy under her arm.

I brush the hair back from her face and watch her for a few moments, until I’m sure she’s actually asleep. So, the Traitor has been using his role as Hitler’s mass-murderer just to find Birdie, and her blood. But why her blood? I remember the moment by the Rookery, where she touched Finlay’s face and he’d sensed her power. This tiny little kid has more power than all of us, he said. The Traitor must have a specific blood spell that he needs to perform, one that allows him to rule the Universe. So that’s why the Commanders wanted to keep her hidden away, to stop the Traitor from achieving that. At least, that’s what I’m hoping. Because surely, there’s no way they would want Birdie’s blood for themselves, is there?