The Singer (17 page)

“Hmm,” Malachi grunted, blinking the image of his mate’s bare shoulders away.

Dream. Just a dream.

“Come back to me.”

“Where are we?” he asked in a rough voice.

“Twenty kilometers outside Belgrade. You’ve been sleeping for almost four hours. Rhys is stopping for petrol, then it’s your turn to drive.”

He nodded his head, swiping a hand over his face to rid himself of the misty dream. Then he slapped his cheek and said, “Get me some tea and I’ll be fine.”

The three men stopped at the all-night petrol station, stretching their legs as they walked to the small shop to get coffee for Malachi and a bottle of water for Rhys.

“Don’t you want anything?” Malachi asked Leo.

“No.” The blond man shrugged. “If I sleep, I sleep. I’m not tired though, so I’ll probably keep you company.”

“That would be good,” he said. It was true. There was still an underlying tension between Malachi and Rhys, as if the man resented Malachi for the loss of his memories. With Leo, however, there was only a cheerful acceptance. Malachi decided it would take more than death, resurrection, and amnesia to rattle the goodwill of the optimistic scribe. Plus, Leo was a font of information.

“Tell me more about the council,” Malachi asked when they were back on the road and Rhys was snoring.

Leo frowned. “I’m not sure where to start.”

“How was it formed? Has there always been one?”

Leo nodded. “Well, for as long as anyone knows. The stories say that before they returned to heaven, the seven cardinal Forgiven chose seven scribes and seven singers to guide their children. So, that’s where the council came from, according to tradition. They say there are written records from the beginning, but no one ever sees them, of course. Maybe the Chief Scribe in Vienna. According to Max, he sees everything. If there is one Irin scribe who knows the whole of our history, it would be the Chief Scribe.”

“The written history, that is.”

“Hmm?”

“Well… the Irina would keep an oral history, wouldn’t they?”

Leo looked as if he’d never considered the question. “Of course. I suppose they would.”

“So, the Chief Scribe wouldn’t know all the history. Just what the scribes had written down.”

“Yes.” Then Leo grinned. “But we write everything down.”

“And the council. Can they see it?” Malachi was wondering whether or not there was some clue about Ava’s past in that great library. Perhaps, if they asked the Chief Scribe, there might be some other incidence of a human turning into an Irina somewhere in the past.

“I suppose they could see whatever they want, but they’re hardly historians, are they? The council is made up of politicians. No avoiding them, no matter what race you are. But the Irin council… it has a spiritual purpose, too. Or it’s supposed to.”

“You said there were seven singers on the council. What happened to them after the Rending?”

Leo’s face paled. “No one knows. I mean, we know that some were killed. The others? There were no official reports, only rumors. Some say they were all killed, but I don’t think that’s possible. Most lived in Vienna and they were highly guarded. Others say that they withdrew when the retreats were ransacked. That they took their most trusted singers and formed havens around the world. Havens like Sari’s, where the remaining Irina could hide.”

“What do you think?”

“I think some were killed. Some formed havens.” Leo crossed his arms. “Anything is possible. All I know is they’re gone. Now the council is only old men.”

Malachi narrowed his eyes, trying to measure Leo’s mood even as he drove the car. “You’re… resentful of them? The Irina?”

“What me?” Leo’s eyes widened. “No, I—”

“You are. You blame them for leaving. Or, at least, a part of you does.”

Leo stared at him, stared at his profile so hard that Malachi could feel his eyes. Finally, he said, “They left us alone. Irin and Irina were never meant to be separate. We were always meant to fight together.”

“So many had been lost, Leo. It must have been a huge shock. They were frightened.”

“We’re all frightened sometimes.” Leo’s voice was barely over a whisper. “But you don’t run away. You never run away.”

They drove for another three hours. Rhys snored in the backseat, and Leo and Malachi had turned to more pleasant topics of conversation.

“You must remember some of this,” Leo said with a laugh. “She was so angry with you.”

Malachi grinned. “I don’t. She really stood up, drunk in a bar full of Grigori, and told them you were a catch?”

“And criticized their grooming. Don’t forget that part.”

Both men burst out laughing.

“And there was some comment about makeup, too.”

“Was I laughing this hard then?” His sides ached with the vision of the tiny human woman he’d seen in pictures telling off six Grigori while Leo looked on, helplessly wondering what to do.

“Are you joking?” Leo wiped tears from the corner of his eye. “You were furious. Ava was ready to call the police when you threatened to stab one.”

“It sounds like she didn’t like me very much.”

“Well, she didn’t know the truth then. She still thought you were an out-of-control bodyguard. Trust me, she liked you very much.” Leo couldn’t contain his smile.

“What did she do after that? She didn’t call the police?”

“No, she took you out to an isolated monastery on the Prince Islands and pulled a gun on you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Then she kissed you. Or you kissed her. You were vague relating that part of the story.”

He couldn’t laugh anymore, but he did smile. “I should think so.”

“When you brought her back to the scribe house, Damien was livid. But you stood up to him. You were certain of her identity. Even though it took some convincing, you were certain. And you were right. You and Ava belonged together. I knew it.”

“I loved her, didn’t I? Even when I thought she was human, I loved her.”

Leo opened his mouth, but no sound came out at first. Then he said quietly, “I believe you did. Even when you thought she was out of reach.”

“Come back to me.”

Malachi nodded, ignoring the tight clutch in his throat. “I, uh… I dream about her, you know?”

“About Ava?”

He just nodded.

Leo angled his shoulders toward him. “What do you dream?”

“Just that we are together. We speak. We… we’re together. I don’t remember everything, but she’s there. Every time I close my eyes, she’s there.”

Leo said nothing, just blinked in surprise. Finally, he faced the road again. “Well, no wonder you didn’t want to wake up earlier.”

They fell silent for another few kilometers, but when they saw the lights of Budapest in the distance, Leo reached back and shook Rhys’s knee. “Wake up, old man.”

“What?” Rhys muttered. “I’m awake. I’m up.”

“We’re almost to Philip’s,” Leo said.

Malachi could see Rhys shaking his head and rubbing his eyes in the rearview mirror. The scribe patted his cheeks and grabbed his water bottle to take a drink.

“So, what have you ladies been gossiping about without me?”

“I was telling Malachi some of the funniest stories about Ava.”

“Oh really?”

“Like the time she told the bar full of Grigori that I was a catch.”

Rhys’s eyes gleamed mischievously in the light of a passing truck, then the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk.

“Did you tell him about the time she kissed me?”

Malachi hissed,
“What?”
 

“There was tongue.”

He slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the back of a red van, and Rhys went flying into the passenger seat, smashing his nose on the headrest.

“For heaven’s sake,” Rhys yelled from the back. “This again?”

Malachi didn’t know what Rhys was griping about. By the time they’d arrived at his friend Philip’s scribe house on the outskirts of Budapest, his nose had completely healed. Other than the smear of blood on his collar, he looked none the worse for wear.

They grabbed their bags out of the back of the Range Rover and walked toward the entrance.

“We’ll rest for a couple of days here,” Rhys said. “I’m still waiting to hear from Max. He should have a meeting with Gabriel by tomorrow at the latest. After that, we’ll know more about what’s going on in the city and what the political climate is like.”

“Do you still think we should keep quiet about what happened to Malachi?”

“Damien said not to tell anyone about Ava unless we absolutely had to. If that’s the case, I say we avoid talking about Malachi as well. Unless the word has spread from Cappadocia, we should be fine.”

Leo said, “I don’t think the scribes in Cappadocia have much communication with the houses in the city.”

Malachi had realized that if no other descriptor was given, “the city” always referred to Vienna. According to Leo, it was the center of the Irin race. Everything, from finances to art to government, centered on Vienna, where the Irin had lived for centuries under the noses of the human population. Malachi couldn’t remember it at all.

“Rhys?” Malachi tried to get his attention as they walked up the block to the nondescript building on the corner that looked like it housed a bar on the first floor.

“What?”

“Leo said there are no Grigori in Vienna.”

“It’s true. The Fallen abandoned that city long ago.”

“But why? If it’s the center of the Irin race, wouldn’t they have focused their efforts there?”

Rhys gave him a grim smile. “Of course not. How could they lull the most influential Irin into a complacent state of greed if they hung around and caused trouble?”

“You mean they don’t think—”

“Vienna hasn’t seen a concentrated attack from the Fallen or their Grigori since the Rending, Malachi. According to many, the Grigori are a nuisance, nothing more.”

Malachi was stunned.
 

Leo only nodded. “It’s true. We may be fighting all over the world, but in Vienna… they dance.”

Chapter Ten

Ava had spent a week being mentally poked and prodded by Orsala and physically beat up by Mala. Sure, Mala might have called it “training,” but Ava was fairly certain she was just working out some deep-seated resentment at Ava’s expense. The fact that Brooke, the twelve-year-old who looked like a fairy princess, was her training partner was just another blow to the ego.

“She wants us to do it again,” panted Brooke, tossing the short staff to Ava, who had collapsed on one of the benches that lined the barn where they practiced.
 

Mala was teaching them how to use the Irina short staff. It was hardly glamorous-looking, but according to Astrid, it was the traditional weapon for all Irina because it was so practical. Ava did see her point. The staff Mala had chosen for her was about the length and width of a broomstick, though it was much stronger because of spells that had been laid over it. She’d doubted how much damage the innocent-looking piece of wood could do until Mala had demonstrated by taking off the head of the training dummy.
 

“Again?”

 
“Yes.” Brooke didn’t look any more pleased than Ava. The days of training were even taking a toll on the child’s natural optimism.

Ava pushed to her feet and grabbed her staff, then walked with her partner to the center of the ring. Mala stared at them from the edge of the barn, making a clicking noise with her tongue to get Brooke’s attention. Once she had it, her hands formed a flurry of signs that Brooke took in, nodding while Mala spoke.

“Okay.” Brooke turned to her. “Mala says you need to practice your approaches. Focus on keeping your shoulders more…” She
 
looked back toward Mala, who repeated herself with a sigh. “Oh. You’re kind of… showing me what you’re doing before you do it. Does that make sense?”

Ava glanced at Mala, who was rolling her eyes. “I think so.” She tried not to smile. “You want me to keep my shoulders looser?” she asked her trainer, and Mala nodded. “So I don’t let Brooke know what my attack is going to be?”

Mala gave her a thumbs-up and sat back down to watch them, clapping for them to start.

She tried to do what Mala had asked, but it was difficult. Her instinct was to lean into an attack, not keep her shoulders loose and fluid. Brooke seemed to take to the practice more easily, getting in more than one good strike to Ava’s side or knee. More than once, Ava was convinced that Brooke was going easy on her.

“Sorry,” the girl said with wince after she’d struck another blow, this time to the back of Ava’s thigh.

“No, don’t apologize.” She grunted, straightening up. “But seriously? How did you get so good?”

Brooke smiled. “When I was young, I played with sticks as often as dolls. I remember watching my mom and dad spar with staffs when I was little. Mom always had one around. Humans don’t even notice them. They think it’s a broom handle or a walking stick. Mom says it’s the best weapon in the world.”