The Singer (20 page)

She closed her eyes, a frown between her eyebrows, then they relaxed and she smiled again.

“Oh,” she said. “Of course. I didn’t remember until you called me.”

“Like you called me.”

“I did?”

“You told me to come back to you. So I did.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes. “You did.” Her hand lifted to his cheek. “You’re here. You’ll always be here.”

“
Reshon
—”

“Kiss me, love.”

He could deny her nothing. His mouth touched hers and she clung to him, deepening the kiss as she pressed her body to his.

“I want to stay here,” she murmured against his lips. “Forever.”

“We can’t.” There was that tickling at the back of his mind again. He needed to tell her. Needed…

“I need you,” she said. His body responded to the grip of her hands on his shoulders. And then all he thought of was her.

When Malachi opened his eyes, he was staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling of the scribe house in Budapest. He blinked to clear his eyes. The dream still lingered in his mind; he could taste her on his lips. Just then, flickers of the dream came back to him, and he lifted his arm.

They were still there. On his left arm were the spells he’d inked. But below them, faint shadows of other, older spells lay like smudges beneath his skin.

“Ava,” he whispered. “What did you do?”

There was no doubt in his mind anymore. The dreams were not dreams. He was reaching her somehow. On some plane they were linked, even though she thought he was dead. How was it possible?

A knock sounded on the heavy door to his room.

“Are you awake?” It was Rhys.

Malachi cleared his throat. “I am.”

“Come down for coffee. They’ve made breakfast.”

He could smell it. The spicy scent of peppers and sausages drifted in the air. His stomach growled and he sat up.

“I’ll be right there.”

“Hurry if you want to eat. Don’t forget, Max may not be here, but Leo is.”

Malachi dressed quickly, grateful that the weather had turned cold enough that long sleeves would not be questioned. He didn’t know what to make of the
talesm
that had bloomed on his arm, and he didn’t want to try to explain them. As far as he knew, none of the scribes in the house were mated. The house watcher, Phillip, had lost his promised Irina in the Rending, according to Rhys, and the other scribes in the house were young.

Phillip, Rhys had also explained, would need to know what happened to Malachi. According to his friends, Malachi and Phillip had been brothers in the Berlin house years ago. There was too much history for Malachi to pretend to be who he was. Luckily, Rhys also said Phillip was trustworthy.

He followed his nose down the narrow staircase. Unlike the scribe house in Cappadocia, the one in Budapest was showing its age. Frayed carpets lined the hallway, and Malachi could see stains on the walls. Even the lights seemed to flicker with uncertainty.

Luckily, the kitchen showed no such deterioration. Food was spread over the table, with a stocky man at the head. He was sandy-haired and fair-skinned, but his eyes and smile showed faint traces of the city where he lived.

“Good morning,” he said. He was American. Malachi didn’t know why that was surprising.

“Good morning.”

“I’m going to assume you still like a big breakfast,” Phillip said. He nudged the shoulder of the younger man sitting to his right. “Victor, move. Let my friend sit down.”

Victor didn’t seem offended. The young man simply picked up his plate and moved a few chairs down at the massive kitchen table, which was spread with all manner of food. Steaming plates of sausages and bacon. Thick slices of brown bread and cheeses, along with the stuffed peppers he’d smelled from his room upstairs. Eggs. Pâté. It was a feast fit for the group of massive men who filled the room.
 

Phillip waved to the chair and Malachi sat down. Rhys took the chair opposite him.

“My mother would be proud,” Phillip said with a grin. “That is, she would be if I’d cooked any of it.”
 

“Who cooked?” Malachi asked, immediately beginning to fill his plate. For some reason, he felt as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

Phillip nodded to another man who stood at the sink. “You can thank Tas. He may be from the country, but he knows how to cook.”

Tas shrugged and reached for a pack of cigarettes by the window. “I know how to cook
because
I’m from the country, you American idiot,” he said in thickly accented English. He lit up the cigarette, scraping a hand over a jaw that looked like it hadn’t seen a razor in days.

Phillip smiled again. “I’m smart enough to make sure you’re the one cooking for guests, aren’t I?”

Rhys and Malachi shared a smile as the Budapest scribes laughed. Even Tas gave what Malachi guessed was as close to a smile as he ever reached, then he turned back to the stove. Phillip spoke again as the quiet hum of morning conversation filled the room.

“You got in so late last night we didn’t get a chance to catch up.”

Rhys said, “Life has been… interesting lately.”

“I heard about the fire,” Phillip said, shoveling eggs onto the edge of his toast. “And that Damien went to the city to petition funds to rebuild.” Phillip cast his eyes around the room and shook his head. “Good luck to him; he’ll need it. I’ve been struggling to get promised funds for years now. The bureaucrats are not very receptive. I’m assuming you’re on your way to join him.”

“Not exactly,” Malachi said, exchanging a glance with Rhys.
 

Rhys said, “It’s a bit more complicated than that, Phillip.” He directed his eyes toward the younger scribes at the other end of the table. Phillip caught the glance and barked out something that sounded like an order. Within minutes, the men had filled their plates with food and abandoned the room, leaving Malachi, Rhys, and Leo alone with Phillip and the sullen Tas, who grabbed an ashtray and joined them at the table, a cup of black coffee in front of him.

Phillip said, “Tas is my second. He’s very trustworthy. Anything said to me can be shared with him.” Then he turned to Malachi. “What’s going on? You seem different. What’s happened to you?”

Leo said, “You don’t miss much, do you?”

Sharp green eyes met Malachi’s. “No, I don’t. And I’ve known this one longer than you’ve been alive, boy.”

Malachi slowly chewed the bacon in his mouth, swallowed, and set down his coffee cup.

“Technically,” he said, “that might not be true anymore.”

Phillip’s mouth still hung open. “So… you’re telling me—”

“I was dead. And now I’m not.”

“And your
mate
—congratulations, by the way—your mate actually…”

“Brought me back.” Malachi and Rhys looked at each other. “We think.”

Rhys said, “We’re not sure. We’re not sure of much, to be honest.”

“And you don’t remember who you are?”

“I’m starting to,” Malachi said. “It’s coming in pieces.”

“Certain things don’t seem to be a problem,” Leo said. “When he scribed his new
talesm
—”

Phillip and Tas hissed out simultaneous curses, and Phillip said, “You lost your
talesm
, brother?”

“Yes.”

Tas said something unintelligible under his breath, but it didn’t sound good.

“No, I can’t even imagine,” Phillip said to him before he turned back to Malachi. “And your mate has disappeared with Damien?”

Malachi nodded.

“Taken to Sari,” Tas said, the cigarette hanging from his lips as he reached across the table to help himself to another sausage. “He took her to his mate. Fierce woman. She’ll be fine.”

Phillip frowned. “Only she still thinks he’s dead, you idiot.”

Tas shrugged his wide shoulders. “But he’s not. It will work out.” He sucked in another lungful of smoke, then exhaled, saying, “Why are you going to the city when she’s not there?”

Rhys said, “We think Gabriel knows where Sari is.”

Tas let out a grim chuckle. “He probably does, but he won’t tell you. No one can tell you.”

Malachi’s eyes narrowed on the dark man, who seemed to know even more than the watcher of the house. “Why do you say that?”

Tas’s hooded eyes gleamed. “Old, old magic over that place. Even Irina who have lived there can’t tell you where it is.” Then the corner of his lip curled up. “Trust me. If she could have told me, she would have.”

Rhys leaned toward Tas. “Wait, you’ve met an Irina from Sari’s home?”

A secret smile played along his lips. “More of Sari’s Irina around than most scribes know. They avoid Damien’s territory for obvious reasons, but they’re out there.”

Malachi looked to Phillip.

“It’s true,” the watcher admitted. “And these are not the Irina we remember. They’re ruthless. As far back as I can remember, the scribe mandate has been clear: Protect the humans. Kill the Grigori when they attack, but keep away if they’re not interfering, so as not to provoke the Fallen.” He nodded to Malachi. “I believe you and I had words over that policy more than once. But the fact is, unless they’re attacking humans, scribes leave Grigori alone.”

Tas said, “But that’s not the Irina mandate. I doubt they even have one. If they do, it’s much more brutal than ours. We found a Grigori house here in Budapest five years ago with not a soul in it.”

Leo asked, “What do you mean?”

“I mean the beds were slept in. The lights were on. But there was nothing but dust in the air.”

“All dead?” Malachi asked. “And you’re positive it wasn’t a scribe?”

Tas gave another one of his infuriating shrugs. “It might have been a rogue scribe who defied protocol… Or it might have been the long-legged beauty with the Italian name I met the next night, drinking alone and looking mad at the world.” He grinned. “She wasn’t mad all night.”

Leo spoke in a low voice. “What was her name?”

Tas’s eyes rested on Leo, measuring him, as he lit another cigarette, inhaled, and let out a long stream of smoke. “Renata. Her name was Renata. And she was one of Sari’s Irina. That’s all I know.”

Rhys said, “But you said she would have told you… if she could.”

“Well, that’s what she said. She might have been trying to let me down easy when she left the next morning.” He glanced at Malachi. “Women, eh?”

“I wouldn’t say.”

“Or are you one of those scribes who think your mate descended from heaven itself?”

Malachi’s eyes narrowed. “I’m a scribe who doesn’t presume to make judgments based on limited experience.” Then he smirked. “Even though my mate
is
a glimpse of heaven.”

Tas muttered something in Hungarian as Phillip’s hand clapped down on Malachi’s shoulder. “This is interesting! So, we have a scribe raised from the dead by his mate—which as far as I know, hasn’t happened before—and an Irina who seems to have come out of nowhere and has now disappeared into nowhere, though I imagine she’s very safe with Damien. We have Grigori who are now being hunted on two fronts—Irin and Irina—and that might account for the escalation we’re seeing here and other places—”

“What escalation?” Rhys broke in, but Phillip only raised a hand and continued.

“And we still have an elder council in Vienna who believes that nothing is wrong except the health of their pocketbooks!”

“They know something is going on,” Tas said. “Why do you think some of the Irina have returned?”

“What?” Leo said. “What do you mean? They’re back?”

“In the city, yes. Only a few,” Phillip said. “Mostly mates of prominent council members or businessmen. It’s all very…”

“Calculated,” Tas finished. “And very quiet. They’re not seen much. Only when their mates need them to be seen. The idiots in the city are planning something.”

“What could the Irin council be planning about the Irina?” Leo asked. “And what about this escalation?”

Phillip stood and walked to the counter, refilling his coffee before he turned. “It’s not in Vienna, of course. That city is still a bubble of peace. But here, it’s bad. I was speaking with Yakov in Odessa just last week. He’s feeling pressure from the Russian territories. And Poland. Slovakia.”

“That’s not good,” Rhys said.

“No, but the bigger surprise is the West. England and Scandinavia are still relatively quiet, but there’s more activity in France and the Netherlands than there has been since the Rending. Some in Germany.”

Malachi said, “But not Vienna?”

“There’s a reason that Irin society is based in Vienna, Malachi. It’s in the very heart of Europe. Surrounded by scribe houses and strongholds in the East and the West. There have always been Grigori in Europe, but not nearly as many as other parts of the world.”

“So it’s protected?”

“It has been. That’s part of the reason the Irin living there are so complacent. They don’t see Grigori attacks every week. If they see one a year, it’s shocking.”

“That makes sense,” he said.

Tas asked, “Is it true Jaron is no longer controlling the Grigori in Istanbul? Not that there’s anything like a good Fallen, but he wasn’t as bad as Volund. And he didn’t breed Grigori like rabbits.”