The Singer

Chapter Thirteen

The blood pumped in his veins as he ran through the eerily familiar streets of Budapest. The scent of sandalwood trailed after the fleeing Grigori, and he followed it, turning down dirty alleys in dark corners of the city where the smell of humanity stained the air.

The soldiers had been attacking four nameless girls. Leo and Phillip had dragged the women away, allowing them to escape, while Malachi subdued the four Grigori. By the time the first was dust, no human was there to witness it.

It was the fifth that Malachi was chasing.

The brown-haired soldier had slashed at the sensitive skin near the small of Malachi’s back and then made his escape, and the blade had almost found its mark. But Malachi dodged at the last minute and his talesm—including the new ones he’d inked the night before—pulsed as the adrenaline flooded his system. The scent of his own blood mingled with the stale odor of beer, cigarettes, and urine. He ran, his legs eating up the ground, his feet pounding over the cobblestones.

He ran, and he felt alive.

A flash of his dream the night before.

Ava.

Now that he knew her name in his dreams, he couldn’t seem to stop saying it.

Ava.

She said nothing, gasping when his mouth left a trail of kisses down the center of her body.

Her taste…

Hands gripping his hair, twisting the roots as he feasted on her. He felt the pain dimly, so focused was he on the pleasurable task in front of him.

Her pleasure, for as long as she could stand it. He felt it build in the tension of her hands, the quiver of her belly, the soft cries that escaped her lips. He was relentless, pulling away to watch her fall over the edge, only to return and chase her back up the hill, pushing her toward another climax.

Finally…

“Come back to me,” she panted. And he came, sliding up her body, taking her mouth with his as he surged inside her, following her ecstasy.

The grip of her flesh on his. Her hands still twisted in his hair. Her thighs held his hips captive as they moved together.

Fast.

Faster.

Her grip didn’t loosen. She arched back, baring her neck as a breath tore from her throat.

“Ava,” he groaned, hiding his face in her neck.

“You…” The grip of her fingers loosened in his hair, and he pulled back, bracing himself over her as her fingers stroked his forehead, curling around his ear, tender in their exploration as he slowed the relentless pace of their lovemaking.

“You,” she whispered again. Their eyes met, gold and grey. The tips of her fingers traced his lip.

It was a dream. But not a dream. A dream had never felt so real.

“Blast!” The pipe caught Malachi in the face as he turned the corner. His cheek sliced open, and he saw stars as the Grigori swung again. Malachi ducked and decided he was tired of running. The Grigori danced in front of him, his clothes still rumpled from the human women’s hands and his quick flight. His hair hung over his eyes and a deep cut was already healing on his unearthly face. He had the thin, ethereal beauty of so many of his kind, ironically so like the angels the humans depicted in art. Delicate, almost boyish.

Malachi was not fooled.

The soldier danced in front of him, quicksilver over grit. Malachi felt like a slow brute with his heavy fists and thick muscles. The Grigori was faster than him. He’d have to be to get the jab in that he had, even now, when Malachi wasn’t at full strength.

They said nothing, both taking the measure of each other. The Grigori’s glance flicked over Malachi’s shoulder, then he feinted right. Malachi caught the look and slammed into the man’s body as he tried to slip to his left.

The Grigori might have been faster, but brute strength still won when it found its target.

Slamming the soldier into the cobblestone street, Malachi tried to flip him to his belly so he could pierce his spine, but the man proved as stubborn as he was fast.

“No,” he hissed, finally starting to panic. “Not like this!”

Malachi could not turn him, not while he had to hold his dagger with one hand and straddle the man to keep him from running. Irritating little bastard.

“Why don’t you just cooperate and die like a good monster?” he grunted, holding the man by his hair.

“Fuck you!”

“That’s not nice.” He grinned as an idea came to him. “Maybe you’re too much trouble after all.”

Malachi slid to his right knee, letting the man lunge up, desperate for escape, but the scribe’s heavy leg still lay over the Grigori’s waist. With a quick twist, Malachi slammed his opponent’s face into his braced knee and felt the nose crunch. The back of the Grigori’s neck suddenly bared, Malachi brought the silver blade home, piercing the man’s spine. The only sound was the sucking gasp as the soldier began to dissolve.

For a moment, Malachi saw her face. Felt the cold water at his waist. He was in the cistern again, and he heard Ava’s scream.

“NO!”

Then the memory was gone.

And so was the Grigori.

He sat in the dirt of the alley and stretched his back. He could feel the deep gash over his kidneys mending. He pushed up his sleeve and traced over the healing spell again, letting his fingers linger over the new marks that had bloomed as Ava sang to him in his dream.

She did this.

Malachi pushed his sleeve down when he heard Leo and Phillip coming down the street. But he still sat, rubbing his knee a bit where the Grigori’s nose had left a spurt of blood. That was irritating. He didn’t have that many clothes, and he hated asking Leo for things.

The two scribes turned the corner, chuckling when they saw him sitting in the center of the alley.

“Did you get tired?” Leo asked.

“Just taking in the sights.”

Phillip glanced around. “Well, if you were looking for a scenic corner of Budapest to loiter and people watch, you did not find it.” Then he grinned and held out a hand.

Malachi grasped it and pulled himself to his feet.

“Take care of the runner?” Leo asked.

“Yes.”

“He was fast.”

“Faster than me.” Malachi twisted his neck to the side, feeling the joints release. “Luckily, big guys get lucky sometimes.”

Phillip said, “More than luck, my friend. If you don’t remember Chicago in ’72, then I’ll remind you someday.”

“Maybe later.” He wanted a shower; he could still feel the dust on his skin. And then they needed to get on the road. He and Leo had only run out for a quick hunt when Tas decided they needed a different car. The irritable scribe had gone out to procure one from questionable sources while Leo and Malachi helped Phillip on patrol.

“Tas should be back by now, huh?” Leo asked.

Phillip shrugged. “Probably.”

“And where is this car coming from?” Malachi asked.

“It won’t be stolen,” the watcher said. “Not recently, anyway. But he’s right. If any of the Fallen have you on their radar, it’d be good to change cars occasionally. How are you doing on funds?”

“We’re all right,” Leo said. “Max left us some money.”

“He still playing cards?”

Leo smiled. “He calls it supplemental income.”

“The boy has rich tastes,” Malachi said. “Always has.”

Both of them stopped and looked at him expectantly.

“What?” Malachi said. “I remember bits and pieces. Most of it is still a blank.”

“If you say so,” Phillip said.

“Besides, Max’s taste is obvious. How many scribes do you know who wear a five-thousand-dollar watch?”

“It didn’t cost me five thousand dollars, Leo.”

“But Malachi said—”

Leo held the phone out. Max was on speaker, calling from Berlin.

“If he bought it in a store, it would cost that,” Malachi said, eyes on the road.

“But you didn’t buy it in a store, did you, Max?”

“Where I buy my watches is no one’s business but mine. Now, can we talk about Vienna, or did you want to discuss my shoes?”

Leo bit back a laugh. “You do have a pair of grey loafers that—”

“Vienna,” Malachi barked. “Please. What have you found out about the Irina?”

“Phillip is right, there are definitely more Irina in the city, and they’re becoming more visible. One of my sources was watching an interview with Edmund’s mate—”

“Edmund?”

“British council member. He’s become very pro-compulsion.”

Malachi glanced to Leo. “Explain.”

Leo said, “There is a movement to solve the Irina problem. Critics are calling it ‘compulsion.’ Basically, some elders want to force the Irina back into retreats.”

Max said, “They claim it is for their own protection and to protect the future of the Irin race. It’s gaining popularity among younger scribes who want the opportunity to find a mate—as slim as that chance may be—and among scribes who see our race dying off if nothing is done.”

“Our race is dying off,” Malachi said.

“Yes,” Max said, “but trying to force the Irina back into the retreats where they were all but slaughtered isn’t exactly the wisest way of coaxing them back, is it?”

“All the elders want the Irina back,” Leo said, “but they don’t agree how to achieve it. Gabriel works for Konrad, who is more traditionalist. He says the reason Irina fled was because of the retreats, so it’s useless to try to force them back. He’s proposing to reform the full council. Irin and Irina elders, the way it used to be. That way the Irina would know they have a full vote by their own elders and not just a bunch of old scribes.”

Malachi narrowed his eyes, watching the road as he mulled over what Leo and Max had told him. “Max, how are the elders chosen?”

“By the watchers,” Max said.

“But I thought the watchers were chosen by the Council.”

Leo said, “It’s not a perfect system. Irina elders were chosen more democratically. Singers voted based on regions. Seven regions for seven council members.”

“Keep in mind,” Max said, “it was easier for the Irina, because they were more centralized. Most singers were in retreats and didn’t move around much, whereas the scribes were scattered. Different cities. We move much more. Having the watchers choose the seven elders does make a kind of sense.”

“Yes, but it also leaves a lot to be desired, considering there is no check on the council’s power,” Leo said. “Corruption is inevitable.”

“It’s inevitable in any government, Leo.” Malachi took the turnoff from the highway. They were only half an hour outside the city that governed the Irin people. He knew that he must have been there before, but he didn’t remember it. It all looked foreign. He felt as if he were stepping into an alien world, and he had no idea who was a friend and who was an enemy. Instinct told him that nothing in Vienna could be taken at face value, including the intentions of the scribe they were meeting.

He knew little about Gabriel except that he was Damien’s brother-in-law, and it was possible that Damien’s actions had led to the death of Gabriel’s mate. Hardly surprising the two didn’t get along. Gabriel also worked for Konrad. And Konrad sounded like someone Malachi might agree with.

But then, politicians were liars. That, he knew, was true of every race.

Compulsion.

The very word made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Tell us more about the Irina in Vienna,” Malachi said.

Max and Leo had been chatting in Russian, but they switched back to English. “The Irina who have been out publicly are those whose mates are very pro-compulsion. They’ve been talking about ‘tradition,’ but there’s little traditional about their conversation. They’re talking about other Irina as if they were the enemy. Talking about ‘the good of our children’ and ‘meeting the needs of our scribes.’ Acting like all they want is to be protected. The few Irina I’ve met would spit in their faces.”

“So the Irina are back, according to them, and eager to go into retreats again? I find that hard to believe.”

“Those speaking publicly claim to speak for their sisters, but we have no idea where they’ve even been hiding for the last two hundred years.”

Max said, “There are rumors that some of the old council hid their wives and wouldn’t let them leave their homes. Claimed it was for their own protection. This happened for years. Then a few started coming back to the city. Now, there is a small Irina presence, but it’s still very quiet. Out of the public eye. Nothing like what it used to be, according to the older scribes. But it’s Vienna, so they’re safe.”

“And now we have the complication of Ava, as well,” Leo said.

Malachi glared. “Ava’s not a complication.”

“She is in the sense that we still don’t know where she comes from.” Leo’s voice was logical, but his words scraped Malachi’s nerves. “And the council will want to know. Have you heard from Rhys?”

Rhys had rented a car and driven ahead to Vienna days before. He’d told Malachi and Leo he needed to check in with a few “associates.” Plus, he was the one arranging a meeting with Gabriel since the two scribes had always been friendly.

“No.”

“I need to go,” Max said. “I’m meeting with a few people here. I think Ava and Damien came through the city on their way to Sari. I’m going to try to get more information in case Gabriel can’t or won’t tell you what he knows.”

“Good luck,” Malachi said. “Keep us updated.”

“Call me after you’ve spoken to Gabriel.”

Leo put the phone away and silence filled the car.

After a few minutes, the lights of Vienna shone in the distance and traffic started to thicken.

“You know I didn’t mean ‘complication’ in a bad way, don’t you?” Leo finally asked.

“I know.”

“It’s more hopeful than anything else, isn’t it? Finding Ava.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that if Ava was out there for so many years, then that could mean there are others we don’t know about, too.” The longing in Leo’s voice was almost painful. “There could be other Irina out there. Not only the survivors of the Rending, but others.”

Malachi shrugged. “It’s possible. They’d be outsiders, though. Different from the humans around them.”

“Ava said that the humans thought she was mentally ill,” Leo said quietly. “They thought she was crazy.”

The mere idea infuriated him in a way he couldn’t articulate.

He said, “If there are other Irina out there—lost Irina—”

“We need to find them.”

The call came through only minutes after they’d checked into the Irin-friendly hotel near the city center. It was a boarding house, set over a handsome kaffeehaus lined with wood panels and buzzing with activity from young patrons. There was a message from Rhys telling them that Gabriel would meet them at a different coffee house near the archives. Leo and Malachi quickly stowed their weapons and made their way across town.

Most of the Irin buildings were in the oldest neighborhoods of Vienna; handsome baroque facades hid offices that most humans would simply assume belonged one of the many corporations or international organizations that made Vienna their home. It was a diverse city, the perfect place for the Irin to hide. And the archives themselves, where Rhys was doing research, were mostly underground, centralized during the late medieval period when the city walls were built.

Leo spotted Gabriel the moment he walked in, and Malachi followed his gaze. Nothing about the Spanish scribe was familiar to him. He had average looks, and his dark suit gave the impression of an ordinary businessman out for a late lunch. Only those who looked closely might notice the edges of tattoo work that peeked above his collar, which was hardly unusual anymore for a man who appeared to be in his late twenties.

But Gabriel was far older. And the wary dark eyes that finally met Malachi’s over the French newspaper made that clear.

Leo and Malachi sat down at Gabriel’s table, which was in a corner, isolated from the busier tables in the room. Still, Malachi looked around cautiously.

“The owners are Irin,” Gabriel said quietly, putting down the newspaper and leaning back. His English was softly accented but precise. He did not offer any greeting. “You are some of Damien’s scribes.”

“We are,” Leo said. “I am Leo. This is Malachi.”

“The Istanbul house burned,” Gabriel said. “It was noted with some interest here in the city, even though the cause was determined to be accidental.”

Malachi spoke. “It wasn’t.”

“We didn’t really think it was,” Gabriel said.

Malachi wondered who the “we” referred to. Gabriel and his employer, the Elder named Konrad? The council as a whole?

Leo said, “Our house was targeted by a group of Grigori that belonged to Volund.”

A reaction, finally. One eyebrow lifted. Leo might have been the one speaking, but Gabriel was looking at Malachi when he said, “Istanbul is Jaron’s territory. It has been since he spread from Persepolis.”

Malachi answered the unspoken question. “Not anymore.”

“Where is my brother-in-law?”

Leo and Malachi exchanged glances.

Finally, Malachi said, “We don’t know.”

“The watcher of a scribe house lets his house burn, set on by Grigori outside their known territory, and he does not report it.” Gabriel’s voice almost sounded amused, but Malachi could sense the man’s tightly leashed tension. “In fact, he doesn’t report in at all. He disappears with the previously unknown mate of a fallen brother, and no one knows where they are.”

Malachi’s heart raced. Apparently, Max was right. The Irin council really did have eyes and ears everywhere.

“Needless to say,” Gabriel continued, “I am surprised to see you looking so very much alive, Malachi of Sakarya.”