The Singer

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “Talesm prim,” Brage said softly, kneeling beside the scribe who was tied to the chair.

  The man looked at him with disgust, but Brage knew that he was growing weaker by the minute. These Irin could not last long without their magic. And by carving off the spells, the Grigori had neutralized the scribe’s only advantage.

  “That’s what you call it, correct?” Brage held up the skin. “Your very first spell? The one that all the others draw from. Did they warn you about this? Or were they too arrogant?” He stood and shook his head, as if chastising a child. “They didn’t, did they? Your elders teach you that you are superior to us. Your magic,” he spat out. “It makes you so blessed. You are the favored of heaven. The weak Grigori with little magic have no power over you. But, of course, we do.”

  Brage leaned down and brought his knife to the young man’s neck. He winced when the knife cut in and the blood welled around the wound. “Tell me where the Istanbul scribes are,” he murmured, “and I’ll kill you quickly.”

  The scribe’s throat worked to respond. “No,” he choked out.

  Brage slid the knife under the skin of the young man’s neck. It stretched and slowly stripped the flesh away as he screamed.

  “Tell me,” Brage whispered.

  “Never.”

  It went on for hours, the slow interrogation. Brage was forced to revive the young man a number of times. By the fourth time he woke, the scribe’s eyes were swimming, and Brage knew he was delirious and close to breaking.

  “This is not your battle, child.” He placed a cool cloth on the scribe’s bloody forehead, gave the man a sip of cool water. “You are one young Irin scribe. How old are you?”

  “For…forty-three.”

  “See?” Brage said. “You are practically a child. You are alone. Tell me where they are. Let them fight. They are armed and strong, with their brothers at their sides. They will not condemn you for telling me.”

  Tears slipped down the young man’s cheeks, making paths in the crusted blood and sweat.

  “Tell me,” Brage whispered.

  “Vienna,” he finally choked out. “Th…they were driving to Vienna.”

  Damn.

  Brage let out a breath and sat back on his heels. Of all the cities they could go to, Vienna was the one that Volund had forbidden. The Irin were too strong in that city. And making an appearance in the heart of the Irin power structure would alert too many people that Volund wanted lulled into complacency.

  He stood and walked behind the bleeding man. Half the skin of his upper body was gone, and he was barely recognizable. Brage could feel the eager bloodlust of his brothers, but he had made a promise. And he did not break his promises.

  The young scribe was weeping when Brage put the blade to his spine and drove it in.

  He walked away as the gold dust rose behind him.

  Vienna.

  They were going to Vienna—

  He stopped and smiled at the realization. No, they were driving to Vienna.

  Driving to Vienna would lead them through several cities where the Grigori presence was strong. Though that heretic, Kostas, ran Sofia, more friendly elements made their home in Budapest. Svarog was a powerful angel, and his children were numerous, but the angel had friendly relations with Brage’s father. A well-timed visit might be in order.

  He made his way from the scribe room and to the bathroom on the second floor.

  “New clothes,” he said to the soldier guarding the door.

  Brage took a quick shower, careful to wash the blood from his pale hair. He needed to feed, and a human woman would most likely be put off by blood.

  Or possibly not. Some humans were delightfully perverse.

  Smiling, he dressed in the immaculate clothes his brother had laid out for him, then he left the house and found his way into the night crowds of Beyoğlu. It was nothing to the rowdy atmosphere of Amsterdam or Berlin, but it would do. All he needed to find was a human woman who wanted the company of a good-looking man for the night. A tourist, he decided. Someone with a clean, comfortable hotel room where he could rest after he fucked her into unconsciousness and fed his ancient soul hunger.

  Brage was more than capable of giving a woman an unforgettable night. He was old enough that he didn’t need to draw much energy for his hunger to be fed.

  Perhaps, if she survived, he would give her an unforgettable morning, too.

  It was the least he could do.

  Chapter Nine

  Sofia, Bulgaria

  The man gave up his knife after the second attempt at Malachi’s neck. It clattered to the stones in the alley as the Grigori lunged toward him. Catching him in midair, Malachi hugged the soldier to his chest and felt the magic coursing through his own body. He grabbed for his own silver dagger, ignoring the chokehold his opponent was attempting. The man twisted around, realizing too late that Malachi was armed. He loosened his hold and tried to flee, but by that time, Malachi had a firm grip on the man’s long hair. He twisted it around his wrist and pulled up, letting the Grigori dangle and scream as he kicked.

  “They said you were dead!” The man tried to break Malachi’s hold, tried to pry open the fingers that held him, but the scribe’s grip didn’t falter. “They told us—”

  “They were wrong,” he said, jerking the soldier closer and plunging the blade into his spine.

  In the blink of an eye, the body shimmered and turned golden. Malachi stared into the man’s black eyes as they met his own. He was gold. Shimmering. Translucent in death. And for a moment, the soldier was gone and Malachi watched his own face dissolve as a piercing scream shattered his ears.

  “No!”

  He blinked away the echoing scream and came back to the alley. From the corner, a young woman held her arms out toward the dust that rose.

  “What have you done, you monster?” she shouted at him, tears streaming down her face. “Ciril!” she sobbed, rocking back and forth.

  Malachi went to her, bending down. “You’re safe now,” he said. “We’ll keep you safe.”

  The woman kept rocking, clutching her arms around her body and sobbing into her knees. Malachi looked up, wondering what to do with the woman in the back streets of Sofia. They’d stopped in the capitol of Bulgaria to eat and stretch their legs before they continued driving to Budapest. Leo, Rhys, and Malachi had been taking turns, but they all needed sustenance. The fact that they’d happened to find a Grigori preying on a human woman at the restaurant was simply a coincidence. He’d run from them immediately but had grabbed the woman and taken her with him. They’d all given chase; Malachi was just the first to catch him.

  Within seconds, he heard his brothers’ scuffling feet near the mouth of the alley. Malachi was trying to soothe the sobbing human without putting his hands on her skin. Rhys had said Grigori victims often mourned their attackers’ deaths, not knowing how dangerous the creatures truly were.

  “Please,” Malachi said. Rhys had handed him a Bulgarian dictionary as soon as they’d crossed the border, so Malachi had already absorbed most of the language. “Please, miss, who can I call for you? Surely, there is someone—”

  “There was Ciril,” she choked out. “There was only Ciril. And now there is no one.” She clutched her head, pressing her palms to her temples as she wailed.

  “He would have hurt you,” Malachi said, speaking softly as Rhys and Leo approached. “You’re safe now.”

  Finally, the woman’s eyes lifted to his. His stomach dropped when he saw them. Blank. Dead. There was nothing behind the young woman’s gaze.

  “You know nothing,” she whispered.

  Then she lunged forward, bashed her forehead into Malachi’s nose, and scrambled up, darting between Leo and Rhys and out of the alley before Malachi had time to recover. Blood streamed down his nose and into his mouth. She was gone by the time he reached his feet.

  “What was that?” Leo asked with wide eyes.

  “I have no idea.” He wiped the blood from his face with the corn
er of his sleeve. “I killed the Grigori, and she went crazy.”

  Rhys shook his head sadly. “It’s horrible. They become obsessed. I only hope she has someone she can go to.”

  Malachi narrowed his eyes. “She knew his name. Do they usually tell humans their name?”

  Rhys shrugged. “He told her a name. I doubt it’s his. Let’s go. Who knows who that woman is calling right now? She could be running to the police. We need to get back on the road.”

  Leo was staring at the spot where the woman had been crouched, his eyes lost in thought. After a second’s silence, he shook his head and said, “Rhys and I will grab some food from one of the corner shops. Malachi, you get back to the car. Your face would draw too much attention right now.”

  “All right.”

  As they walked, Rhys slapped Malachi’s shoulder. “How do you feel? No trouble with the new spells?”

  “I feel fine,” he said, rolling his shoulders as he felt his nose start to knit together. “Actually, I feel amazing.”

  It was true. Nothing about the fight had been a struggle. It was as if his muscles knew exactly what to do, from the way to immobilize his opponent to the exact angle at which to stab the knife. Like so many things, he only consciously thought about his actions after they were over, not unlike watching a movie on rewind, wondering how each point connected to the last.

  Leo asked, “Did you remember anything more? Rhys and I have been debating whether or not tapping into your magic and scribing some of your old spells would help your memory.”

  “I don’t remember anything more about Ava,” he said, “if that’s what you were wondering.”

  No, he didn’t remember anything from the past, but his dreams—the intimate communion he reached for in sleep—those, he decided, they didn’t need to know about. Perhaps he was falling in love with his subconscious memories of the woman. He knew her without question in his dreams. He only wished he had something to hold on to when he woke.

  “Tell me where you go,” she asked after they had sated their bodies on the forest floor. “When you leave me here, where do you go?”

  The moss was a thick green carpet at his back, and the night birds sang overhead as he cradled her on his chest.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “I don’t remember, exactly. I only know you’re not there. But you’re here when I sleep.”

  “Hmm.” She closed her eyes and traced her fingers along his collar. “I miss your markings.”

  “I have some back.” He raised his left arm and she trailed her fingers along the black ink. “I will write more for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are yours still there?”

  She smiled up at him. “Of course, silly. They’re always here.” She lifted his hand and put it over her heart. “And they always will be. Kiss me.”

  He kissed her, and her lips were honey to his tongue. Far too soon, she pulled back, and in the low light of the misty forest, he could see them—his own marks—glowing in the darkness. Gold magic swirled on the skin over her heart. It shone on her shoulders. He sat up, twisting her until she sat in his lap with her back to his chest. Then he leaned back on his arms, staring at the intricate letters that trailed up her spine, over her neck and shoulders.

  “So beautiful,” he murmured, stroking the magic that he’d used to claim her. “I love seeing these on you.”

  “I know.” She was smiling as she looked over her shoulder. Her gold eyes, he realized, were almost the same color as her mating marks.

  “Extraordinary.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Nothing.” He kissed her again, pulling her closer before he laid them down again on the moss.

  “Reshon?” she whispered against his chest.

  “Yes?”

  “Come back to me.”

  “Come back now, brother.” He felt the hand slapping his cheek and he bolted awake.

  “Ah.” Leo was grinning. “There you are. You were dead to the world.”

  “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. Finall
y, 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.”