The Singer

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “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.”

  There was a whistle and they turned their heads toward Mala, who shot off a few signs.

  Brooke smiled again. “Mala agrees. She said that throughout history, Irina have used the short staff as a primary weapon because we could take one everywhere. They’re very easy to overlook.”

  “And very effective.”

  “Yep.” Brooke went back to her ready stance. “Don’t worry! You’ll get the hang of it.”

  Ava took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders, trying to remember to keep them loose. Ready. She was an Irina, after all. She’d get this. It was probably genetic or something. She lifted her staff in both hands and angled forward at her right shoulder like Mala had shown her. Brooke stood across from her in the same stance. Her face showed nothing. Ava shifte
d to the right, and Brooke leaned forward, just a little. Ava leaned with her right shoulder, deliberately hinting that she would strike from the right, only to have Brooke shift with lightning reflexes to the left, and then her staff circled down, hitting just below Ava’s left knee.

  “Shit!” Ava hopped back, her previous plan of attack forgotten as the pain radiated down to her ankle and up her thigh. “Damn—oww! How did you—”

  “Sorry, sorry! Your shoulders looked great, but then you did this thing with your leg and you shifted back, so I knew you were going to attack from the left, so I—”

  “Yeah. Okay. Got it,” Ava groused, ignoring Mala, who was smiling wide and clutching her stomach. If the woman had been able to laugh, it would have filled the barn. “I know, all right? I’m completely transparent.”

  “But your shoulders looked better!”

  Great. A twelve-year-old was kicking her ass and trying to make her feel better about it.

  “It’s fine, Brooke.” Ava glared at Mala. “Can we take a break now? I think I need to ice this leg.”

  An unfamiliar voice sang from the door. “You’re never going to get better if you keep taking breaks.”

  Ava turned to stare. The woman was tall and dark with olive skin and black hair that streamed down her back. Everything about her—from the black clothes to the wary expression—screamed “Danger!” Ava stepped in front of Brooke, but the girl shot out from behind her and rushed forward.

  “Renata!”

  “Ciao, bella mia,” the woman named Renata murmured, holding out her arms to the girl and enclosing her in an embrace. She looked up at Mala. “Who’s the new girl?”

  Mala signed quickly, and Renata lifted one hand, signing back while still holding Brooke with her other arm.

  “No,” Brooke said, clearly understanding the silent conversation. “She’s from Los Angeles. She was only visiting in Istanbul when Damien met her. She’s not Turkish.”

  Renata said, “I was thinking Persian, actually. Welcome to Sarihöfn, Ava.”

  “Thanks.” She lowered her staff and stepped forward. “Your name is Renata?”

  “Yes.” Renata eyed Mala. “Are they done for today?”

  Mala shrugged, then signed something that seemed to indicate Brooke could go, because Renata turned and started toward the door with the girl still curled under one arm.

  “I’ll see you later, Ava.”

  “Bye!” Brooke called.

  Ava lifted her hand in a wave, then started toward the bench where she’d left her jacket, only to be stopped by a staff across the belly. Groaning, she lifted her eyes to Mala.

  “Let me guess. I’m not done yet.”

  The corner of Mala’s mouth lifted, and Ava didn’t need to understand signing to read her expression.

  Not even close.

  She wanted nothing more than a bath and a bed by the time she finally made it back to the cottage. Mala had drilled her for another three hours after Renata had shown up and taken off with Brooke. Luckily, Ava was picking up some signs from Mala and communication was starting to get better. And so, despite her reservations, were her attacks. Mala was a patient teacher and seemed to understand instinctively where and how Ava was struggling. By the end of the session, she was parrying with a fair amount of success instead of simply fending off blows. And, if she’d read Mala’s signs correctly, the next week they were going to add daggers.

  Ava liked daggers.

  “Wash up,” Damien called from the kitchen. “I’m fixing tea and I’ll make you a snack.”

  “Thanks, mom.”

  “Then we’re going to a sing. There will be a dinner before at the house.” He glanced at her. “I’ll get you an ice pack, too. Do you need two?”

  “A sing? What’s a sing?” She tried to sort through the barrage of information. “And yes. I probably need two.”

  “I’ll get three. There’s hot water for your shower, but don’t take too long. I don’t want to be late.”

  “What’s a sing, Damien?”

  “It’s a ceremony. With singing.” Damien walked over and patted her head. “Hence, it’s called a sing.”

  “You’re the only person I know who uses ‘hence’ in everyday conversation.”

  “Aren’t you fortunate that you know me, then?” He waved toward the door, unusually chipper. “Go. I’ll get the tea going.”

  “Why are you so happy?” Then it dawned on her. “Oh, this ‘sing’ is going to be at the main house, isn’t it? Sari’s house?”

  “Yes.” A smile teased up the corner of his lip.

  “And it’s like a party?”

  “It is.”

  “And you’re invited?”

  “I am.”

  “Ahhhhh.” Ava was smiling.

  “What?”

  “Damien’s making progress,” she sang.

  “That’s enough.” He shoved her shoulder. “Go clean up. I don’t want to be late.”

  “Mr. Cranky is gonna get some,” she sang some more, then ducked in her room after the kitchen towel smacked the back of her head. Ava slammed the door and yelled, “Maybe you won’t be Mr. Cranky after tonight!”

  “You are childish and you stink. Take a shower, Ava.”

  She gathered her things and went to the small bathroom, still smiling. Ignoring the tug in her heart. Ignoring the quick twist of pain at the thought of her friend’s happiness. Damien was a good friend. A good man. He deserved his happiness, even if she’d lost her own.

  “I will not abandon you. I will not leave you. Ever.”

  But you did leave me.

  Would her heart ever stop bleeding?

  She heard Damien banging cupboards in the kitchen, no doubt looking for the tea, which he could never seem to find. Maybe he would go to this party tonight and Sari would talk to him without scorn in her voice. Maybe they would make up. She could hope. The world didn’t stop just because she’d lost Malachi.

  With that thought, Ava stepped into the shower and let the warm water wash away her tears.

  Ava didn’t know quite what to expect from the party that night. She tried to imagine, but she kept coming up blank. Her lessons with Orsala had been minimal. The old woman had focused on teaching Ava the magic to block the soul voices from her mind. It was a simple spell, designed for a child to be able to master. Orsala had helped Ava create a door in her mind, and for the first time in her life, that door was slammed shut.

  It had been a revelation. Salvation. At first, the voices stopped all together, but the door cracked open after an hour or so as voices tried to push through a familiar hall. The next time she spoke the words, the door stayed closed a little longer. Then a little longer. The first day that she heard little to no voices at all, Ava had shown up at Orsala’s door, almost weeping with relief.

  Since then, the spell had become a mantra. The voices never disappeared entirely around other people—Orsala said they weren’t meant to—but a quick recitation of the words was enough to shut the door so the whispers were only murmurs that came from a great distance. Her tension headaches disappeared. Her agitation lessened. Now when Damien took her hand and squeezed it, she felt happy and content. There wasn’t the desperate relief she’d once needed just to get through the day.

  And for that she was grateful. Because though the weeks with Malachi had been a profound blessing, Ava knew she would probably never take another mate. Orsala had told her she might eventually find another partner. It was more than acceptable for Irin and Irina who had lost a mate to find love again. But Ava had a hard time imagining settling for anything less than what she and Malachi had once had, even if it had been brief. It was more than love. He was her soul mate. She didn’t want another.

  And if she looked forward to sleep a little more than normal, well, that was understandable. There was comfort in dreaming of him, even if the waking reality tore her heart.

  “Are you sure this shirt is acceptable?” Damien tugged at a brown shirt that brought out the color of his d
ark eyes. Ava had suggested it instead of the dull black button-down he’d been about to put on. They were walking to the main house, and Damien was as nervous as a teenager on his first date.

  “Yes. Stop fussing.”

  “I feel like I should have shaved.”

  Ava rolled her eyes. “Will you stop? The beard looks good. She likes it. Trust me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Do you seriously not pick up on the ‘I want to lick you’ looks that woman sends your way every time you’re in the room?”

  “I…” Damien blinked rapidly. “No. Mostly I’m trying to not irritate her.”

  “You need to irritate her more, not less.”

  “That makes no sense whatsoever.”

  “Sari’s a busy girl, and she’s filed you away under ‘things I’ll deal with later.’ You need to make her deal with you now. I’d suggest pissing her off. Like you said, she hates you the same way she loves you. The love is there, Damien. You guys just have to sort out your shit.”

  He halted, forcing Ava to stop next to him when he held on to her arm. “I tried to rush her once. I tried to push past her grief before she was ready. And it caused more harm than good. I don’t want to do that again. I can be patient for her.”

  Her heart warmed at his words. “I know you can. But you shouldn’t waste time. Trust me. You never know how much time you’ll get.”

  Damien frowned and squeezed her hand. “I am sorry you didn’t have more time with Malachi.”

  “I don’t… want to talk about that right now.” She couldn’t. Not if she wanted to get through this party without crying.

  “I understand.” He started back up the path and deliberately changed the subject. “Are you curious what the sing will be?”

  “I’m trying to release my expectations, or something like that. Whatever happens, happens.”

  “You don’t want to know?”

  “Nope. I’m getting my zen on.”

  “Your ‘zen’?”

  She could hear the smile in his voice even as they approached the house, which was lit up in every window, with more people spilling out in the garden. The fall air made their breath fog, and frost crunched under their feet. Soon, everyone told her, it would snow.