The Singer (6 page)

“Malachi?”

He shook off the vision and continued to follow Rhys down a narrow corridor carved into the rocks.

“My rooms are all the way back here?”

“You like your privacy. You always pick rooms that are isolated if you can.”

The green door flashed in Malachi’s mind a second before they turned the corner and saw it.
 

“This was my room. Was Ava here, too?”

Rhys’s voice was thick. “Yes. She stayed here after you died. Her things are still there. She wanted… Well, she wanted to sleep where you had been.”

His heart tripped as he put a hand on the door and pushed it open. Her scent hit him immediately, and traces of her were scattered around the room. The shoes tucked under the bed. The large suitcase in front of the wardrobe. This was the room he’d seen in his mind. There was the spot on the wall where she’d braced her hand as they made love. He walked around the room, willing more memories to come, but his mind was stubbornly silent.
 

“These are her things?”

“She needed warm clothes wherever Damien was taking her, so she left her other things here. Said she’d just come back for them. She even left her computer.”

Malachi frowned, picking up a sweater that lay draped across the chair by the door. He held it up to his face and inhaled.
 

“Did she take her camera?” he asked, his face still buried in her scent.

“You remember.”
 

Rhys was wearing a huge smile when he looked up.
 

“What?”

“Her camera. She’s a photographer. Did you remember?”

He walked over to the bed and touched the edge of a pillow. “I don’t know. The question just popped into my head.”

“Hmm.” Rhys watched him taking in the room. “To answer your question, yes, she took her camera. I don’t know why she left her laptop. Maybe where they’re going there’s no Wi-Fi.”

Malachi looked for the small silver laptop and found it on the desk. He walked over and opened it.

“I’m fairly sure it’s password protected,” Rhys said. “So I doubt…”

Malachi let his fingers type without thinking.

F-R-E-A-K

“I hate that password,” he muttered, staring at the picture of him and Ava that popped up as the background.

“How did you know her password?”

“I don’t know.”

The picture had been taken near the ocean in the early evening. Malachi thought it might be near the pier in Kuşadası. There were lanterns floating in the background and the two of them stood smiling with the purple sky behind them. He remembered the faint perfume he could still smell on her sweater.

“Rhys,” he said, trying to mask the tension in his voice. “Can you please—”

“I’ll go,” the other man said quietly. “Let me know if you need anything. I’m down the stairs and to the right. The red door with the lion character on it.”

Malachi hardly heard the door close. He grabbed the laptop and took it to the bed, leaning against pillows tinged with a faint floral scent that might have been her shampoo. He turned his face to the side and inhaled, pressing his cheek where hers might have lain.
 

He scrolled through her pictures, looking at the stunning images she must have taken in Istanbul. Boats on the water. Children laughing at pigeons. Old men catching fish. He skimmed through her albums from Cappadocia until one miniature caught his eye. The album was entitled “M is a thief.” He clicked on it.
 

The first pictures were more bedding than anything else. Blurry. Out of focus. He frowned, then let out a choked laugh the farther he clicked through the scene. He’d stolen her camera. She was hiding in the sheets, but she was laughing. He’d managed to capture the top of her head in that shot. Her nose in the other. The edge of her smile as he tickled her ribs. Then…
 

His breath stopped.

The last picture in the set was off center and crooked. Snapped as he held the camera away from them, capturing their kiss. Her fingers were pressed into his inked shoulders, and his mouth took her swollen lips.

“Ava,” he breathed out, touching the computer screen before it blinked out. Malachi tried to turn it on again, but the battery must have died. He sat up and carefully placed the computer back on the desk, plugging it in before he stripped off his clothes and returned to the bed. He wrapped himself in sheets that he knew smelled of his mate and closed his eyes.

Why couldn’t he remember her?

Malachi felt broken. His memories. His lost
talesm
. Confusion and weakness. All of it paled in comparison to the gut-deep awareness that his mate was in the world, grieving him, and he could not ease her.

He closed his eyes and searched for her in dreams.

The forest was midnight black, shrouded in a thick fog that curled and twisted around his ankles. The path he followed was not clear; wet branches slapped his face as he stumbled in the dark.

Where was she?

He could hear her in the distance. Her cries ripped through his chest. Every time she grew louder, he was forced to turn again as the path diverted him. The dark maze wove through the forest, teasing him. Frustrating him.

He would not be defeated.

The dark mass rose before him, looming over his head as if trying to block out the stars. Damp branches laced with thorns twisted in on themselves, blocking him from going farther. The maze urged him to turn again, but he stopped. Held his hand up.

Her voice was audible now.

“Please. Please come back.”

With a frustrated roar, he pounded on the thorns. Then he spun around, looking for a way out or around or through. It was a dead end. There was nowhere to turn but away from her again.

But his mate needed him. She called for him, and he’d left her alone too long.

He plunged his hands into the thick brush that separated him from her voice. He ignored the pain as he forced his way forward.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears. “I need you.”

He tore at the hedge, ripping away the thorns and branches that tore his skin, ignoring the pain in his chest, ignoring everything except her voice. Finally, his bloody hand reached through and felt the cool air on the other side.
 

Pale moonlight streamed through the fog as he forced his bleeding body the rest of the way through the brush. There, on the far side of the clearing, he saw her.

Broken and bent with grief, she curled into herself, her arms wrapped around her legs. She wore a pale robe, streaked with mud, which pooled around her feet. She rocked back and forth as he approached. He approached cautiously, kneeling in front of her where she sat. Then he reached out a tentative hand and pushed a damp curl from her face.

She looked up.
 

“You left me.”

“I found you.”

“Why did it take so long?”

“I was lost.”

Her gold eyes didn’t glow as they should have. They were dull with sorrow. Exhausted with weeping. He could see the tear tracks glittering on her cheeks.

“I found you,
reshon
.”

She held out her arms like a child asking for comfort. He reached out and picked her up, lifting her from the cold ground and cradling her against his chest. He felt her fingers tracing over his scratched skin.

“What happened to you?”

“I told you. I was lost, but I came back.”

“You found me.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not leaving again?”

“No. I promise.”

“I’m so tired.” She laid her head on his shoulder, and he felt his heart swell with purpose.

“Then rest while I hold you. I promise I won’t let go.”

Chapter Four

Sarihöfn, Norway

When Ava woke, she felt rested for the first time in weeks. Her head was clear. The tension that seemed to burn under her skin was gone. She felt fresh. Renewed. So renewed she didn’t even scowl when she heard the knock on the door. By the time she was up and presentable, Damien had already let the visitor in. It was the woman she’d met the previous afternoon.

“Good morning,” the visitor said with a smile. “I hope you slept well. My name is Astrid.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

She was definitely the most welcoming woman Ava had met so far. Without the heavy clothes and aura of magic, Astrid looked like a teacher or a doctor. Smart and friendly, she exuded calm welcome. Sari and Mala hadn’t made the greatest impression the day before, and Ava had gone to bed with second thoughts about the remote enclave where Damien had brought her. Astrid’s appearance put her at ease.
 

“So, what’s up?” She looked between Damien and Astrid.

“Sari and Damien thought it would be good for you to tour the retreat today and get a feel for where things are since you’ll be here for some time.”

Ava asked Damien, “How long?”

He shrugged. “As long as you want.”

“As long as it takes,” Astrid said, “for you to be able to control your magic. Letting you roam the world untrained would be too dangerous.”

Ava bristled. “I’ve managed for a few years on my own.”

“The Grigori hunt you. The humans do not understand you. And Damien says you mated with an Irin scribe who bonded with you and lent you his power. Your magic will be stronger now.”

“I have it under control.”

Barely. The voices pressed on her. Damien’s presence might have been soothing, but it did nothing to dull the soul voices as Malachi had done. They crept up on her. She had no shield from them. And worse, she seemed to have tapped into other voices, voices that were unlike the others. Dark and twisted, they haunted her dreams. At times Ava thought she was losing it.

Astrid’s eyes were narrowed in suspicion. “Remember, you might not even realize you’ve worked magic. Without training, you’d have no idea. Here, you will be protected, and so will the rest of the world.”

“You’re acting like I’m some loaded gun.”

“In a sense, you are. I started learning to control my magic as soon as I could talk. My mother guided me until I went into formal training at thirteen. For scribes”—she nodded toward Damien—“the act of working magic is far more deliberate. No child is born writing. It is learned. But for Irina, our magic comes like breathing. It is our first language. The fact that you’ve been able to exist without hurting those around you is somewhat astonishing.”

The steady woman’s voice grated on her, killing the peace she’d woken with. “I would never hurt any—”

“You need our help. You burst Damien’s eardrums when your mate was killed.” Astrid’s voice was no longer soothing. She stepped closer to Ava, and though the woman was even shorter than Ava, Astrid’s presence dwarfed her. “You hurt yourself, three Irin, and countless Grigori—”

“You’re worried about the Grigori now?”

“I’d kill every one of them if I could,” Astrid said calmly. “But that is not the issue.”

Maybe Astrid wasn’t so unlike Sari after all.

“Maybe it is,” Ava said. “Maybe I don’t want to hide in a village somewhere and lick my wounds. Maybe I want to fight with the scribes instead of—”

“You have no idea what we do here.”

“And maybe I don’t want to!”

She stopped shouting when Damien put a hand on her shoulder.
 

“Sister,” he said quietly, brushing a hand down her arm.

Ava felt the calm immediately. She took a deep breath and tried to focus on the peace she’d felt that morning, but it was wrapped up in dreams of Malachi and it hurt as much as it helped.

Astrid had backed down, too.

“Stay, Ava. We can’t force you, but we can help you. I promise.”

She said nothing, but relaxed when she saw Astrid smile a little.

“So, you want to kill Grigori?” the woman asked.

“They killed my mate.”

“And how do you know we don’t kill Grigori?”

Ava frowned. “But the scribes said—”

“Irin scribes say many things, hidden away in their scribe houses or lecturing in council meetings.” Astrid glanced at Damien and winked. “But they can be frightfully blind when it comes to reading things other than books.”

Ava hadn’t considered it, but it was true. Most of the scribes she’d met had admitted to not seeing an Irina in two hundred years. Why on earth was she taking their word for anything?

“So, what you’re saying is—?”

“Have you seen how the scribes fight?” Astrid asked, stepping closer.

“Yes.”

“They are the world’s finest warriors. None can match them in strength or grace. They are ruthless. Strong. Fast.” There was a fierce pride in Astrid’s eyes when she spoke. “Their
talesm
is like a living armor around them. A trained scribe could take on a dozen Grigori soldiers and walk away with their dust on his shoulders. Do you want to fight like that?”