Текст книги "The Singer"

Автор книги: Elizabeth Hunter

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Finally, Sari spoke again, but this time it wasn’t to Ava. “You didn’t need to accompany her.”

“I’m paying my respects to your grandmother, Sari. It would be rude of me not to see her.”

“She’s not your grandmother.”

“No, but she’s yours. And, unless you’ve forgotten, I am your mate. Therefore, she’s my family, too.”

Their inner voices were practically shouting at each other. Ava wanted to put her fingers in her ears and sing something. Sadly, that didn’t really work.

“Trust me,” Sari said. “I have not forgotten.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Ava groaned. “You guys are impossible. You should hear yourselves.”

Sari cut her eyes to Ava. “Then stop listening. It’s rude.”

“Don’t you think I would if I could?”

Ava saw Damien fighting a smile, but he didn’t say a word.

She practically cried in relief when they crested the hill to see a cheerful blue house tucked into the hills. It was low to the ground with a white porch and a traditional turf roof. A few flowers still bloomed in buckets on the porch, though most of the garden around the house was dying for the season. As they approached, a willowy woman opened the door, raising her hand in greeting. She wore a thick blue sweater and her blond hair hung loose around her shoulders. As Ava approached, she could see the woman’s temples were touched with silver, and crow’s feet creased the corners of her vivid blue eyes. But her round face was still stunning, and her smile was wide.

“Damien,” she called, holding out her arms. “Oh, my son! I was wondering when you would come visit me.”

Ava could practically feel the waves of annoyance rolling off Sari as Damien embraced her grandmother. They exchanged words in what Ava guessed was Norwegian, then Orsala turned to Ava and held out her hands. “And you must be Ava.”

She smiled, and Ava tried not to stare. Damien had told her that Orsala was close to a thousand years old, but the woman barely looked older than Ava’s own mother.

“You are so very welcome. Thank you for coming to visit me.”

It was amazing how cordial she made it sound, considering Ava knew she really didn’t have a choice in the matter. Orsala’s smile only got wider the longer she held Ava’s hands.

“You have a wonderful sense of humor,” the older woman said. “I can tell.” Then she squeezed Ava’s hands and dropped them, motioning them all inside.

Within minutes, they were all sitting at the round kitchen table, drinking a fragrant herb tea that made Ava think of the spice market in Istanbul.

“Damien keeps me supplied with tea,” Orsala said, sitting down next to Damien and patting his hand. “I can only get the plain teas here. The ones from Istanbul are the finest.”

“I’m glad you enjoy them,” Damien said quietly, holding back another smile as Sari carefully avoided meeting his eyes.

“So much drama,” Orsala said under her breath, looking between the two. “On to other things.” She turned her attention to Ava. “Evren sent a letter with Damien. He says that they cannot discover where you’ve come from! What a delicious mystery, huh? Perhaps reading you today will give us a clue.”

“How?” Ava asked.

“How much do you know about Irina blood?”

“I… a little. Not much. I know that Irin and Irina magic is different. Related, but different.”

“Two sides of the same coin, is the saying, I think.” Orsala smiled. “We speak the same language they write. But unlike us, Irin can grab the magic. Hold on to it with their writing. We can’t do that.”

“Has an Irina ever tried?”

Sari said, “Yes. Some try. It doesn’t work for us.”

“No more than an Irin speaking magic works for them,” Orsala added. “We are different. We were designed to be.”

Sari grimaced. “And you just end up with messy tattoos and no extra magic.”

Damien leaned toward her. “They’re not messy. I actually think they’re rather attractive, my dove.”

“Don’t call me ‘my dove.’”

Ava tried not to laugh. Was there anyone less dove-like than Sari?

Orsala was smiling at her granddaughter before she spoke again. “So, Irina speak our magic in the Old Language as the Irin write it. But we also have other gifts. Again, no one knows why. I’m assuming you haven’t heard any of our songs?”

“Songs?”

Damien said, “Our history. Most of the books we have written—like the one Malachi showed you when you first came to the scribe house—are written records of Irina songs.”

Orsala waved a dismissive hand. “Written songs are not songs. There is no way of capturing the true nature of our history on the page. It must be heard to be understood.”

Damien smiled indulgently and turned to Ava. “This is a very old argument.”

“It’s true,” Sari added. “The songs were never meant to be written. The act of writing them diminishes the power of their meaning.”

“I’m not going to get into this argument, my dove.”

Sari slapped her hand on the table. “Stop calling me that!”

Orsala barked out something in Norwegian that made both Damien and Sari sit up straight. For a moment, they both looked like chastised children, then Orsala switched to English.

“So, while I am working with Ava and teaching her beginning spells, you two will continue to research her background. We have records, too. And you can speak to Candice.”

Sari’s jaw had clenched. “But—”

“Candice’s father was a historian and genealogist. One of the first in the Americas, so it’s possible she might know something about the families that Ava might have come from. Once I get a feeling for her blood, you’ll have more to go on.”

“And you want us to work together?” Damien asked quietly. “Are you sure?”

“I am quite positive,” Orsala said. “Why don’t you both finish your tea and start right now?”

“Together?” Sari seemed limited to one word answers forced out between clenched teeth.

“Yes. In fact, just take your tea with you and leave Ava and me alone.”

Damien couldn’t hide the pleased expression on his face as he rose and held out his hand. “Shall we, my dove?”

Sari was muttering under her breath. She ignored her mate’s hand and put her cup on the counter, then without a backward glance, she walked out the front door.

Damien turned to Orsala and smiled. “So good to see you again, matka.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Damjan. You have a long way to go.”

“Will they make up?” Ava asked after they’d finished their tea and been left alone in the cottage. The fire crackled in the hearth, and Orsala added wood to the flames before she settled in the chair across from Ava.

“Yes. There was hurt on both sides. They both made mistakes, and I understand why Sari feels the way she does. But now?” Orsala shook her head. “It is time. Damien is a different man than he was during the Rending. Sari needs to learn that some Irin grow from their mistakes, and that forgiveness isn’t something to be withheld from your mate, not even in grief.”

“Was it that bad? Really?”

Shadows flickered in Orsala’s eyes. “Yes.” Then the old woman shook her head and asked, “Are you ready to listen?”

“Do I need to take notes?”

Orsala smiled. “I imagine you’ll be sick of this history by the time we’re done. You have a lot to learn, but everything draws from this, so it will be repeated.”

“Okay, hit me.”

“There were twenty-one cardinal angels who fell to the earth from above. Twenty-one who defied the creator and took humans as mates. Had children. Many of them. Seven returned. Seven were killed. Seven remained. Others followed them, but they were the first. The seven who returned, we call the Forgiven. They are the fathers of the Irin race.”

“The ones who left their children,” Ava said.

Orsala cocked her head. “They were not creatures of this world. They had no business here. Sometimes leaving is the right thing to do.”

Ava ignored the twist of anger in her belly and asked, “And these seven gave their power to their children.”

“Uriel gave us the gift of life. Male and female, we can harness his magic to extend our lives. Gabriel gave Irina the gift of hearing so that we might hear the souls of the world around us to aid in their protection. The other powers are more specific and more rare.”

“Like empathy?”

Orsala nodded. “Chamuel gave a few of his blood the gift of empathy and influence. Rafael gave others the gift of healing, and also the ability to read the history of objects.”

“You’re talking about touch telepathy?” Ava was starting to get excited. It was real and unreal at the same time.

“In a sense.” Orsala continued without further explanation. “Mikhael gave his daughters the gift of strategy. Sadly, not a developed gift for far too long. It was not as respected as some of the others.”

“Why not?”

“Irina revere creation and prophecy. Seeing the connections between things is not creative. It is, however, one of the more potent offensive gifts that we have learned to wield.”

“That makes sense.”

“These are also not exclusive. After so many generations, our blood has mixed. So Sari exhibits some of Mikhael’s blood traits, though her primary talent comes from Ariel.”

“Which is…”

“Those of Ariel’s blood exhibit elemental magic. He was the oldest of the cardinal angels. Some songs say he was present with the Creator at the dawn of our world, though we have no way of knowing this. Ariel’s children can control the elements to varying degrees. Primarily wood and metal. In the past, Irina of Ariel’s blood were our chief architects and builders. Very highly respected.”

“Okay. By my count, that’s six angels.”

“Yes.”

“So who was the seventh?”

Orsala leaned forward and peered into Ava’s eyes. “The seventh was Leoc, the seer. And Leoc, giver of visions and bearer of prophecy,  returned to the heavens, but his daughters bear his mark, the mark of the seer…”

Ava’s skin began to prickle. She could feel the swell of power coming from the old woman.

“…though their eyes now glimmer only faintly with their father’s gift.”

Her heart beat a rapid rhythm as the whispers in her mind grew louder.

“Leoc’s daughters are seers?” she whispered. “They have… visions?”

“And golden eyes, Ava. Angelic eyes.”

The images she’d seen in Jaron’s office flipped through her mind.

Malachi.

Utter black. Pain. Despair.

Two dark-haired children. A girl with golden eyes, laughing as butterflies swirled around her. A boy, staring… The ink-black jaguar curled around the children protectively as a wolf and a tiger paced behind. The tiger bent to the girl, opening his mouth. The great beast closed his jaw around the girl’s nape gently as she continued to smile and pet its cheek. A great circle rose in the sky, like a sun twisted with gold and silver. Higher and higher it rose, until the sun faded away to stars, a million scattered points of light dotting the heavens, dancing in concert to a growing song.

Darkness.

“I show you what has been. What will be. And what could be,” Ava whispered Jaron’s words. “Do not fear the darkness.”

 Orsala’s voice came as if Ava was deep underwater. “Tell me, Ava. Do you see visions?”

She couldn’t speak. Did she? Or was that something that Jaron had projected to her mind? Could angels do that?

“Your eyes are gold, Ava. To human eyes, they would seem only a beautiful light brown, but they’re not. I haven’t seen eyes like that since I was a child. They belonged to the oldest woman in my village. A daughter of Leoc who was very, very strong.”

“I don’t know…,” Ava whispered. “I don’t know what I see.”

She didn’t. She only knew that she needed to get away from Orsala’s piercing gaze. The darkness hovered at the edge of her mind, and the frightening whispers grew in strength.

Orsala didn’t hear them. The old woman leaned forward and put her fingers on Ava’s temples. At her touch, Ava fell calm.

“Tell me what you see with your golden eyes, Ava, daughter of Leoc.”

II.

Istanbul, Turkey

It was amazing how much was left after the fire. Brage kicked through the wreckage of the old wooden house in Beyoğlu, following the muffled screams of the young scribe they had captured on the road out of Göreme.

He slid into the room that had been carved with protection spells. Useless now that the Irin fire was gone. Foolish Irin put too much stock in magic. Brage’s fingers trailed over the cryptic script of the Old Language that had been carved into the walls. It was a mystery to him, just as the Fallen intended.

Bitterness twisted his heart.

Unlike the Irin fathers, Volund and the other angels did not share knowledge with their children. They didn’t trust them enough. Didn’t believe them worthy. After all, they were half-human. They were servants and soldiers, not true sons.

The young scribe before him was fair-skinned and dark-eyed. Handsome enough to human eyes, though not stunning as the Grigori were. The angelic blood had been tempered by time and distance. The Irin were mere shadows of their forefathers. But the mysterious script marked the young scribe’s arms and shoulders, though the glow of power was gone. Blood covered the young man’s chest and face. Pieces of his talesm were missing. Strips of skin had been gouged from his arms.

Brage’s brother handed him a flap of skin they had carved from the scribe’s left wrist.

“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 corner 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. Finally, 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.”