The Singer - Hunter Elizabeth - Страница 39

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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.”

“I’m still surprised she let me go.”

“Let you go?” Renata’s eyebrow lifted. “She’s not some despot. You wanted to go. You went. We’re not military, like scribes.”

Mala signed something and Renata interpreted. “Mala says we’re also not as organized or efficient.”

Ava leaned back in her chair as they sat in the small restaurant beneath the room Renata kept in Bergen. “It probably also helped that Sari and Damien appear to have reconciled.”

Mala snorted and began signing again.

“Yes,” Renata said with a laugh. “Very loudly.”

“I don’t even need to speak sign language to get that,” Ava said. “But yes, I don’t think they’re noticing much about anything except each other at the moment.”

It was nice to see. Painful, but nice. Everyone was happy for them. Damien hadn’t slept a night in the guesthouse since the night they’d argued there. Argued and not returned. Now Ava’s nights were guarded by a series of friendly scribes and singers who watched over the house while she slept. She could hardly begrudge Damien his time, and it made her early nights less noticeable to the others. She escaped into dreams. It was none of their business how often.

They sat near the window, not chancing the freezing temperatures outside. The window was cold enough. A few tourists still wandered the streets of the charming Norwegian town, taking pictures of the bright houses and soaring, snow-covered mountains.

Winter had descended on the fjords, and though the small valley where Sarihofn lay was protected from the worst of the elements by Sari’s magic, Bergen was not shielded. It was a bone-chilling cold that Ava hadn’t experienced for a few years, though it wasn’t anything she could forget. She looked with longing at the visitors loading skis into cars, wishing she had the time to join them.

But, as Renata reminded her, this was work. Not fun.

Mala and Renata had fallen silent, sipping their coffee and allowing Ava to listen. Other than brief snatches of conversation, she’d been scanning voices for hours. Most of it was still meaningless babble to her, but she was beginning to recognize a few common words and phrases in the Old Language.

Humans, she realized, were more than a little repetitive.

Worry. Worry. Longing. Joy.

A frustrated man stormed past. His voice felt like anger. She caught the word for “wife” in his thoughts, but not much else.

Worry. Worry. Joy. Contentment.

Love her.

Happy.

Stop. Must stop.

Understanding came in flashes. The drone of the whispers never ceased. Adults were anxiety and longing. Children were laughter, but simple worry was still there. Names flashed. Voices rose and fell.

Ava rubbed her head. In the safety and silence of Sarihofn, she’d forgotten how exhausting people could be. Luckily, both Mala and Renata hummed low repetitive tunes that blended into a kind of white noise. If she’d heard them in isolation, they would have driven her crazy. But among the throngs of other voices, the background music helped her focus.

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