The Singer
Page 46

“Please?” He sat down on the mossy ground, leaning his back against a tree and pulling her down to straddle his lap. They were face-to-face. He liked this. Her eyes met his, and she couldn’t hide what she felt. She never could if he could see her eyes. Not anymore. Once, she’d hidden from him, but he had conquered her fears. Conquered the shadows that had haunted her. He could sense them again, hovering in the corner of his vision.
“Sing to me,” he whispered. “Reshon. My soul. Show me your secrets.”
She began, halting at first. Her eyes flickered away from his, and he pulled her closer. She laid her head on his shoulder, but he didn’t mind. She could hide in him if it made her brave. She still sang, her voice growing as she wove a story for him. She sang of lonely stars across a black sky. Of a great circle divided. Souls reached toward each other but slipped away. And as she sang, he could see it, see the circle in his mind. He saw the sun and moon rising as one, and the stars beat against the sky.
Then her song changed, and his heart ached. There were no words, only a barely audible whisper of longing that spread along his skin. The vision in his mind changed, and he saw them in another place and another time.
“You’re so beautiful. Please, Ava…”
Ava.
She smiled and hid under the sheet as he turned the lens on her. “No! No pictures of me.”
“Just a few. It’s only fair. You’re constantly taking pictures of me. Don’t deny it,” he said when she started to protest. “I catch you all the time. I just don’t say anything about it.”
“Do you mind?”
“Do you need to take pictures of me?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t mind.”
Ava, he mouthed silently.
He opened his eyes and looked down at the woman in his arms, brushing her hair to the side. Her skin was glowing with the mating marks he’d placed there. His arms wrapped around her back as her song drifted into a soft hum. He felt it, spreading over his body, and as he held her, he saw the silver talesm start to glow on his wrist. Then a faint shimmer began on the bare skin above the talesm he’d inked.
The marks crawled and spread, as if an invisible hand wrote upon him.
“Ava,” he said, his arms tightening.
“Hmm?” She stopped humming, looked up, and the spell was broken. “What did you call me?”
“Your name.”
She closed her eyes, a frown between her eyebrows, then they relaxed and she smiled again.
“Oh,” she said. “Of course. I didn’t remember until you called me.”
“Like you called me.”
“I did?”
“You told me to come back to you. So I did.”
Tears shimmered in her eyes. “You did.” Her hand lifted to his cheek. “You’re here. You’ll always be here.”
“Reshon—”
“Kiss me, love.”
He could deny her nothing. His mouth touched hers and she clung to him, deepening the kiss as she pressed her body to his.
“I want to stay here,” she murmured against his lips. “Forever.”
“We can’t.” There was that tickling at the back of his mind again. He needed to tell her. Needed…
“I need you,” she said. His body responded to the grip of her hands on his shoulders. And then all he thought of was her.
When Malachi opened his eyes, he was staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling of the scribe house in Budapest. He blinked to clear his eyes. The dream still lingered in his mind; he could taste her on his lips. Just then, flickers of the dream came back to him, and he lifted his arm.
They were still there. On his left arm were the spells he’d inked. But below them, faint shadows of other, older spells lay like smudges beneath his skin.
“Ava,” he whispered. “What did you do?”
There was no doubt in his mind anymore. The dreams were not dreams. He was reaching her somehow. On some plane they were linked, even though she thought he was dead. How was it possible?
A knock sounded on the heavy door to his room.
“Are you awake?” It was Rhys.
Malachi cleared his throat. “I am.”
“Come down for coffee. They’ve made breakfast.”
He could smell it. The spicy scent of peppers and sausages drifted in the air. His stomach growled and he sat up.
“I’ll be right there.”
“Hurry if you want to eat. Don’t forget, Max may not be here, but Leo is.”
Malachi dressed quickly, grateful that the weather had turned cold enough that long sleeves would not be questioned. He didn’t know what to make of the talesm that had bloomed on his arm, and he didn’t want to try to explain them. As far as he knew, none of the scribes in the house were mated. The house watcher, Phillip, had lost his promised Irina in the Rending, according to Rhys, and the other scribes in the house were young.
Phillip, Rhys had also explained, would need to know what happened to Malachi. According to his friends, Malachi and Phillip had been brothers in the Berlin house years ago. There was too much history for Malachi to pretend to be who he was. Luckily, Rhys also said Phillip was trustworthy.
He followed his nose down the narrow staircase. Unlike the scribe house in Cappadocia, the one in Budapest was showing its age. Frayed carpets lined the hallway, and Malachi could see stains on the walls. Even the lights seemed to flicker with uncertainty.
Luckily, the kitchen showed no such deterioration. Food was spread over the table, with a stocky man at the head. He was sandy-haired and fair-skinned, but his eyes and smile showed faint traces of the city where he lived.