The Singer
Page 63

The Fallen put an absent hand on the woman’s cheek and smiled at the child in her arms. Then he turned to Brage. “Come.”
The angel led him down a hallway lined with books, then past another sitting room and a large dining room where more women ate and chattered. It was not unpleasant, but Brage wondered how the Fallen lived with so many around him. It was like living with livestock, to his mind. The Fallen led him to a small library where a fire burned. He’d taken the guise of a middle-aged man with steel-grey hair and vivid blue eyes. He was wearing a sweater and slacks, the picture of a successful human in his country retreat, but Brage knew better. Svarog, for all his affection toward his offspring, was a vicious killer who had no regard for any but his own. Humans he didn’t breed with were nothing to him. It was one of the reasons he and Volund had always been allies.
“So,” Svarog said, closing the door behind them, “what does Volund’s oldest son want in my territory?”
“I am looking for someone.” No subterfuge was necessary. Svarog, like all fallen angels, understood vendetta. “An Irin scribe my father wants me to kill.”
“And you know he is here?”
“He was driving from Istanbul to Vienna. I am hoping to catch him before he enters the city.”
Svarog nodded. “Fine. Hunt if you like. But I have a message for your father, and I expect you to deliver it. Your mouth to his ears, do you understand?”
“I do.”
Cautioned by Svarog’s tone, Brage waited.
“Tell him I know what he is doing, and I want no part of it. If he thinks I will roll over as Jaron did in Istanbul, he is mistaken.”
Brage blinked but showed no other outward sign of surprise. “Why do you ask me to deliver this message?”
The Fallen had ways of communicating with their own kind that surpassed human or Grigori understanding.
Svarog stepped closer, letting the human mask fall. The angel’s eyes shone gold and the automatic terror froze Brage in place.
“I want you to deliver the message,” he said, “because I want Volund to know that his most valued son was in my house, near my children, and I let him live. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Go. And do not bother telling your father where I dwell. By the time you leave my city, this house will be gone.”
“I understand.”
Brage left the house quickly and drove toward Budapest, more confused than ever.
“I know what he is doing…”
What was Volund’s plan? Brage was reminded of his early years as a soldier. The years just before the Irina slaughter had been like this. Mixed messages and mysterious errands. Half-truths and outright lies. He’d understood nothing until the order had come from the oldest soldiers in their house in Berlin. They were leaving the city for some tiny village in the country. They slaughtered women and children, ripping out their throats so they were defenseless.
He’d told himself it was no different from killing humans.
He still told himself that.
“If he thinks I will roll over as Jaron did in Istanbul, he is mistaken.”
He tried to drive the doubt from his mind. Volund would sense it. Doubt was death to the Fallen. Nothing was accepted but utter and complete loyalty. After all, there were hundreds of brothers waiting to take his place if he stumbled.
Brage would not stumble.
A chirp from his mobile phone. It was the number for one of the Grigori who ran Volund’s house.
“Yes?”
“Our father has a message for you.”
“What is it?”
“Come to the house in Göteborg immediately. He will meet you there.”
Brage stopped the protest on his lips. The scribe was in Budapest, he was sure of it. To pull him away now—
“Do you understand?” his brother asked.
It didn’t matter. He was a weapon, nothing more. Volund’s to command, like the blade Brage wore under his shirt.
“I understand. I will be on a plane tonight.”
Chapter Fifteen
His roar of frustration finally brought a pounding at the door. Malachi had been pacing for hours. It was the middle of the night, but somewhere his mate was in danger. Someone had attacked her. He’d woken from his dream with sweat pouring from him, his heart racing, and adrenaline pumping through his system. He’d bolted from the bed, ready for battle.
But there was nothing to do.
He was in one of the secured guest rooms at Gabriel’s townhouse. Leo was in the room next to him. They’d followed Damien’s brother-in-law there after their meeting.
“How did you know? Who told you?”
“Evren called me when he found some information he thought you should know. He knew my father, and he trusts me. You really ought to be better about checking your messages, Leo.”
“What—?”
“It has to do with Ava’s father. And… an impossibility that is looking more possible all the time.”
Gabriel had tucked them into his black chauffeured car and hidden Malachi and Leo away in his spacious home. Gabriel, along with being Konrad’s right hand, was a financier in the city and had accumulated more than his share of wealth. They’d left a message for Rhys to meet them there. As much as Malachi distrusted everything around him, Leo was certain that Gabriel was an ally. Max—who seemed to know just about everyone—confirmed it.
Leo called, “Malachi?”
He said nothing. He couldn’t stop the animalistic growl that left his throat. She was out there, and he had no power to help her. He didn’t even know where she was. Every night since he’d realized his dreams were more than dreams, he went to sleep commanding himself to ask her where she was. To tell her that he was alive. Truly alive. And every night, his mind hazed and he could focus only on her. The outside world fell into shadow. His conscious demands drifted away.