The Singer
Page 71

“Except…” Malachi’s voice dropped when he realized what Rhys had missed. “Except Ava.”
“What?”
“Ava. He hides Ava. Have you ever heard of him having a daughter?”
Rhys thought for a moment. “No. He doesn’t speak about her in interviews.”
Malachi grudgingly acknowledged, “He seems to be very protective of her, as far as keeping her out of the spotlight. And from what you’ve said, it was his money and his influence with Ava’s mother that kept her independent.”
“Ava said her father was adamant that nothing was wrong with her mentally. Even…” The car slowed as Rhys’s thoughts drifted. He was blasted to awareness by an angry honk behind them. “Blast.”
“Do you want me to drive?”
“No. I’m not tired. I was just thinking of something Ava told me once.”
“What?”
“Her father set up an independent trust fund for her to access when she was twenty-two. Her. Only her. Her mother had no access, though she had other child support while Ava was growing up. But it was the trust fund that made Ava independent. She even owns a house in Los Angeles that Reed bought her in the hills near Malibu. Very private. She never stays there, but he bought it for her.”
“So—”
“Reed knew her as a child. She thought he was only a family friend, but she knew him. Quite well. And Ava said he was one of the few people who never treated her any differently, even when she had massive anxiety and mood swings. Even when the doctors were telling her mother to commit her. At her worst—which sounded like puberty—Reed was one of the few adults in her life that Ava said she didn’t have to guard herself around.”
The light began to dawn. “You think he knew she heard voices? Did she tell him?”
“No. But if his mother was Irina, maybe he did know, Malachi. Maybe in some way, he knew his mother was different. Knew his daughter was different in the same way.”
“He named his daughter after his mother, then hid both of them from the world.”
Rhys nodded. “We know what he was hiding with Ava. Or maybe what he thought he was hiding.”
“Maybe he hid his mother for the same reasons.”
It was close to midnight when the three finally arrived in Oslo. They hadn’t warned the scribe house there that three traveling scribes were coming. Rhys knew Lang, the Watcher of the house, and was certain they would be welcomed. Max said he would contact them the next night with more information.
They knocked on the door, knowing someone would answer even at midnight. Lights were on all over the house, and he could hear voices, even past the formidable old door. The cold wind whipped down the vacant street, and the air was bitter with snow. Malachi drew his jacket closer around him.
Rhys knocked on the door again, louder, and Malachi finally heard footsteps. The door was yanked open by a harried-looking man with shaggy blond hair and hard blue eyes. He frowned for a moment until his gaze settled on Rhys.
“Rhys,” he said, a smile cracking the hard planes of his face. “Thank heaven. I didn’t know if London would send anyone. Then… I didn’t know whether I should cancel the order for help. To see a trustworthy face is more than I could have asked.”
“Lang,” Rhys started, “what are you—”
“Your friends”—the sharp eyes grew cold again—“can I trust them?”
“Of course. These are my brothers from the Istanbul house. We’ve just come from—”
“Istanbul?” Lang stepped toward them, and Malachi realized how tall the scribe was. Standing next to him, Malachi almost felt like a boy. Lang had to have been at least six and a half feet, and though his build was lean, he was hard-muscled and quick. His eyes narrowed on Rhys. “That’s right… you’re not in London. Not anymore. You’ve been in Istanbul for years now.”
“You know this, Lang. I didn’t call before because—”
“What are you doing here?” The watcher crossed his arms, and Malachi could see a hint of old talesm at his wrists. All friendly welcome had dropped from the scribe’s face, and he reached back to bang his hand on the door in three sharp, rhythmic raps. Within seconds, two more scribes were there, one even paler than Lang, the other with skin dark as the night around them. They stood, two ominous counterpoints, behind Lang’s suddenly hostile stance.
“Lang?” Rhys’s normally pale face went even paler. “What is this?”
“I received no word that scribes from Istanbul would be coming to my city. What is the meaning of your presence here?”
Malachi tried to keep his voice low. “Has the hospitality of Oslo house fallen so far that three Irin brothers are not even given welcome on a freezing night?”
Lang’s attention shifted to Malachi. “The night may be frozen but my mind is not. You come here for some purpose. I can read it in the Englishman’s face. Who sent you?”
“No one sent us.”
“Really? Then state your purpose. Or leave.”
“Really, Lang!” Rhys was indignant. “What kind of nonsense—”
“Perhaps before we state our purpose,” Malachi said, “you should tell us why you called for help from London.”
“That’s none of your concern. If you will not state your business, leave now.”
He turned and the two scribes behind him stepped forward. Both would be formidable adversaries. Malachi’s palms itched for his knives.