The Singer

by Elizabeth Hunter

  Karen said, “Bruno teases that I have a touch of Chamuel’s blood.”

  “Chamuel? Is he an angel?”

  “He’s our forefather who gifted the Irina with empathy and mental influence. My mate is probably right—”

  “Say it again.” Bruno sighed. “It’s music to my ears.”

  Karen gave him a wry smile. “I have a touch. But Orsala? She has Chamuel’s gift, only far stronger than me. She’s a very potent empath and she’ll be able to read you.”

  “Empath? So, she can actually… feel what I’m feeling?” Ava was reluctant to vent her own emotional roller coaster on another person, even one who was supernatural.

  “She can feel what you’re feeling and influence your mind, though she won’t unless it’s necessary.”

  “I don’t want her in my mind.” Forget it. She’d run away before she met this Orsala person. She’d rather take her chances with the Grigori.

  Karen reached out a hand. “She won’t do anything. Not unless it’s necessary. And she’ll always tell you ahead of time. Our songs say that is why empathy and influence go hand in hand. Only those with extreme empathy for another can be trusted not to use that influence to manipulate.”

  Damien said, “In short, Ava, Orsala could influence your mind to do almost anything, but since she would feel your emotions—feel the consequences of forcing you to do something against your will and the mental agony that would produce—she would never do it. Does that make sense?”

  “I guess.” Ava felt herself start to relax.

  “It’s the reason that Sarihöfn is protected,” Bruno said. “Orsala gives everyone a mental prompt—a safety—so we are unable to reveal its location. This is what keeps us safe from Grigori who might try to kidnap one of our people and make her talk.”

  “Has that happened?” A chill went down her neck.

  “Yes,” Karen said softly. “A number of times. The Grigori finally realized that kidnapping us wouldn’t work. So now they just kill us on sight.”

  “Orsala will give you that mental prompt when you meet her, Ava,” Damien said. “You won’t have a choice about it.”

  “I’m fine with that.”

  “Good.”

  The thought of being forced to lead the Grigori to this peaceful place made Ava want to throw up. Instead, she steadied her hands on her coffee cup and took another bite of bread, deciding to steer the conversation into less dangerous waters.

  “So, Karen, if I baked, I’d ask you for this recipe. But I don’t, so I’m just going to ask that you bring it by a lot.”

  Karen gave her a bright smile. “Would you like to learn how to bake?”

  “Unless you want your kitchen in flames, it’s probably a bad idea.”

  Ava was walking between Sari and Damien on the path to Orsala’s house. The older woman lived about a mile away from the main house and surrounding cottages. The energy between the two mates crackled despite their silence, and Ava tried to ignore the rush of voices that flew from their minds. Both obviously had a lot to say, but they had no intention of sharing.

  Finally, Ava had to break the silence, if for no other reason than to stave off the approaching headache. “So, why does she live so far away? Is it because of the empath thing?”

  “Hmm?” Sari looked over her shoulder, as if surprised that Ava was still there.

  “Orsala. Why does she live away from everyone else?”

  “She can shield herself from the emotions around her, but it costs energy she knew she was going to need to read you the first time. So she went to her house. She likes her solitude, but she’s often in the main house.”

  “That’s why you haven’t seen her,” Damien said. “After today, she’ll be around more.”

  “I feel bad she had to keep away.”

  Sari shrugged. “She doesn’t have to do anything. She chose it. It’s no responsibility of yours, so don’t feel bad.”

  “Still, I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t apologize. My grandmother hates it when Irina apologize too much.”

  Ava bristled at Sari’s tone but bit back her reply. The woman was brusque, to be sure. Probably more so than Damien. Ava found herself on the “get Sari and Damien back together” train, despite her initial dislike of the woman. Both of them obviously needed to get laid.

  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 he
r 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.