The Singer

“You,” she whispered again. Their eyes met, gold and grey. The tips of her fingers traced his lip.

It was a dream. But not a dream. A dream had never felt so real.

“Blast!” The pipe caught Malachi in the face as he turned the corner. His cheek sliced open, and he saw stars as the Grigori swung again. Malachi ducked and decided he was tired of running. The Grigori danced in front of him, his clothes still rumpled from the human women’s hands and his quick flight. His hair hung over his eyes and a deep cut was already healing on his unearthly face. He had the thin, ethereal beauty of so many of his kind, ironically so like the angels the humans depicted in art. Delicate, almost boyish.

Malachi was not fooled.

The soldier danced in front of him, quicksilver over grit. Malachi felt like a slow brute with his heavy fists and thick muscles. The Grigori was faster than him. He’d have to be to get the jab in that he had, even now, when Malachi wasn’t at full strength.

They said nothing, both taking the measure of each other. The Grigori’s glance flicked over Malachi’s shoulder, then he feinted right. Malachi caught the look and slammed into the man’s body as he tried to slip to his left.

The Grigori might have been faster, but brute strength still won when it found its target.

Slamming the soldier into the cobblestone street, Malachi tried to flip him to his belly so he could pierce his spine, but the man proved as stubborn as he was fast.

“No,” he hissed, finally starting to panic. “Not like this!”

Malachi could not turn him, not while he had to hold his dagger with one hand and straddle the man to keep him from running. Irritating little bastard.

“Why don’t you just cooperate and die like a good monster?” he grunted, holding the man by his hair.

“Fuck you!”

“That’s not nice.” He grinned as an idea came to him. “Maybe you’re too much trouble after all.”

Malachi slid to his right knee, letting the man lunge up, desperate for escape, but the scribe’s heavy leg still lay over the Grigori’s waist. With a quick twist, Malachi slammed his opponent’s face into his braced knee and felt the nose crunch. The back of the Grigori’s neck suddenly bared, Malachi brought the silver blade home, piercing the man’s spine. The only sound was the sucking gasp as the soldier began to dissolve.

For a moment, Malachi saw her face. Felt the cold water at his waist. He was in the cistern again, and he heard Ava’s scream.

“NO!”

Then the memory was gone.

And so was the Grigori.

He sat in the dirt of the alley and stretched his back. He could feel the deep gash over his kidneys mending. He pushed up his sleeve and traced over the healing spell again, letting his fingers linger over the new marks that had bloomed as Ava sang to him in his dream.

She did this.

Malachi pushed his sleeve down when he heard Leo and Phillip coming down the street. But he still sat, rubbing his knee a bit where the Grigori’s nose had left a spurt of blood. That was irritating. He didn’t have that many clothes, and he hated asking Leo for things.

The two scribes turned the corner, chuckling when they saw him sitting in the center of the alley.

“Did you get tired?” Leo asked.

“Just taking in the sights.”

Phillip glanced around. “Well, if you were looking for a scenic corner of Budapest to loiter and people watch, you did not find it.” Then he grinned and held out a hand.

Malachi grasped it and pulled himself to his feet.

“Take care of the runner?” Leo asked.

“Yes.”

“He was fast.”

“Faster than me.” Malachi twisted his neck to the side, feeling the joints release. “Luckily, big guys get lucky sometimes.”

Phillip said, “More than luck, my friend. If you don’t remember Chicago in ’72, then I’ll remind you someday.”

“Maybe later.” He wanted a shower; he could still feel the dust on his skin. And then they needed to get on the road. He and Leo had only run out for a quick hunt when Tas decided they needed a different car. The irritable scribe had gone out to procure one from questionable sources while Leo and Malachi helped Phillip on patrol.

“Tas should be back by now, huh?” Leo asked.

Phillip shrugged. “Probably.”

“And where is this car coming from?” Malachi asked.

“It won’t be stolen,” the watcher said. “Not recently, anyway. But he’s right. If any of the Fallen have you on their radar, it’d be good to change cars occasionally. How are you doing on funds?”

“We’re all right,” Leo said. “Max left us some money.”

“He still playing cards?”

Leo smiled. “He calls it supplemental income.”

“The boy has rich tastes,” Malachi said. “Always has.”

Both of them stopped and looked at him expectantly.

“What?” Malachi said. “I remember bits and pieces. Most of it is still a blank.”

“If you say so,” Phillip said.

“Besides, Max’s taste is obvious. How many scribes do you know who wear a five-thousand-dollar watch?”

“It didn’t cost me five thousand dollars, Leo.”

“But Malachi said—”

Leo held the phone out. Max was on speaker, calling from Berlin.

“If he bought it in a store, it would cost that,” Malachi said, eyes on the road.