The Singer, Page 2

“Who?” The farmer’s wife spoke. “Is there someone we can call for you? Perhaps we can take you to the hospital in Polatlı? Your name is Malachi? What kind of name is that? English? You don’t look English.”

  Malachi shook his head. “I don’t need a hospital. I feel fine, just confused.”

  The cave. There was a place with many caves. A place he and the woman had been. They’d been safe there. He remembered the feeling of safety. Was the woman still in the caves?

  “But if you don’t remember anything, then shouldn’t you see a doctor?” the farmer asked. “That is not normal. You are a young man. Perhaps there is some illness in your mind that—”

  “I need to find a place with caves,” Malachi said, standing abruptly, suddenly confident in his destination. He heard the farmer’s wife gasp and her eyes widened as she glanced down. Malachi realized the sheet he’d tucked around his waist had fallen off. Clearing his throat, he reached down and wrapped it around himself again.

  The farmer only looked amused. “With caves? A place with caves? There are caves all over Turkey.”

  Malachi’s heart sank. “I remember being in a cave. I have this memory of my…” What was the human word? “Wife. My wife and I. There was a house in the caves.”

  The old woman cocked her head. “You were living in a cave with your wife?”

  “I think so. Or… we were staying there. There was a bed and… a desk. A washroom, even. I… I don’t know more than that.”

  They exchanged a look, and the old woman shrugged. “Cappadocia, maybe?”

  “One of the cave hotels?” the farmer asked. “Perhaps they took a holiday.”

  “I can’t think of any other place. Who lives in the caves these days?”

  “Cappadocia?” Malachi said, searching his mind. There was a faint memory… Yes. His father had gone to Cappadocia to study when he was a boy. There were scribes there—

  Scribes.

  He took a quick breath as another bubble of memory rose. He was a scribe. That was why the letters spoke to him. He was a scribe and others of his kind were in Cappadocia.

  “Yes,” he said in a more confident voice. “In Göreme. I have people there. People who will pay you if you bring me back. I need… I need to find her. I think she is there.”

  The farmer’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? I still think it might be a good idea for you to visit a hospital. You can always call them—”

  “No.” Malachi realized the farmer was talking about using the telephone. “I… don’t remember any telephone numbers.” The more he searched his mind, the more he remembered. Odd things. He had crystal-clear pictures of his childhood, but couldn’t remember his mother’s name. He knew he wasn’t human, but also knew he couldn’t tell the humans what he was. He could picture faces, but not in context. He’d traveled the world—he knew that—but he wasn’t sure if he could drive a car. It was as if he’d been put back together from pieces, but too many of them were missing to create a clear picture.

  And he couldn’t remember her name. He desperately wanted to remember her name. Remember more about her. But other than a few brief memories, his mind was silent.

  “I have a friend who could take you,” the farmer said. “He has a truck going to Kayseri tomorrow. I can ask if you can go along.”

  “I don’t have any money to pay…”

  The farmer shook his head. “I can sense you are an honest man. I know these things. You will pay him when you get there. Or send money back.”

  The wife’s raised eyebrow told Malachi she was more skeptical, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she said, “I will get you some blankets. You’re welcome to sleep on the cot over there.” She pointed at the corner where a small pallet lay. “Are you hungry?”

  He nodded. His stomach had been aching since he woke. “I don’t remember the last time I ate.”

  “I’ll get you a plate then. Osman will bring it out after he’s called Ibrahim.”

  “Thank you.” Malachi sat again. “I cannot thank you enough. I promise I will repay your kindness somehow.”

  The woman’s voice softened. “I hope you find your wife. Sleep well. I’ll send extra blankets. The nights are getting cold.”

  He slept deeply that night. Malachi dreamed he was running in a dark forest. He knew he was searching for her, but no matter which way he turned, the paths all led to dead ends. He could hear her crying somewhere. The sound almost brought him to his knees. She needed him. She was as lost as he was, but so far away.

  Come back to me.

  He heard her whisper it again. His soul raged in pain and anger, and Malachi knew he would hear her his whole life. She would call and he would answer. He belonged to her as surely as she belonged to him.

  When he woke, the sky was still black, but he was more determined than ever.

  The truck came at dawn, the honk of the horn answered by the old farmer’s friendly yell and the smell of breakfast wafting from the house. Malachi dressed in the too-small clothes the farmer named Osman had given him, apparently left from a cousin who’d lived there briefly. The pants were too short and a little baggy, but the T-shirt fit him well enough. He kept looking down at his arms, sensing something was wrong… but they were fine. The skin was smooth and unmarred by injuries or scars. He shook his head and went out to meet the driver.

  Osman’s friend, Ibrahim, was a delivery driver for a shipping company out of Ankara. He was taking a load of wool to Kayseri and bringing back finished textiles. As he was an old friend of Osman’s, he was more than happy to do the favor, though he couldn’t promise how fast Malachi would be delivered. They took off as the sun was rising, Malachi shaking Osman’s hand briefly, conscious of his growing strength, careful not to hold the farmer’s hand too long.

  Malachi could sense some energy growing. It made him edgy. Uncomfortable.

  Luckily, Ibrahim didn’t ask many questions; he mostly wanted an audience. Ibrahim liked to talk. Malachi sat back, amused by the humorous old man, smiling for the first time as he listened to the raucous jokes and fantastic stories of the truck driver. Two hours later, he drifted into a fitful sleep, only to wake when the truck jerked to a halt.

  Ibrahim was smiling. “What was that?”

  “What?”

  “That language you were speaking! I’ve never heard it before, even in Istanbul.”

  What language had it been? Probably the language of his thoughts and dreams. The one he knew the humans weren’t supposed to know about.

  Malachi decided to play dumb. “I have no idea.” He smiled. “How could I? I was sleeping.”

  Ibrahim laughed. “Fair answer, friend! Well, we’re here.”

  Malachi looked around the dusty town, but nothing seemed familiar. “In Cappadocia?”

  “Osman said you had people in Göreme. I brought you to Göreme.”

  Cars and pedestrians were scattered around a lively intersection, but Malachi could tell it was a very small town. Surely, once he was walking, he’d recognize something.

  “Where are the caves?”

  Ibrahim laughed again. “It’s Göreme! There are caves everywhere. Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to a hospital?”

  “No.” Malachi sat up, spying something out of the corner of his eye that looked familiar. It was a restaurant with a balcony. Red umbrellas shaded the tables. There was something about the balcony… “No, I just realized where I am.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded, reaching for the door handle, suddenly eager to explore. He halted when Ibrahim’s arm shot out.

  “Wait.” The old man reached for his wallet. “I like you. Take a little money, just so I’m not so worried, eh?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Please, take it.” He held out some notes. “I’ll give you my card. If you want, you’ll pay me back when you find your people. But Allah would not be pleased if I sent you away with nothing. Take enough to be safe for a day or two, okay? And you’ll have my phone number, too.”
/>   Touched by the man’s generosity, Malachi smiled. “You are a good man, Ibrahim. And you tell very good jokes, even though I didn’t understand all of them.”

  Ibrahim roared with laughter. “Well, you have brain damage! What can I expect?”

  A few minutes later, Malachi waved as Ibrahim drove down the road, then he turned and searched for the restaurant. He walked slowly, hoping that, somehow, things would start to make sense. As he passed the restaurant, he caught the edge of a sign for a rug shop and knew he’d walked by it before.

  She swung her arms as she walked, and Malachi let his brush against her. Just the brush of contact. Just so she knew…

  He turned right, then right again at a cafe with a cracked window.

  She stopped, her cheeks flush with embarrassment as she caught the tenor of his thoughts. Embarrassment, but desire, too. He knew she wanted him…

  Up the hill he climbed, until he’d left the shops behind and the streets were filled with stone houses. A striped cat walked along the top of a wall, following him as he searched for clues. At each intersection, he’d see something.

  An orange tree that tilted to one side.

  A wall with colorful graffiti no one cared to paint over.

  An abandoned cupboard with grass growing through the bottom.

  Each turn led him up the hill and farther away from the town center, but with each step, his sense of familiarity grew.

  She was chatting about something with a dark-haired man. Laughing at some joke he wasn’t a part of. He was irritated by their ease together.

  At the end of the road, a house rose into the cliffs. Or, he should say, a group of houses. There were buildings stacked at the base and rooms carved into the cliffs with stairs leading up. A wall surrounded the old compound, but no graffiti covered it. Trees grew over the walls and he could hear voices whispering within. He didn’t recognize the language.

  Here.

  She was here. She had to be.

  Malachi stepped up to the large wooden door in the wall and lifted the knocker, banging it down as the voices beyond the wall stopped. There were shuffling steps, then an old man opened the gate.

  “Yes? How can I—sweet heaven!”

  Malachi stood speechless as the old man’s face paled. His eyes were like saucers.

  “Hello?”

  “It can’t be…,” the man breathed out.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I… I think I—”

  “You’re dead.” The man stepped back, and fear rose in his eyes. “You’re dead.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “What are you?”

  “What?” Fear twisted Malachi’s heart. Perhaps he’d been wrong to come here.

  The old man’s hands shook. “You wear the face of a dead man.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “What are you?”

  Anger rose up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’m not dead, obviously. I just don’t remember—”

  “Malachi?” The awestruck voice came from behind the old man.

  Malachi raised his eyes to see the dark-haired man he’d seen in his memories. “I remember you.”

  The other man’s eyes were also filled with fear. But it was a fear mixed with hope. “They said you were dead.”

  “Who did? I don’t know what’s going on. Who—”

  “It can’t be.” The dark-haired man stepped forward, his arm raised. He reached for Malachi, confusion written wide on his face. “They saw you die. Your dust rose. She felt your loss…” The man’s fingers touched Malachi’s shoulder and gripped. “You’re real. How are you real?”

  A thick emotion filled his throat, and his eyes burned. “I don’t know what happened to me, but I need to find her.”

  Another voice rose in a shout. “No!” The sound of running steps, then a tall blond man stood in front of him, mouth gaping. “No, I saw you die.”

  “Maxim,” the dark-haired one said. “Are you sure?”

  “How can you even ask me that?” he cried. “We all saw him die, Rhys. You saw her grieve. This is something… This is not our brother!”

  She grieved… For him? Fear and shock and anger wrestled within him. Malachi said, “I don’t know who your brother is, I just need to find her. Where is she?”

  “You will not hurt her!” the blond man yelled. “Whatever thing you are, you’ll keep away from—”

  “But Max”—the dark-haired man named Rhys stepped between his friend and Malachi—“if it is him—”

  “It can’t be!”

  “What if it is?” He held the blond man back by the shoulders. “What if some miracle—”

  “Miracle? Is this the time of the ancients? This is evil. Evil wearing the face of our—”

  “I need to find my wife!” Malachi roared. “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know who I am. But I know I heard her. Heard her calling me to come back to her. I just need to—”

  “What?” Rhys had frozen, turning to look at Malachi, even as he continued to hold Maxim back. “What did she say?”

  “I said, I need to find—”

  “No,” he hissed. “What did she say?”

  “I don’t—”

  “When you heard her”—Rhys stepped closer, looking Malachi in the eye—“what did she say?”

  Malachi tried to calm his racing heart. “Vashama canem. She said, ‘Come back to me.’”

  All the color drained from Rhys’s face. “Heaven above.”

  Chapter Two

  Nordfjord, Norway

  Ava was still sleeping when the car came to a stop. She clenched her eyes shut, holding on to the safety of silence for as long as she could.

  “Ava.”

  Damien knew she was awake. The man had preternatural senses that never switched off. Ava had decided he was like a weird combination of the most overprotective dad and big brother in history. Which, being the only child of a mother who saw her more as a peer than a child, was a new and interesting experience.

  She snuggled into the down-filled jacket under her cheek and ignored him.

  “Open your eyes. I know you’re awake. It’s going to rain in about fifteen minutes, and I’d like to start up the trail before it pours.”

  She lifted her head and turned to him, speaking in a scratchy voice. “I never would have let you talk me into this in Turkey if I hadn’t been such a mess.”

  “But you did, and now we’re here. Get your jacket on.”

  She caught him looking at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Looks like someone’s nervous to see the wifey,” she muttered.

  “Ah, look. Acid-tongued Ava is back. I missed her so much while she slept.” Damien gave her a droll look. “Wait, no I didn’t.”

  “You’re the one who dragged me out here.”

  “Would you like to go back to Oslo?” He pulled the keys out of the ignition and tossed them to her. “Go ahead. Hope you can outrun Volund’s Grigori. Maybe you can scream again if they get close. Or maybe not. You’d pass out and hurt yourself if you did that.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Or maybe you can follow me and stop acting like a child.”

  “Stop trying to manage me,” she croaked, her voice dry from sleep.

  “For now you need to be managed.”

  She licked her lips and Damien held up a bottle of water. Ava took it, drank, then handed it back, noticing the extra-grim expression on his face. Slightly mollified by the water, she softened her tone.

  “Hey, Captain Sunshine, shouldn’t you be happier than this? You’re going to see your wife at the end of that trail.”

  Damien only stared into the thick trees that surrounded them. “A piece of advice—Sari doesn’t like the word wife.”

  “Why not?” Ava knew the Irin used the word “mate” more than wife, but she’d heard the scribes in Turkey use both on occasion.

  “She was born in a time when the human term ‘wife’ implied property.” Then a
rare smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. “And Sari is no male’s property. Now get your shoes on and lace them up tight. I don’t know everything that will meet us on that trail, but I do know this: there will be mud.”

  They were somewhere in rural Norway, surrounded by blue and green. Steep green mountains laced with waterfalls cut against the clear blue sky. Blue-green water from the glacier melt. Ava knew they were somewhere in the fjords, but she wasn’t sure where.

  The plane had taken them to Paris, then Berlin, then Damien had found a car and started driving. He didn’t tell her where, but she could read the signs. They’d headed west, then north. Through Hamburg and into Denmark. They’d taken a ferry that landed them in Bergen, then after a brief sleep in a small hotel, they’d started driving again.

  Through mountain highways and on smaller ferries, they’d driven farther and farther into the Scandinavian countryside. Towns were quickly overcome by wilderness and an utter sense of isolation that Ava found comforting and frightening in equal measure. As she stepped out of the car, she felt as if she and Damien were the last two people on earth.

  There was nothing but trees, sky, and a biting wind that carried the promise of rain.

  She shivered, not only from the cold but also the memories of her dreams. Every night she dreamed of a dark forest. She thought she heard him, calling for her, running through the trees, trying to get back to her. In her dreams, she’d call for him, but no one would come. And then she’d weep the tears she no longer allowed herself in her waking hours. When she woke, they were cold on her face.

  Ava locked away her grief and focused on the task ahead. Damien was pulling a backpack from the trunk of the small car they’d pulled over to the side of the road. She looked around into the forest.

  “Is the car going to be safe here?”

  “It will be fine. She’ll send someone down for it if she decides to let us stay. I know they keep some cars there, so they must have a place to park them out of the weather.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if she decides to let us stay’?”

  He shrugged. “She’ll allow you to stay, I’m sure, but she won’t want me.” He couldn’t hide the pain that crossed his face as he said, “She’ll be angry I showed up without an invitation.”