The Singer
Page 47
“Good morning,” he said. He was American. Malachi didn’t know why that was surprising.
“Good morning.”
“I’m going to assume you still like a big breakfast,” Phillip said. He nudged the shoulder of the younger man sitting to his right. “Victor, move. Let my friend sit down.”
Victor didn’t seem offended. The young man simply picked up his plate and moved a few chairs down at the massive kitchen table, which was spread with all manner of food. Steaming plates of sausages and bacon. Thick slices of brown bread and cheeses, along with the stuffed peppers he’d smelled from his room upstairs. Eggs. Pâté. It was a feast fit for the group of massive men who filled the room.
Phillip waved to the chair and Malachi sat down. Rhys took the chair opposite him.
“My mother would be proud,” Phillip said with a grin. “That is, she would be if I’d cooked any of it.”
“Who cooked?” Malachi asked, immediately beginning to fill his plate. For some reason, he felt as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
Phillip nodded to another man who stood at the sink. “You can thank Tas. He may be from the country, but he knows how to cook.”
Tas shrugged and reached for a pack of cigarettes by the window. “I know how to cook because I’m from the country, you American idiot,” he said in thickly accented English. He lit up the cigarette, scraping a hand over a jaw that looked like it hadn’t seen a razor in days.
Phillip smiled again. “I’m smart enough to make sure you’re the one cooking for guests, aren’t I?”
Rhys and Malachi shared a smile as the Budapest scribes laughed. Even Tas gave what Malachi guessed was as close to a smile as he ever reached, then he turned back to the stove. Phillip spoke again as the quiet hum of morning conversation filled the room.
“You got in so late last night we didn’t get a chance to catch up.”
Rhys said, “Life has been… interesting lately.”
“I heard about the fire,” Phillip said, shoveling eggs onto the edge of his toast. “And that Damien went to the city to petition funds to rebuild.” Phillip cast his eyes around the room and shook his head. “Good luck to him; he’ll need it. I’ve been struggling to get promised funds for years now. The bureaucrats are not very receptive. I’m assuming you’re on your way to join him.”
“Not exactly,” Malachi said, exchanging a glance with Rhys.
Rhys said, “It’s a bit more complicated than that, Phillip.” He directed his eyes toward the younger scribes at the other end of the table. Phillip caught the glance and barked out something that sounded like an order. Within minutes, the men had filled their plates with food and abandoned the room, leaving Malachi, Rhys, and Leo alone with Phillip and the sullen Tas, who grabbed an ashtray and joined them at the table, a cup of black coffee in front of him.
Phillip said, “Tas is my second. He’s very trustworthy. Anything said to me can be shared with him.” Then he turned to Malachi. “What’s going on? You seem different. What’s happened to you?”
Leo said, “You don’t miss much, do you?”
Sharp green eyes met Malachi’s. “No, I don’t. And I’ve known this one longer than you’ve been alive, boy.”
Malachi slowly chewed the bacon in his mouth, swallowed, and set down his coffee cup.
“Technically,” he said, “that might not be true anymore.”
Phillip’s mouth still hung open. “So… you’re telling me—”
“I was dead. And now I’m not.”
“And your mate—congratulations, by the way—your mate actually…”
“Brought me back.” Malachi and Rhys looked at each other. “We think.”
Rhys said, “We’re not sure. We’re not sure of much, to be honest.”
“And you don’t remember who you are?”
“I’m starting to,” Malachi said. “It’s coming in pieces.”
“Certain things don’t seem to be a problem,” Leo said. “When he scribed his new talesm—”
Phillip and Tas hissed out simultaneous curses, and Phillip said, “You lost your talesm, brother?”
“Yes.”
Tas said something unintelligible under his breath, but it didn’t sound good.
“No, I can’t even imagine,” Phillip said to him before he turned back to Malachi. “And your mate has disappeared with Damien?”
Malachi nodded.
“Taken to Sari,” Tas said, the cigarette hanging from his lips as he reached across the table to help himself to another sausage. “He took her to his mate. Fierce woman. She’ll be fine.”
Phillip frowned. “Only she still thinks he’s dead, you idiot.”
Tas shrugged his wide shoulders. “But he’s not. It will work out.” He sucked in another lungful of smoke, then exhaled, saying, “Why are you going to the city when she’s not there?”
Rhys said, “We think Gabriel knows where Sari is.”
Tas let out a grim chuckle. “He probably does, but he won’t tell you. No one can tell you.”
Malachi’s eyes narrowed on the dark man, who seemed to know even more than the watcher of the house. “Why do you say that?”
Tas’s hooded eyes gleamed. “Old, old magic over that place. Even Irina who have lived there can’t tell you where it is.” Then the corner of his lip curled up. “Trust me. If she could have told me, she would have.”
“Good morning.”
“I’m going to assume you still like a big breakfast,” Phillip said. He nudged the shoulder of the younger man sitting to his right. “Victor, move. Let my friend sit down.”
Victor didn’t seem offended. The young man simply picked up his plate and moved a few chairs down at the massive kitchen table, which was spread with all manner of food. Steaming plates of sausages and bacon. Thick slices of brown bread and cheeses, along with the stuffed peppers he’d smelled from his room upstairs. Eggs. Pâté. It was a feast fit for the group of massive men who filled the room.
Phillip waved to the chair and Malachi sat down. Rhys took the chair opposite him.
“My mother would be proud,” Phillip said with a grin. “That is, she would be if I’d cooked any of it.”
“Who cooked?” Malachi asked, immediately beginning to fill his plate. For some reason, he felt as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
Phillip nodded to another man who stood at the sink. “You can thank Tas. He may be from the country, but he knows how to cook.”
Tas shrugged and reached for a pack of cigarettes by the window. “I know how to cook because I’m from the country, you American idiot,” he said in thickly accented English. He lit up the cigarette, scraping a hand over a jaw that looked like it hadn’t seen a razor in days.
Phillip smiled again. “I’m smart enough to make sure you’re the one cooking for guests, aren’t I?”
Rhys and Malachi shared a smile as the Budapest scribes laughed. Even Tas gave what Malachi guessed was as close to a smile as he ever reached, then he turned back to the stove. Phillip spoke again as the quiet hum of morning conversation filled the room.
“You got in so late last night we didn’t get a chance to catch up.”
Rhys said, “Life has been… interesting lately.”
“I heard about the fire,” Phillip said, shoveling eggs onto the edge of his toast. “And that Damien went to the city to petition funds to rebuild.” Phillip cast his eyes around the room and shook his head. “Good luck to him; he’ll need it. I’ve been struggling to get promised funds for years now. The bureaucrats are not very receptive. I’m assuming you’re on your way to join him.”
“Not exactly,” Malachi said, exchanging a glance with Rhys.
Rhys said, “It’s a bit more complicated than that, Phillip.” He directed his eyes toward the younger scribes at the other end of the table. Phillip caught the glance and barked out something that sounded like an order. Within minutes, the men had filled their plates with food and abandoned the room, leaving Malachi, Rhys, and Leo alone with Phillip and the sullen Tas, who grabbed an ashtray and joined them at the table, a cup of black coffee in front of him.
Phillip said, “Tas is my second. He’s very trustworthy. Anything said to me can be shared with him.” Then he turned to Malachi. “What’s going on? You seem different. What’s happened to you?”
Leo said, “You don’t miss much, do you?”
Sharp green eyes met Malachi’s. “No, I don’t. And I’ve known this one longer than you’ve been alive, boy.”
Malachi slowly chewed the bacon in his mouth, swallowed, and set down his coffee cup.
“Technically,” he said, “that might not be true anymore.”
Phillip’s mouth still hung open. “So… you’re telling me—”
“I was dead. And now I’m not.”
“And your mate—congratulations, by the way—your mate actually…”
“Brought me back.” Malachi and Rhys looked at each other. “We think.”
Rhys said, “We’re not sure. We’re not sure of much, to be honest.”
“And you don’t remember who you are?”
“I’m starting to,” Malachi said. “It’s coming in pieces.”
“Certain things don’t seem to be a problem,” Leo said. “When he scribed his new talesm—”
Phillip and Tas hissed out simultaneous curses, and Phillip said, “You lost your talesm, brother?”
“Yes.”
Tas said something unintelligible under his breath, but it didn’t sound good.
“No, I can’t even imagine,” Phillip said to him before he turned back to Malachi. “And your mate has disappeared with Damien?”
Malachi nodded.
“Taken to Sari,” Tas said, the cigarette hanging from his lips as he reached across the table to help himself to another sausage. “He took her to his mate. Fierce woman. She’ll be fine.”
Phillip frowned. “Only she still thinks he’s dead, you idiot.”
Tas shrugged his wide shoulders. “But he’s not. It will work out.” He sucked in another lungful of smoke, then exhaled, saying, “Why are you going to the city when she’s not there?”
Rhys said, “We think Gabriel knows where Sari is.”
Tas let out a grim chuckle. “He probably does, but he won’t tell you. No one can tell you.”
Malachi’s eyes narrowed on the dark man, who seemed to know even more than the watcher of the house. “Why do you say that?”
Tas’s hooded eyes gleamed. “Old, old magic over that place. Even Irina who have lived there can’t tell you where it is.” Then the corner of his lip curled up. “Trust me. If she could have told me, she would have.”
