The Singer

I.

Göteborg, Sweden

It wasn’t often his father called him to appear in person. But given the task Brage had just accomplished, it could hardly be said he was dreading the appearance. He strolled through the Götaplatsen, ignoring the human women who cast longing looks in his direction. The package his father was expecting rested safely at his side.

The blade from Istanbul had been found. A heavenly blade. It was one of only three that Brage had ever seen. The only one that had been in his hand. It would be nothing to human eyes. Dull. Devoid of decoration or flourish.

But to one of heaven’s children, it was a treasure beyond price.

Countless hours searching through mud and shit, through rotten food and human waste, and he’d found it. Or, his brothers had while he directed the search. They didn’t question him; few Grigori lasted as long as Brage. At nearly three hundred years old, he was almost as strong as one of the Irin he despised.

Fucking scribes with their fucking honor. Their fucking magic and mates and foolish sentimentality. They, like he and his Grigori brothers, could rule the humans if they wished. Rule as the ancients had.

Brage stopped in front of the Poseidon statue and waited to feel him. He only waited moments.

There.

The soldier’s eyes closed, and his mouth dropped open as the wave of fear and adoration swept over him. The cynical soldier disappeared, and the child leapt to the surface. Brage wanted his father’s approval. Needed it. Would do anything, kill anything, steal anything to get it. He longed for the love of this creature, as if the lack of it would damn him.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

“Hello, Father.”

“Brage.” The stunning man appeared at his side. The humans around him would notice nothing. They would have no memory of the angel appearing, for he had always been there. No side-glance or double take. The handsome man in the double-breasted suit and overcoat stood next to another man who could be his brother.

Brage knew Volund appeared that way purposefully. If the angel had been speaking to one of his Russian or Turkish brothers, Volund’s appearance would have reflected their appearance, just as his blond hair and vivid green eyes reflected Brage in that moment. It appealed to the human side of the Grigori. Their vanity. The younger and more foolish soldiers believed this resemblance indicated some particular favor when they saw it. Brage had thought so himself when he was young.

“Do you have the knife?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. I want you to keep it.”

Brage worked to conceal his surprise, but it was useless. Volund knew him intimately. Like any of his blood, the angel could read his children. Read their moods, feel their fears, find them if they tried to hide. There were no secrets between the Fallen and their offspring. There was no place that Brage could hide, and for that reason—and many others—he didn’t even try.

“I assumed you would want it back.”

Volund turned to him, the edge of a sneer twisting his perfect lips. “That was when I thought it had done its job.”

Brage said nothing at the harsh words. He did not know what his father spoke of, but knew Volund would offer no more information than was necessary. It was useless to ask. Brage would be told only enough to complete his task.

He bowed his head and said the words that had kept him alive for three hundred years. “Father, I am yours to command.”

There was a pause as Volund considered him. In the silence, Brage listened to the hum of the humans around him. The cheerful chirp of women and children. Music played in the background. It was a sunny day, even if it was cold. The humans were enjoying the weather.

Brage had no part of their world. He existed in it as a predator. A lion culling the weakest of the herd.

Volund tilted Brage’s head up with one finger. “The female’s Irin mate is alive, Brage.”

Brage dared not contradict the angel, though he wanted to. He’d felt the knife pierce the scribe’s spine. Saw the golden dust rise in the air. He had fallen in the water when the woman had screamed. The woman, he’d been told, was “only a human,” but valuable for some reason. He knew his father lied. The burst of magic when the “human” woman had screamed was unmistakable. She was Irina.

Or something far more frightening.

“I do not know what to tell you, Father. I killed the woman’s mate. I did not lie to you.”

“I know you didn’t.” Volund’s voice was no longer angry. His hand stroked over Brage’s cheek, soothing his child. “She is quite unexpected, isn’t she? I’m trying not to kill you for failing to bring her to me. I know you are the most skilled of my children.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“But you still failed.”

“Forgive me, Father.”

“I want you to find her mate. Find the one they call Malachi. He is of the angel Mikhael’s blood. A warrior by birth and destiny. And he has taken the female as his mate.”

The fiercest Irin scribes were from Mikhael’s line, and Brage knew from experience they were intensely protective of their mates.

“Do you have any information for me?”

Volund’s mouth formed a pout. “Jaron has concealed her from me, but if you find the scribe, you will find the woman.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Kill the scribe… again. Bring the woman to me. Do not fail this time.”

Tears of gratitude slipped down Brage’s cheeks. “I will find her and kill him.”

“Or die trying.”

Brage bowed his head and made the vow. “I will kill the scribe and bring the woman to you, Father, or I will die in the effort.”