The Scribe - Hunter Elizabeth (е книги TXT) 📗

“I haven’t been following you.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I saw these men follow you into the alley.” He lifted his hands, no longer worried about the pepper spray. He could feel the ancient power swirling over his skin. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I said don’t lie to me!” Her energy was high, her adrenaline staining the air as she walked toward him. Malachi backed away, drawing her out of the alley and into the safer street. “You were following me yesterday. You’ve been following me all morning. Why?”

How had she known?

“I haven’t been following you,” he lied. “Do you need some help? Is there someone I can call for you?” She was attracting enough attention just by her raised voice. He didn’t want to attract the police. That was the last thing either of them needed. “Put the pepper spray down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I might. If you tell me why you were following me all morning.”

“For the last time, I have not been—”

Her temper burst. “I heard you, you lying asshole! Do I look stupid? Why were you following me?”

The ground beneath him shifted. The spells on his arms pulsed.

I heard you.

Malachi blinked as his vision scattered, and then he focused on the fearless woman in front of him.

“What did you say?”

Chapter Two

I heard you.

Time stopped as the words left her mouth of their own volition, launching into the air between Ava and the stranger who stood at the mouth of the alley. A thousand whispers surrounded her, and the voices of the city washed over her mind. The words flew, cutting through the cacophony that followed her. Three words that never should have left her mouth.

The man halted immediately, eyes widening as they reached him.

“What did you say?”

He knew.

“Nothing. Leave me alone.” Forget her questions, she had to leave. Ava stepped over the prone bodies of the strange men who were still writhing on the ground. Instinct told her the man whose voice she’d heard following her since the day before was far more dangerous than the thugs who’d caught up with her near the bridge. She’d been lulled by it; something about the tone and pitch of this man’s inner voice was more resonant than most. She’d allowed the voice to follow her, soothed by its tone. It had been the one pure sound in the redolent, clashing air of Istanbul.

“What did you mean, ‘I heard you?’” he called.

He was following her out of the alley, abandoning the wounded men to their own moans and the growing crowd of concerned citizens and tourists. Ava slipped through them, never gladder to have perfected the art of weaving through crowds with as little contact as possible.

The stranger’s whispers followed her, alive with excitement. Curiosity. Hope? She walked faster, trying to leave his voice and the memories it brought behind.

He wasn’t completely unique. Ava had come across the strange resonance before in India. Another time back in Los Angeles. Once, outside a lonely house in Ireland. The resonance of his inner voice was different, though no more understandable, than the rest. Most of her waking hours were filled with the whispers of anyone and everyone she passed, but Ava had no clue what they were saying. It was as if she stood in a crowded room where everyone was whispering. Crowds blended into an off-key hum she’d battled to control for as long as she could remember.

What do your whispers mean, Mommy?

What whispers?

Everyone has whispers.

The strange looks, then the voices others could hear, too.

Crazy.

Troubled.

Dangerous?

Ava’s eyes caught the corner of a leg sticking out of a blanket. A homeless man sat up from a bench near the entrance of the park, eyes wild and body swaying. Their gazes locked for a moment and Ava fought back the pang of sympathy and kept moving. If not for her mother, she might have been him.

She crossed the road at the entrance to the park, headed back to the hippodrome and the relative safety of the heavily touristed areas. Her camera banged against her hip as she walked. Normally, it would be out. She wouldn’t pass up a chance to capture the smiling couple or the woman rolling out bread in a window. She would have captured the small dog watching the young woman tying a carpet in a store window. The two boys ducking behind a display in a shop. Snatches of life in the city. Family and friends going about their lives.

It was a bittersweet triumph, to capture moments she would never have.

The stranger’s voice still followed, the lone bright thread running through the tapestry of the Sultanahmet. It was as if a single voice whispered to her, not off-key, but in a melodious timbre that stroked her mind. It wrapped around her as it had the day before. She had known it followed her, but she felt no instinct to run. The voice called to her, tempting her to turn and follow it. Urging her to abandon caution and seek it out.

The tone of the stranger’s voice revealed his mood, though the meaning was still a mystery. Disbelief, frustration, and hope, all wrapped together. Ava ignored the urge to turn, stubbornly focusing on navigating the streets, dodging traffic, and avoiding the frightening swarms of tourists trailing mechanically behind the cruise ship guides.

Despite the crowds, she couldn’t stop the thrill and awe as she passed Aya Sofia and the Blue Mosque. She loved it here, which had been a surprise. Ava hadn’t loved a city in a long time. But this city was seductive. Layer upon layer of history. East meeting West. Modern colliding with ancient. Istanbul had been a revelation of the senses.

The stranger’s voice was still following her when Ava turned the corner near her hotel, almost jogging up and down the completely unnecessary hill the house sat on. If you didn’t look closely, it might have been no more than a very gracious residence in the heart of the city. In reality, it was an exclusive hotel that catered to travelers looking for luxury, safety, and privacy. Made of wood in the Ottoman style, it was almost plain from the front. But as she approached, a guard opened a door, letting her into the cool interior of the refuge, searching behind her when he saw the hint of panic still evident on Ava’s features.

“Ms. Matheson?” he asked in lilting English. “Is there a problem?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks. I thought… It was just my imagination, I’m sure. Is the roof garden open?”

The guard’s eye widened. “Right now? It is open, but the day is very hot, miss. Perhaps when the sun goes down—”

“It’s fine.” She shot him a tense smile. “I just need some privacy.”

“Of course.” He nodded and lifted a hand toward the elevators, but Ava didn’t want to chance that someone might join her. Voices always grew more agitated in confined spaces, and the elevators in the hotel were small. She walked toward the stairs instead. Her phone was already out and she was dialing her mother’s number when she pushed the door to the terrace open. Sunlight flooded over her, baking the tile that covered the roof. Ava took shelter under one of the generous shade covers that marked a quiet corner. As she suspected, the terrace was deserted. Keeping away from any windows or open doors, she let the phone ring across the world in Los Angeles.

“Hello?” Lena Matheson answered in a groggy voice. “Ava, what’s wrong?”

It was just past midnight in L.A.

“Did you and Carl hire someone local?”

“What?” She heard Carl’s voice in the background, a quiet growl that her mother shushed. “What are you talking about?”

“Did you hire someone, Mother?”

There was a quiet huff. “Well, really, Ava, what did you expect? You asked Carl to have pepper spray delivered to your hotel. He—”

“That’s precautionary, Mom! I do that anywhere I’ve never been before when I’m traveling alone.” A tight, nervous part of her stomach relaxed. It wasn’t a stranger after all. Despite the unusual voice, the man following her was just another guard hired by her overprotective mother and stepfather. Nothing she couldn’t handle.