“Yes, for work.”
“You’re a photographer?”
“I am.”
“Welcome to my country. And to my home.”
“Thank you.”
The woman looked amused at Ava’s terse answers. “Have I offended you in some way?”
Ava decided that Sari would respect the direct approach. “I showed up and you tried to bash in the head of the guy who’s been protecting me. Even though he’s your mate. What do you think?”
The room fell almost silent around them, but Ava never let her eyes leave Sari’s. Sari said nothing, but the smile never left her lips.
“And how is this your business, Ava Sakarya? Did I attack you?”
Ava supposed she had a point. It wasn’t her business. Not really. So why was she so resentful of the woman? “No, you didn’t attack me. I just think… you’re lucky to have him,” Ava said in a low voice, her eyes flicking to Astrid. “Not all of us do.”
Was it her imagination, or did a hint of guilt cross Sari’s face?
“I suppose you’re right. Then again, he’s quite lucky to have me, as well.”
“I’m sure he’d say the same thing.”
Sari’s eyes gleamed. “I know he would.”
There was a pause, then attention shifted away from Sari and Ava as the voices in the room resumed their quiet hum.
Sari stretched her arms up. She was an immensely tall woman. Her body and presence both made Ava feel like a child. Her muscles were hardened and lean. In the human world, people would assume she was a serious athlete. To Ava, she simply looked lethal.
“Are you comfortable here?” Sari asked.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“And how are you sleeping?”
Astrid barked something in a language Ava didn’t understand, then exchanged a few sharp words with Sari.
But Sari only smiled at her. “Astrid tells me that this is none of my business, and that she is the healer. I disagree. You’re in Sarihöfn—which was named for my great-grandmother, by the way, not me—so that makes your sleep part of my business.”
“My sleep? What does sleep—”
“Sleeping. Dreaming,” Sari said. “For us, these are not the same as for humans. Sleep is when our souls reach out. We can perform magic in dreams if we’re not careful. Didn’t they explain that to you?”
“No. There was a lot the scribes never explained.”
Sari sighed. “Well, that is… sadly typical. They do love their mysteries and cryptic puzzles.”
“There also wasn’t much time.”
Astrid said, “Sari, move on. I’ll talk to her about sleeping. I think she’s fine.”
“Very well,” Sari said. “Astrid tells me you are a mystery. Were you truly raised among humans?”
“Yes.”
“Very curious. I assume your mother lost her mate. Why did she not seek shelter with her family?”
The focus of the room was back on them both, and Ava tried not to cringe under the scrutiny. She felt like she had every time she entered a new school. Her stepfather’s money and connections meant that people had certain preconceived notions about who Ava would be. Their notions always exceeded the reality.
“You’re not crazy. You’re a miracle.”
His voice whispered to her, reminding her to sit up straighter. “My mother is human, not Irina.”
Sari frowned. “I known a human raised you, but who is your real mother? A nanny? A servant? It wouldn’t be unheard of after the Rending to hide among the humans, but someone must have shielded you as a child. Didn’t they ever find out? Surely the scribes with all their voluminous records could find your real mother. Even in America, they have archives.”
Why hadn’t Damien explained it better? “No. Lena Matheson is my real mother. And my father—”
“So she is Irina.” Sari looked as frustrated as Ava. “And mated to a human?”
“No, my mother is not Irina. I told you—”
“But she has to be.”
“She’s not,” Ava said through gritted teeth.
“But you’re Irina!” Sari said, grasping Ava’s wrist. She tried to pull away but couldn’t. “I can feel you. So powerful. You’re like a shot of pure energy. And mated, as well. Marked, Astrid said.”
“Yes.”
“So there must be some mistake.” Sari squeezed her hands tighter. “You must not have known. Your real mother—”
“Lena Matheson is my mother,” she said. “Now let me go.”
She didn’t. “But your mother must be Irina.”
“Well, she’s not. And before you ask, I look exactly like her. Everyone knows I’m her daughter. A single look would tell you.”
The whole room had fallen silent, and Ava fought the urge to crawl under the table or run screaming from all the eyes on her. She trained her eyes on the scarred grain of the wood table, trying to block out the room.
“How is this possible?” Sari’s voice soft and searching. “Sister… how did you survive?”
The sudden softness in Sari’s voice startled her. “I just did. I knew I was different. Always different. Obviously, the scribes were looking—”
“But how?” Sari lifted a hand to her cheek. “Who shielded you? Who taught you to silence the voices?” She turned her hands to weave Ava’s fingers with hers, her grip strong. When she did, Ava felt safe, like a blanket of protection covered her, and she understood why all the others followed the woman. In that moment, Ava knew that Sari would fight to the death to protect her, no matter where she had come from. Because she was Irina.
She was like them.
“No one taught me anything,” Ava said. “I’ve heard voices my whole life. I just thought I was crazy.”
The collective gasp from the women around the room made Ava want to run. She would have, if Sari’s hands hadn’t held her in place. She chanced a look up.
The color had drained from Astrid’s face, and she held her hand to her throat.
“Oh, Ava…,” she murmured.
Sari looked murderous.
“I’m not hungry.” Ava tried to push back from the table, but Sari locked her foot around the leg of Ava’s chair. “Let me go. I want to leave now.”
Sari looked around for a moment, then she barked out something in another language and the women around the table bustled back to their tasks. When she spoke again, her voice was chillingly calm. “So the humans thought you were mentally ill?”
Ava shrugged. “What were they supposed to think when a little girl told them she heard voices no one else heard?”
That was a question none of them seemed to be able to answer. After a few moments, a rich bowl of steaming soup was placed in front of her along with a basket of sliced bread. As the food was set down, Sari removed her foot from Ava’s chair.
“Eat, sister.”
Ava had the urge to leave again, just because the woman’s commanding tone rubbed her the wrong way. But the scent of the soup was enticing, and Astrid’s hopeful eyes met hers.
“Please, Ava. Stay and eat with us.”
“Fine.” She picked up a piece of the bread and dipped it in the soup.
Astrid and Sari both murmured something under their breath, then they began to eat.
“I’m glad Damien brought you here,” Sari said after a few minutes of silent eating. “It is not good that you were in the world for so long on your own. You could have easily hurt someone, including yourself. Not to mention, I’m amazed you’re not locked up somewhere, rocking in a corner.”
“I’m rich enough to avoid padded rooms,” Ava said. “So that helps.”
“I imagine it does.” She paused and looked out the window toward the cottage. “And then you had to go and stumble into my mate’s scribe house.”
“He wasn’t very happy to have me.”
Sari rolled her eyes. “He’s a suspicious old man. The Creator has plans he doesn’t always share with his scribes, no matter what they’d like to think. The folly
of men is pride.”
Astrid said, “And the folly of women is resentment, sister.”
“I didn’t ask you, Astrid.”
“I think Malachi said something similar once,” Ava added after a minute of quiet staring between the two. “About Damien being a stubborn old man.”
At that statement, Sari and Astrid exchanged a look that Ava couldn’t decipher. Then Astrid said, “It’s good that he brought you to us. We can begin your training immediately.”
“And what kind of training will that be?”
Ava looked up when they didn’t answer. Astrid looked amused, and Sari’s eyes were glinting.
“A very thorough training,” she said. “My grandmother will enjoy meeting such a mysterious Irina.”
The knot of dread settled in Ava’s belly. “Oh. Goody.”
Chapter Five
“Tell me what this says.”
Rhys pushed a clay tablet across the table, then leaned back into his chair. Malachi tore his eyes away from his knuckles, which were inexplicably scratched. He didn’t remember hurting himself, but his hands looked like he’d fought his way through thorns. He took a deep breath and looked down at the library table, frowning when he saw the smooth clay in front of him.
“This says nothing.”
“Look again.”
“Rhys, there’s nothing…” He felt, rather than saw, a tremor from the corner of his eye. “Wait. There is something—”
“Don’t look at it.”
He looked, growling in the back of his throat when the shadow disappeared.
“I told you not to look,” Rhys said. “Take a minute to close your eyes, then look again. This time, don’t try. Let your mind absorb it without conscious thought.”
Malachi closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and looked again, staring at the center of the tablet as ghostly figures teased the edges of his vision. He didn’t focus on them. The letters seemed to take on a life of their own, crawling tentatively from the edges of the tablet until they formed beneath his gaze. When the letters seemed more solid, he let out the breath he’d been holding and allowed his eyes to finally focus on the top of the tablet, looking first right, then left. Instinct guided him as the characters turned into syllables in his mind. The syllables turned into words he translated instantly.
“‘And Leoc, giver of visions and bearer of prophecy, returned to the heavens,’” he began, reading aloud. “‘His daughters bear his mark, the mark of the seer, though their eyes now glimmer only faintly with their father’s gift.’” The story went on, talking about the gifts of prophecy some of the female of his race were given. The tablet was old, and though the writing had been completely worn away, he could still read the words that had been written by an ancient hand. When he finally looked up, Rhys was watching him with a measuring stare.
“Your natural magic is as strong as it ever was. In fact, I think it’s actually stronger. A young scribe just starting his training would have had to meditate on that tablet for hours before the writing revealed itself.”
“What language is it?”
“Greek. Medieval period. It’s one of the earliest tablets this scribe house produced. Most of the older documents were taken to the master libraries in Vienna many years ago when human interference became more of a concern.”
“And I can read it because…”
“Because you’re a scribe. We can see and decipher any written language with little to no practice.” Rhys slid another document in front of him, this one a sheet encased in a clear plastic sleeve that held tiny rows of black characters. “Try this one.”
Malachi frowned for a moment, then said, “It’s a tax record. Of… barley?”
“That’s a Sumerian tax ledger copied from the original clay tablet three hundred years ago.”
“Why would we preserve a tax ledger?”
Rhys frowned, as if he’d never considered that before. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“Well…” He frowned, not wanting to offend.
“Irin scribes preserve knowledge, Malachi. It’s our mission.” Rhys scooted forward and leaned over the table, clutching the edges of the tablet. “Battling the Grigori. Protecting humans. These are all secondary pursuits, and a necessary evil of this fallen world. But preserving knowledge is our purpose. It is what we were born to do.”
“But why is a tax ledger important?” Malachi picked up the plastic sleeve that contained what must have been hours of work.
“Maybe it’s not important to you,” Rhys said. “Or me. Maybe it won’t be important for one hundred years. Or five hundred.” Rhys shrugged. “Maybe it will never be important. But if it is, it will be there. If the knowledge is needed, it will not have been lost. To lose knowledge is a tragedy. As you learn more about yourself, about our world, don’t forget that. This”—he motioned to the shelves of books and scrolls around him—“is our purpose. Beyond the fighting. Beyond the struggles. This is what scribes were born to do.”
Malachi nodded and ignored the voice in his head that told him sitting in the library with Rhys was most definitely not what he’d been born to do. What he’d been born to do was help his mate, who was somewhere in the world, suffering without him. The urge to get up and leave the library was hard to resist.
“I know you must be feeling stifled,” Rhys said. “Frustrated. But until we have some direction on where to look for Damien and Ava, it’s no use rushing off. We’d be just as well to stay here and try to figure out what you can and can’t do.”
Malachi pushed the Sumerian manuscript back toward Rhys. “I can read ancient languages and understand them. So useful. What else can I do?”
Rhys ignored the sarcasm and held up his hand. On the inside of his left wrist was a swirl of ancient letters, almost too small to read across the table. They curled around in a spiral until the words crawled up his forearm, then twisted and wrapped around his arm like a snake.
“You can do this.”
A low hunger started in his belly. Something in the dark corners of his memory told Malachi that this was something he wanted. “Talesm.”
“Talesm.”
“Our magic.” Malachi rubbed hands over his bare forearms.
Rhys took a deep breath before he spoke. “Irin have two kinds of magic. Natural magic, which we are born with—the kind that lets you read any language in front of you and see words even after they’ve been erased from the physical eye—and learned magic. Both were gifted to us by our fathers.”
“The angels?”
Rhys nodded. “Our books say that when the Forgiven left the earth, the Creator allowed them to hide a shadow of heavenly magic within their children. But not everything. That had been their mistake with their first children. They had given them too much power. So much that some had to be destroyed. Before they left, they divided their magic. To their sons, they gave the gift and power of the written word. To their daughters, the songs of the ancients, along with gifts of healing, foresight, and discernment.”
Malachi remembered the story on the clay tablet. “The daughters of Leoc?”
“An old name for those Irina who are gifted—or some say cursed—with visions. Different angels bore different gifts, depending on their role in the heavenly realm. Their children bear a fraction of their fathers’ powers, but it is still formidable. For Irin, we learned over time that we could work magic—control it, mold it for our own uses—through the written word.”
“And the Grigori?”
Rhys shook his head. “The Fallen were not gifted as the Forgiven were. Their children are more than human, yes, but they cannot wield magic as we can. A Fallen may loan some magic to a Grigori occasionally, but it is not really theirs. When we Irin tattoo spells on our bodies, we permanently make that magic a part of us.”
“It’s like armor,” he said.
“That’s one way of looking at it. We use it to strengthen our bodies. Make ourselves stronger. Increase our longevity. A mature and trained Irin scribe is practically immor
tal.”
Malachi rubbed the back of his neck. “But not entirely.”
“Clearly.”
Silence fell between them, with nothing but the tick of a mantel clock filling the air. Rhys watched him with some unspoken question burning in his eyes.
“What?” Malachi finally asked. “Are you tired of telling me all these things? We should take a break. I feel like running.”
“You generally do after a day cooped up inside. Or when you’re irritated.”
For some reason, Rhys’s knowledge of his habits irked him. Why did this stranger know more about him than he did?
“Will my talesm come back?” he asked. “Or are they lost? Will I have to tattoo them all over again? How long will it take to be strong enough?”
“We have no idea.” Rhys shrugged a single shoulder. “You need to do basic protection spells, at the very least. Once we find Ava—”
“And when will that be?”
“I don’t know.” Rhys’s eyes flashed. “I told you, we don’t know where Damien took her. We’re doing our best, but you’re going to have to be patient.”
“I am being patient,” he growled.
Rhys made a disgusted noise at the back of his throat. “You’re still so… you. Even when you’re not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His shoulders tensed.
“Never thinking ahead. Rushing into danger with no thought to—”
“I’m thinking of my mate,” Malachi bit out, rising to his feet. “She needs me, and I must go to her.”
“To do what? Protect her?” Rhys stood up, glaring at Malachi from across the table. “You can hardly protect yourself right now. You need to—”
“I need her,” Malachi said. “And she needs—”
“She needs her mate back!” Rhys snapped. “Right now, you’re only a shadow of who she needs.”
Malachi bit back the rage on the tip of his tongue and narrowed his eyes at the man who had called himself his friend. Or, he’d called the old Malachi his friend. Perhaps the two were no longer the same.
“You are angry with me,” he said, crossing his arms. “Resentful. Why?”
The Singer Page 6