The Storm

by Elizabeth Hunter

  They had no idea about any of their dead family. The dead were not spoken of. They didn’t know how or where their mothers had been trained. They had no idea how Lauma had met Peteris or Stasya had met Ivo. Leo knew his father was not from Latvia, but he didn’t know where he was born or who his people were. And Max’s father was a complete mystery; all they knew was his name.

  Memories of the dead inhabited the farm like ghosts dancing in the corner of a vision. Leo had once found a pony carved into an old apple tree in the orchard. Max saw scribbles low on the wall of a closet. A forgotten note fell from the seam of a book.

  The Irin village was long gone, but the ghosts of their mothers lingered in Dunte. Leo hoped they lingered because his mother and aunt had been happy. That was his hope. Whether he had any reason for it was debatable.

  “Almost there,” Max murmured. “You might want to wake your woman.”

  Leo reached back and rubbed Kyra’s knee as Max pulled off the main road and onto a track leading into a dense copse of trees. It was only wide enough for one vehicle and overgrown by weeds and spruce branches. As they bumped over the dirt road, he felt Kyra stretch and move.

  “Are we there?” she asked in a sleepy voice.

  “Almost.” Renata tucked her tablet in a backpack and leaned forward, placing her hand on Max’s shoulder. “So, is there plumbing in this place?”

  “There’s a well on the property,” Max said. “Gustav said Peter has modernized it over the years. He did most of the work himself, but he’s very good with most machines, so there will likely be plumbing of some kind.”

  “As long as there’s water, I can manage,” Renata said. All of them had been born before plumbing was common. She took a deep breath and smiled. “I smell the sea! And cows.”

  “We’re close to both,” Leo said. “The Gulf of Riga is just past those trees. You can walk to the shore from the farm.”

  “That’s so nice,” Kyra murmured. “I love the sea. I miss the beaches in Bulgaria.”

  “It’s not warm,” Max said. “Not even in the summer. You’ve been warned.”

  “That’s okay.” Kyra reached for Leo’s hand. “I can still walk on the shore.”

  “And ride,” Leo said. “If Peter still has horses.”

  They rounded a curve of the dirt track, and the farm came into view. Leo had thought he was prepared to see it again.

  He wasn’t.

  A large farmhouse with a straw-thatched roof dominated the yard. Across the mud-and-grass yard was a tall barn with a pen on one side. A horse was hobbled in the pasture, grazing on green grass while three cows meandered through an orchard in the distance, their bells tolling through the midmorning air.

  Leo rolled down his window and was greeted with the familiar smell that took him directly back to his childhood. Sea air. Straw. A hint of manure.

  “What a beautiful barn,” Renata said. “It must have been a sizable dairy at one point.”

  “I think it was,” Max said. “But not when we were children. We only kept a few cows for milk and cheese. We didn’t sell anything.”

  “Did you live here or in Riga?” Kyra asked.

  “Both places,” Leo said. “Artis was always here. We spent the week in Riga with Peter, training at the scribe house. Then weekends and most of the summer here with Peter and Artis, learning how to forge.”

  “And milk cows,” Max muttered. “And plant cabbage. And dig weeds.”

  “You know how to forge?” Renata squeezed Max’s shoulder. “I didn’t know that.”

  “I haven’t done it in over a hundred years,” he said. “Leo kept it up longer than I did.”

  Because Max couldn’t wait to escape anything having to do with Peter. Leo glanced at Max and saw his stony face. “It’s a useful skill, even if you’re assigned to a house with a good smith.”

  Leo saw someone walk out of the farmhouse door and stand on the wooden steps. The giant man had dark hair and light skin. Leo thought he could see Peter’s unusual green eyes from this distance, but it was probably only a memory. His father’s eyes weren’t blue like Leo and Max’s. They were green like seaweed bleached in the sand. He and Max had both gotten their coloring from their mothers, but they came from tall people on both sides. Peter was well over six feet tall and broad as the side of their barn, his chest and arms bulky from smithing. Artis was just as tall, slightly thinner, with a body similarly hardened by the forge.

  Max parked the car, but none of them opened the doors.

  Leo glanced at his cousin, who was staring at Peter with narrowed eyes. Leo reached for Max’s hand on the gearshift, squeezed it, and said, “It’s fine. Come. It will be fine.”

  Max turned to Leo. “I won’t hold my tongue. I’m not a boy anymore.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

  Max gave Leo a slight nod; then he released his grip on the shift and opened the door. He got out and opened Renata’s door for her, grabbing her hand before he walked to meet Peter.

  Leo opened his door and got out. Kyra’s door was already open, but he held it for her as she climbed out and stretched, avoiding the mud in the farmyard. He put a hand on her cheek and bent down to take her lips.

  That simple touch gave him life. Kyra slid her hand along the back of Leo’s neck and pressed herself closer. Her touch told him without words: I adore you. You are mine. Leo released her lips and rested his forehead against hers.

  “Thank you for loving me,” he whispered.

  She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Introduce me to your father, Leo. Remember, he cannot be worse than mine.”

  Leo’s smile was immediate and bright. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “That’s the one benefit of mating with a kareshta.” She slid her hand in his and pushed his shoulder to turn him around. “You’ll win the less-evil-family contest every single time.”

  Hand in Renata’s, Max approached his uncle. The man looked exactly as he had the last time Max had seen him. He hadn’t aged at all—he was keeping up his longevity spells—though grey touched the wild hair he tied back with a leather strap.

  They did not embrace. That wasn’t something they did in their family. But Peter stared at Renata with a look Max couldn’t decipher, and it wasn’t unwelcoming.

  “Does the fire still burn in this house?” Max asked, the formal greeting of the Irin giving him the script he needed in the moment.

  “It does,” Peter answered. “And you are welcome to its light.” He glanced at Renata, then past them to Leo and Kyra. “You and your own.”

  Max inclined his head but didn’t release Renata. “Uncle, this is my mate, Renata von Meren, a singer of the Istanbul house.”

  “Well met in this place, Renata.” Peter inclined his head. “You honor us with your voice.”

  “Welcomed with grace,” Renata said. “I’m happy to be here.”

  “I am Peteris of Dunte, son of Artis.” He paused, his eyes drawn to Leo even as he tried to address Renata. “I am Maxim’s uncle.”

  “I know,” Renata said. “And Leo’s father.”

  Leo and Kyra stopped in the middle of the yard. “Peter,” Leo said, gripping Kyra’s hand. “This is my mate, Kyra.”

  That indefinable look flickered in Peter’s eyes again.

  “Well met, Leontios.” Peter’s voice cracked. “And Kyra.” He tore his eyes from them and looked at the barn. “I need… the cows. The cows need to be milked.” He motioned toward the house. “You know your home. Artis is in the library.”

  Max heard the bells coming closer as the cows heard their master’s voice and walked back from the orchard with full udders. It was midmorning, and the fact that they hadn’t already been milked surprised Max. It also told him that Peter was distracted.

  Renata stepped forward to greet the cows. “I’ll help you. I like cows.”

  Peter nodded. “Very well.”

  Kyra released Leo’s hand and walked through the kitchen garden, past the porch to the massive outdoor oven be
tween the farmhouse and the orchard. She walked around it, her hand running over the whitewashed walls. Peter paused and watched her.

  “This is beautiful,” she said, her entrancing voice capturing everyone’s attention. “Does it still work?”

  Kyra didn’t speak much, but when she did, it was impossible to ignore her. Max couldn’t explain it other than to say his sister’s voice was magnetic. She was a first-generation daughter of an archangel; everything about her was magnetic. But there was something special about her voice. No one was immune. Not even Peter, who walked toward her.

  “It was Evelina’s,” Peter said. “Artis’s mate. It still works, but we do not bake. We buy our bread from a woman in the village.”

  Kyra’s smile was open and bright. “If I could get some wood for it, I can bake. I had an oven similar to this in Bulgaria. It was very relaxing, and Artis might enjoy fresh bread.”

  All Peter could do was nod. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but he stopped, turned, and walked to the barn with Renata behind him.

  Leo came to Max’s side. “We should have brought women home years ago.”

  “It wouldn’t have worked,” Max said.

  “Don’t you think so?” He nodded at Peter. “Look at him. He’s actually speaking.”

  “It wouldn’t have worked because we needed to bring these women.” He watched his warrior mate guide the milk cows into the barn, patting them on their backs and trying to engage Peter in conversation. “Only them.”

  Chapter Three

  If Kyra had tried imagining Leo’s grandfather, she would have imagined an older, white-haired, bushy-bearded version of her mate. And her imagination would have been very close to reality. Artis of Dunte, elder scribe and master smith, sat in a round chair facing the sun. He was a tall man, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was a little stooped by age and displayed no apparent signs of sickness.

  But Kyra could see what the others could not. Artis was not sick; he was tired.

  She had seen the same look on countless Grigori and kareshta faces in her life. Unlike the Irin, who could harness magic to prolong their lives infinitely, children of the Fallen all died eventually. They lived longer than humans, but with no Forgiven magic to prolong their life, they were mortal. They persisted in perfect health, untouched by old age, until one day they simply ran out, like a toy whose workings had broken from too much use. Sometimes they lingered in a coma for a few days or their heart would give out suddenly. Then they would return to the heavens, a swirl of dust rising in the air.

  If Leo had not mated with Kyra, sharing his magic with her, it would have been her own fate as well.

  Artis opened his eyes and turned his face from the sun as Kyra entered the library with a tray of warm bread spread with butter and mugs of fresh milk. The corner of his mouth turned up. It reminded Kyra of Max.

  He said, “The food of the angels.”

  “Bread?”

  “Bread.” He rose and walked to the table. “Fresh bread and milk.”

  “Turkish people consider bread sacred, but they eat so much meat.” Kyra set the tray on the table. “I’m not accustomed to it. I prefer bread.”

  “Turks are a herding people,” Artis said, sitting down in the smooth wooden chair. “Herding people eat meat. We are farming and fishing people here. We eat fish and what we can grow.”

  “And milk.” Kyra sat across from him and raised her mug.

  Artis lifted his mug to her. “And milk. The best milk in the world.”

  It was delicious milk. She’d visited the market in town their first afternoon at the farm to gather supplies. Eggs, milk, and all the vegetables they could eat could be found at the farm, but they needed flour to bake bread. Oil to cook. A bit of meat, though Leo and Max—normally heavy meat eaters—were happy to eat the egg-and-vegetable frittata Renata had baked the night before supplemented by the smoked fish Peter had caught.

  “This place reminds me of a farm we stayed at in Germany. There were apples in the cellar and cabbage in the garden.” Kyra had explored everything, including the path that led from the woods and meadows down to the ocean. “I was young then. My father had a compound there.”

  “Barak?” Artis’s lip no longer curled at the name. “Did you stay there with your brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Grigori?”

  “Yes, my brothers are all Grigori,” Kyra repeated. “Free Grigori.”

  Artis grunted and bit into his bread. The night before when Leo had told his grandfather Kyra’s parentage, the reaction had been involuntary and instant. It hadn’t surprised Kyra, though Leo and Max had been offended. Barak was one of the Fallen, a sworn enemy of the Irin scribes, and she was his daughter. Even if her sire had redeemed himself in his death, Artis had lived for hundreds of years seeing Barak’s children as deadly enemies.

  “We get news,” he said. “We do get news up here. That young watcher in Riga forces it on us. Visits once a month whether we want him or not. So I know what you are.”

  Kyra leaned her elbow on the table. “I know what you are too.”

  “A stubborn, narrow-minded old man?”

  “My mate’s grandfather,” she said. “And… the monster in the night.”

  Artis sat up straight. “We weren’t the monsters.”

  Kyra shrugged. “My sisters and I didn’t know that. The only ones who protected us were our brothers. Sometimes they went out at night and didn’t come back because of the scribes. I didn’t know why. I only knew they were gone and it was because of the tattooed men.”

  “Hmm.” Clearly Artis hadn’t thought of life from Grigori perspective. He peered at her from beneath bushy eyebrows. “Do his talesm frighten you?”

  “Leo’s?” Kyra was surprised. Artis was the first scribe to ever ask her that. Even Leo hadn’t thought of it. “At first they frightened me very much. All of them did. But not anymore. I love Leo, and his talesm are part of who he is.”

  “As it should be.”

  His gruff response belied the thoughtful look in his blue eyes. They were the same blue as Leo and Max’s. Vivid sky blue that always made Kyra feel as if she were sitting in sunshine when Leo looked at her.

  “Leo and Max have your eyes.”

  “Both my grandsons look very much like me.” Artis set down his milk. “Leo is broader like his father, and Max is thinner like his.”

  Kyra thought of all the questions she and Renata had discussed between them when Leo and Max weren’t around. “Who was Max’s father? We know his name but not who he was.”

  “He was a troublemaker!” Artis coughed out a laugh. “And wasn’t he the perfect match for my Stasya? I always wanted her to find a steady one like Lauma found with Peteris. Thought it might calm her down. But Ivo’s father ordered a sword from me and Ivo came to fetch it.” Artis’s hand slammed down on the table, making Kyra jump. “And that was that. Reshon. I could see it in the both of them the first time they met. Stasya and Ivo were both wild things. Wild for each other. Wild for life.”

  Artis closed his eyes at the memory, and Kyra watched his face droop. The man who could be so vital when he spoke looked frail and ephemeral in silence.

  “How long have you been fading?” Kyra asked.

  Artis opened his eyes. “I stopped my longevity spells the day Leo and Max left for the academy.”

  “A hundred years?”

  He cleared his throat. “More.”

  Once he had stopped his longevity spells, Artis had begun to fade just as Kyra’s Grigori brothers did. It made sense. Artis was old, but he still appeared in near-perfect health. His soul was aging, not his body. The truth was in his eyes.

  Kyra decided to change the subject. “What about Leo? Were his parents reshon too?”

  Artis shook his head. “I don’t know. They didn’t speak of it if they were. Peteris was so quiet. He was sent from Riga to apprentice with me. Did he tell you that?”

  “No,” Kyra said. “He doesn’t speak m
uch.”

  “He doesn’t speak at all.” Renata walked in from the kitchen with her own plate. “Unless he’s talking about the farm or swords. Kyra, this bread is delicious.”

  “Thank you for making the butter.”

  “Eh.” Renata sat down. “I made Max do it. He was out of practice.”

  The old man cackled.

  “Don’t tell me you know how to churn butter, old man,” Renata said. “You were probably just like my father. Pathetic at household chores.”

  “And you’re like my Stasya,” Artis reached over and pinched the air in front of her. “Bite, bite, bite. But I know how to make butter. I know how to do everything to keep young boys fed.”

  Of course he did. There hadn’t been anyone else.

  “Keep telling stories,” Renata said. “Heaven knows Max and Leo haven’t told us anything.”

  From what Kyra could tell, Max and Leo didn’t know. They didn’t speak about the past in this family, but age and impending death had loosened Artis’s tongue.

  He said, “I don’t think I heard Lauma and Peter say a dozen words to each other in the year he was working with me.” Artis let out a weak cough. “But then Lauma marches in here—this very room—and says, ‘Tēti! Peteris and I will be mated in two weeks. Be sure to send the letter to his family.’ And that was that.” He shrugged massive shoulders. “Peter was the same solemn scribe he’d ever been, but he smiled at Lauma and Lauma adored him.” He nodded at Kyra. “She looked at him the way you look at Leo. So yes, maybe they were reshon. How to make sense of it otherwise?”

  “You had two daughters,” Renata said. “No other children?”

  Artis’s eyes lost focus. “How could we have asked for more? With blessings like those two? We tempted fate, I think.”

  “Why?” Renata asked. “Because they died? Many died. My whole family died. You had two grandsons remaining. And a son-in-law. You were luckier than most.”