I think what I’m most afraid of in this life is that I will get to the end of it—die in battle or just from exhaustion—and have no memories of home.
She kissed him. “Do you have memories of home now?”
“I have memories of you, and that is the same thing.” Max rolled to the side and tucked Renata against his body. “And Artis has memories by the hundreds. Memories of growing up here and falling in love with a beautiful and gifted singer. Memories of his mate baking the most delicious bread and his daughters rocking in a cradle by the stream. Memories of his daughters finding love and having their own children.”
Renata said, “And now he has memories of his grandchildren finding love. Of a new generation being born.”
Max nodded. “His life has been full, and now he is ready to leave. He would not be drifting away if the Creator didn’t know he was ready.”
“I know that.”
“But…?”
She looked across the glowing coals of the fire to where Peter sat in vigil next to Artis’s prone body.
“I’m still going to miss him.”
Leo woke in the night to see his father watching his grandfather with the most tender expression Leo had ever seen on the man’s face. He rose from his bed, covered Kyra with a heavy blanket, and walked to sit beside them.
Peter brushed a tuft of grey hair back from Artis’s forehead. “I will miss him.”
“I know.”
“He was my teacher. Then he was my family. The only thing I had left.”
Leo took a deep breath and came to a decision. “You have me and Max. And Kyra and Renata. You’ll have the baby too. You have family, Father.”
Peter looked at Leo for a long time. “I am sorry, Leontios.”
“For what?”
Peter frowned. “You know.”
Did Leo need the words? Would he demand them for his own vindication or accept what his father was offering?
Let it be, the wind whispered through the forest. Let it be.
“I know,” Leo said. “I forgive you.”
“You are stronger than I am.”
Leo shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“You are.” Peter put a hand on Leo’s shoulder. “I can see.”
“Thank you.”
Peter stretched his legs out, pointing his feet toward the fire. “I think I will tell the scribes in Riga I have need of an apprentice.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“There is room here. The world is changing, but we always need smiths.”
“Who knows?” Leo said. “The way the world is changing, the scribe house might send you a singer instead of a scribe.”
Peter’s eyebrows went up, but he shrugged. “As long as she can swing a hammer.”
“That I might have to see.” He glanced at his father. “We’ll come next summer when the baby can travel. Maybe you’ll have a new apprentice by then.”
“Thank you.” Peter’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I will… expect you.”
Max and Leo walked on either side of their grandfather, helping the fading scribe down to the beach as the sun began to rise and the morning sky turned pink. Renata walked behind them, singing the songs of the dying. Kyra walked with Peter, one of Evelina’s blankets wrapped around her shoulders.
As Artis began to stumble, she saw Azril walk from the forest to meet them on the dunes where the long grass swayed.
The old scribe lay down in the sand and let out a labored breath, his eyes locked on the horizon. Leo and Max knelt beside their grandfather, supporting his back. He put a hand on both their heads, whispering in turn to each of them. He clutched their hands and looked to the sky before his eyes closed in peace. A smile touched his lips, and Kyra could see the borders between his body and his soul blur in the dawn light.
Azril looked at Kyra and smiled.
“Do you see him?” she asked Peter.
“I do.” Peter’s voice was choked. “Is he…?”
“That’s Azril.” Kyra smiled. “He’s a friend.” She wasn’t surprised by Peter’s reaction. Who expected Death to come with a gentle smile? “He’s always the same. Everywhere on the earth, he has always been. The world can be cruel. Humans and angels both. But Azril isn’t cruel. When your mate left this world, she took his hand and she would have known peace. I promise, Peter.”
He stared at Azril. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Renata’s voice rose as the sun did, singing high and clear in the morning mist. As she sang, Azril walked to Artis and knelt down at his feet. He reached his hand from the grass cloak and offered it.
Kyra saw Artis smile. Then the old scribe reached out, and his fading hands clutched Death’s offering. The moment they touched, his body began to shimmer with a faint gold light.
The smile on Azril’s face was incandescent. Walk with me, Artis of Dunte. Your body is no longer your home.
Artis’s body dissolved in a shower of gold light and his dust rose, carried by the angel to the heavenly realm.
Max loaded the cradle basket in the back of the truck as Renata and Kyra debated which trunks to take and which to leave at the farm. They were already planning their visit next summer, ordering Leo around as he carted things in and out of the house.
Peter walked over to Max with a wrapped bundle under his arm.
“What is that?” Max asked.
Peter held out the bundle. “Your father’s sword. Someone in Vilnius sent pictures to Riga and they sent the pictures to me. I recognized the markings on the blade and bought it. It had been in the collection of a human who did not know what the talesm were.”
It might have been the longest sentence Max had ever heard from his uncle.
Then again, it was about weapons.
“Thank you.” Max unwrapped the bundle and looked at the finely worked leather of the scabbard.
“I made the scabbard.”
“It’s beautiful, Peter. Thank you.”
“It was dangerous to leave it with the humans,” Peter said. “This was forged with very strong magic and has a silver core.” He drew the sword from the scabbard with the practiced hand of an expert. “Ivo took great pride in this sword. He never said how old it was, but I would estimate fifteenth century, so it likely belonged to his father since your father was my age.”
Max’s eyes went wide. “You knew him.”
“Yes.” Peter frowned. “Ivo was my best friend.”
Of course he was. The two men had loved twin sisters. They had been family. They had worked the same farm in Vilnius and written blessings for each other’s children. Peter and Ivo had probably been nearly as close as Leo and Max.
In that moment, Max understood—truly understood—the magnitude of Peter’s loss.
Mate. Sister. Brother. Children.
Peter had lost everything that day. The fact that he wasn’t a raving monster was a miracle.
His uncle was overdue for grace. What good did it do to hold on to resentment? Nothing new or better could come from it.
Grace.
“I would like to hear more about my father when we come next summer.” Max reached out his hand. “If you would be willing, Uncle.”
Peter hesitated, but he took Max’s outstretched hand and nodded.
“Perhaps, if you would rather not speak of it, you could write it down.”
“That would be better,” Peter said. “I can do that.”
“Be well.” Max carefully slid his father’s sword back in the scabbard, brushing a hand over the protective magic bound into the sheath. He could see from the workmanship that the scabbard had taken many hours to create. “I’ll… send letters about the baby when I can.”
“And about yourself,” Peter said. “And Renata.”
“If you wish.”
“Yes.” Peter nodded again. “I would like that.”
They loaded the rest of the truck and pulled away just after the midday meal. Max slid behind the
driver’s seat and reached a hand out for Renata. Kyra was already sleeping in the back seat, and Leo was listening to music on his headphones.
“Ready to go home?” Renata asked.
Max kissed her knuckles before he put the truck in gear and pulled away from the place that had been his home. A place that he hoped might become a home again.
“I’m with my family,” he said. “I’m always home.”
* * *
THE END
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Preview: THE SEEKER
Houston, Texas
Rhys of Glast, only son of Edmund of Glast and Angharad the Sage, Irin scribe and archivist of Istanbul, was not impressed by the biscuits and gravy at the diner in on Kirby Drive. The biscuits were passably flaky, but the gravy tasted too much of flour and was thick enough to stand a fork in. Fortunately, the chocolate cream pie had redeemed the meal.
The waitress walked around the counter and down to Rhys’s booth with a steaming pot of coffee. “Warm up?”
Rhys quickly put a hand over his mug, an edge of ash-black ink peeking from the long-sleeved linen shirt he wore. “Tea.”
Her brown eyes widened. “Pardon me, sugar?”
“Tea,” Rhys said again. “I’m drinking tea, not coffee.”
She smiled. “That’s right. Can I get you some more hot water?”
“Please. And another bag of tea.”
“You got it.” She walked away with a natural sway to her wide hips, dodging the server coming at her with practiced grace.
There were two waitresses working in the diner that night, the older black woman with greying hair and quick reflexes and a younger white woman Rhys suspected was just starting her job. She looked to the older woman almost constantly for cues and lingered at a table in the back corner near the toilets where a brown-haired young man smiled and flirted with her.
In addition to the waitresses there were seven other patrons. Three students who had taken over a round booth, a middle-aged couple who appeared to be quietly fighting, an older man lifting coffee to his mouth with shaking hands, and the Grigori flirting with the young waitress.
Rhys sipped his tea as he watched the Grigori. It was plain black tea, nothing like the symphony of teas he was accustomed to in Istanbul. There one could find tea blended with spices from all over the world in countless varieties and subtle variations. Love of tea had redeemed Istanbul for Rhys.
Pie was on the way to redeeming Houston.
The Grigori glanced at Rhys and opened his newspaper, pointedly ignoring the scribe who watched him. The air-conditioning blasted in the restaurant, even in the middle of the night, forcing the hot, wet air of the Bayou City to cold condensation that ran down the windows and scattered the light of the passing traffic on Kirby Drive.
The Grigori glanced up, then looked down again. Despite the air-conditioning, Rhys could see a gleam of perspiration at the man’s temples.
Rhys of Glast had spent his formative years in the cool mists of Cornwall and southern England, but for some reason known only to the Creator, his entire adult career had been spent in various places that baked and steamed.
Spain. Morocco. Istanbul.
And now he was being sent to New Orleans, Louisiana by way of Houston, Texas.
Hot and hotter.
The waitress returned with a battered metal pot with a red and yellow packet wedged on the side. “You want another piece of pie?” She motioned to the near-empty plate. “Sure didn’t seem like you liked the biscuits and gravy much.”
“I didn’t.”
The woman didn’t look offended; her pink-painted mouth turned up at the corner. “More pie, Mr. Bond?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The waitress glanced over her shoulder before she turned back to Rhys. “Fancy British guy eating pie and drinking tea at two in the morning on a Wednesday night? Sitting in the corner booth with one eye on the door and the other on that flirty fella in the booth by the bathroom?” She wrote something down on her order pad. “If I didn’t know you weren’t carrying, I’d be worried.”
Rhys sat up straighter. “Not that you’re wrong, but how do you know I’m not carrying a firearm?”
The tilted smile turned into a grin. “Sugar, I’ve been waiting tables in Texas for thirty-five years. I know when someone’s got a gun.”
“Fair enough.” He made a mental note not to discount the waitress.
Rhys hadn’t approached the Grigori by the toilets. He’d been drawn to the diner by the scent of sandalwood that followed the half-angelic creatures—sons of the Fallen always carried the distinctive scent—but so far, the Grigori had done nothing but flirt, and that was built into its DNA. In the complicated times they lived in, that meant Rhys was forced to show restraint.
No longer could scribes hunt Grigori on sight. Though the Irin race was charged with protecting humanity from the offspring of fallen angels, recent revelations had turned black and white to countless shades of grey.
Some Grigori wrested freedom from their Fallen fathers and conquered their predatory instincts. Many of those had turned those instincts to join the Irin in their quest to rid humanity of fallen angels. Some of their sisters, the kareshta, had mated with Irin scribes. Rhys’s own brother-in-arms was mated to the sister of a Grigori the Istanbul scribes had once hunted.
It was all so complicated now.
“Has he done anything to concern you?” Rhys asked the waitress quietly. “The man by the bathrooms?”
“No.” She lifted the empty pie plate. “Just sitting there reading his paper. He likes the blueberry and wears too much cologne. Not my type.”
Rhys forced his eyes away from the Grigori. “Another piece of chocolate for me.”
“Cook just put a black-bottomed pie in the case.”
His mouth watered. “That sounds perfect.”
“See?” She winked at him. “Knew you were my type.”
Rhys couldn’t help his smile.
“You be good,” she said, walking back to the counter.
Rhys sometimes longed for the days when the borders between enemy and friend were clear. Only a few years ago, he could have stalked the creature waiting in the restaurant with a clean conscience; run him to the ground, pierced his neck with the silver blades he he hid, and watched Grigori dust rise to the heavens to face judgement.
It is what they deserve, a vengeful voice whispered inside him. It was the Grigori who had slain the Irina singers. It was the Grigori who had tried to wipe out their race. It was the Grigori—
No.
That wasn’t their world now. Rhys dunked the tea bag into the silver pot. That would never be their world again. Their world demanded forgiveness. It required reconciliation, both within their race between the Irin who hunted and the Irina who hid, and outside their race between the Irin and Grigori who pursued a peaceful life.
So Rhys waited for his tea to steep.
And he watched.
At four in the morning, the air outside the dinner was still muggy. Rhys toyed with the end of a cinnamon toothpick as he watched the entrance of the diner from the car he’d rented at the airport. His phone was on speaker, and his brother Maxim was speaking.
“The Houston scribe house and the New Orleans house are combined under one watcher. It’s a situation that’s persisted despite complaints from New Orleans, but the American Watcher’s council is unconvinced that New Orleans needs a stronger presence.”
Rhys said, “It’s a large tourist destination.” Grigori liked to feed on tourists.
“True. But as far as anyone can tell, attacks are surprisingly low. Houston has more. Larger population, bigger house.”
Rhys pulled the toothpick from between his lips. “Fallen presence?”
“The closest known Fallen stronghold is in St. Louis. There are always minor angels a
bout, but Bozidar is the closest known archangel and he resides in and around St. Louis. Prior to his arrival around two hundred years ago, there hadn’t been a significant Fallen presence in North America for four hundred years because of the Native Irin presence.”
And by Irin, Max meant what their people had once been. Not the fractured and suspicious people they were now. The Native Irin of North America were legend in Rhys’s world, a vibrant and powerful society of warrior scribes and singers descended from Uriel, the oldest and wisest of the Forgiven angels. Renowned for their long lives and prowess in battle, they had routed the archangel Nalu and all his cadre eight hundred years before, leading to a golden age of Irin peace that lasted for roughly five hundred years.
But with European expansion into North America, new Grigori and new Fallen came, breaking the rule of the Native Irin.
Rhys said, “North America didn’t escape the Rending.”
“Nowhere did,” Max said. “But they had already been weakened by the American Civil War. By the time the Rending happened, many Irin communities were already scattered, more stories than actual presence.”
“So what you’re saying is it’s entirely possible she was already in hiding and lived.”
Maxim didn’t respond. Rhys frowned and tore his eyes away from the diner entrance to make sure they still had a connection.
“Max? Are you there?”
“I am. According to Sari’s contact, the Wolf is definitely still living. And it’s likely somewhere in Louisiana. If we can find her—”
“We might be one step closer to restoring Irina status.”
Max said, “The Irina need to relearn martial magic if they want a chance at regaining their place in Vienna.”
The Rending, the massive global Grigori attack that had killed eighty percent of Irin women and children hadn’t happened out of nowhere. The Irina had spent centuries focusing on creative, artistic, and scientific magic, letting their focus drift to peaceful pursuits while Irin scribes gained more and more battle prowess. Battle had become men’s work, far beneath Irina pursuits. It had left the Irina vulnerable to attack.
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