Elizabeth Hunter - The Scribe

Questions still swirled in her head as she heard Malachi climbing the stairs, talking quietly on the phone. He was just hanging up as he entered the room.

“Well?”

“Rhys is on his way. No car, so he’s going to have to walk. They won’t let him on a tram carrying coals in a clay cooking pot he stole from a restaurant, but they should last until he gets here and can stoke the fire again.”

She heard Leo mutter something that sounded like relief.

“And that will heal him?”

Malachi winced, but his eyes did seem less strained. “How good are you at sewing?”

“Horrible.”

Malachi opened the small closet and pulled out a black bag that he tossed on the end of the bed. “You can hold him down or sew him up. Sounds like our stitching’s about the same. Leo, you have a preference?”

“I’ll hold still,” he muttered. “You do it, Mal. I’d rather curse at you than Ava.”

Ava’s stomach began to churn as Malachi stripped off Leo’s shirt, peeling the cloth away from the clotted wound. “Can’t we wait for Rhys?”

“He’s bringing the fire to cauterize it,” Malachi said. “We’ll stitch it up, and Rhys will seal it. Has to be done, Ava.”

“Just get it over with,” Leo said. “If I’m lucky, I’ll pass out again.”

Malachi and Ava were as pale as Leo by the time Rhys showed up. The wound was over eight inches in length, and it seemed like it took Malachi forever to stitch it after Ava had helped clear the blood as much as she could. According to Malachi, infection wouldn’t be a problem. Once the fire cleansed the wound, Leo’s own magic would heal him, and having Ava’s hands on Leo during the stitches would boost his energy, since she was Irina.

“Irina are the best healers,” Leo said, gritting his teeth as Rhys placed glowing coals on the mottled skin at his side. “My father said my m…mother could heal any wound. She studied medicine at university, even.” A tight smile. “She dressed like a man so she could go. My father said he laughed and laughed, but really, he liked her wearing pants.”

Malachi smiled, brushing back the young man’s hair. “That’s a good story, Leo. When did your father find you?”

“When Max and I were seven, he just showed up.” He closed his eyes as a growl of pain rumbled from his chest. After another gasping breath, he said, “He didn’t know we’d survived the Rending. He’d been in Russia killing Grigori. He was… a bit mad, to tell the truth. But he got better eventually.”

“Ava, put your palm on his neck,” Rhys said, grabbing her hand and placing it over Leo’s rapid pulse. “Hold it there.”

“What else can I do?” she asked, tears threatening. She felt helpless in the face of the young scribe’s pain.

Rhys shook his head, singed hair falling in his eyes. “I don’t know how it works. Think about making him well, maybe? I don’t know Irina magic.”

“There’s a song,” Leo said, his voice sounding dazed. “My father sang it when we were young. A song to make you feel better…” He started mumbling under his breath as his eyes drifted closed.

“She can’t sing it yet,” Malachi murmured. “Not yet, Leo. Soon she’ll know the words. It’s too dangerous for her now.”

Too dangerous because she couldn’t control her magic. For the first time, Ava felt the sting of resentment. Maybe if the Irina hadn’t run away, she would know. If they hadn’t run away, Leo wouldn’t be suffering as much. Maybe she wouldn’t have spent years thinking she was a freak for hearing voices. A bitter seed took root in her heart as she thought about all the Irin had lost.

“Ava,” Malachi whispered, pulling her hand away. “He’s sleeping now. Enough. You need to save your strength, too.”

She was feeling it. For the first time since her night in Cappadocia with Malachi, the voices around her were completely silent. She must have expended far more energy than she realized, helping Leo to heal.

“Take her upstairs to rest,” Rhys said. “I’ll stay with Leo and keep the fire burning.”

“Have we heard from Damien and Max yet?”

“Not yet. I’ll keep Ava’s phone, if that’s all right. Hers is the only one working.”

She nodded and let Malachi lead her up the stairs to a tiny bedroom with a small lamp. He turned it on and began to peel off her clothes as she sank into the mattress. She felt Malachi lay behind her as she curled on her side.

“Sleep, my love. Leo will be fine, and you need rest.”

“Sleep with me,” she said, half asleep before her head hit the pillow. “ Reshon .”

Reshon .

She called him reshon , and his heart soared. Despite the fear. Despite the loss. She called him “ reshon,” and he was content. Malachi slept a few hours by her side, hand planted firmly on her soft skin, drawing and offering strength as she rested. But by the time he woke, he couldn’t ignore the words Jaron had whispered in the Old Language before he shimmered out of sight.

“Thousands of you, Scribe. One of her. Remember.”

Remember? How could he forget? The angel’s meaning had been clear: Protect the Irina at all costs.

Whatever Jaron had showed her, Malachi hadn’t seen. But clearly he’d been communicating with his mate in some way. The scene in the office flashed back to him. Jaron’s transformation. Ava’s awe. Their locked gazes held a secret that teased the edge of his mind. There was something…

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know…”

What had Jaron told her? Why had he been protecting her? There had to be a reason, but Malachi couldn’t see what it was. As always, the motivations of the Fallen were incomprehensible. He wished Damien were here to counsel him, but he knew if the Watcher still lived after battling Brage’s angelic sword, he was probably in a different safe house. It was better that they weren’t all in one place. Had Damien already contacted Vienna? Did the Council know what was going on?

He had to get Ava out of Istanbul. He could drive across the country to Cappadocia, but getting her to Vienna would be better. He wished he knew where Sari was hiding. There was no fiercer Irina than Damien’s mate. She would help him protect Ava; he knew it. Would Damien take them to Sari? Malachi felt like he was wandering in the dark forest of his dreams, stumbling through the fog and chasing answers to questions he didn’t know. The house was utterly silent, but his mind was filled with disturbing and conflicting thoughts.

Ava stirred beside him.

“I can hear you thinking,” she murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t.”

She pulled his hand up to her breast. “Then do something more entertaining than brooding.”

Despite everything, she still made him smile. He bent down, kissing along her neck and caressing the skin of her breast, toying with her as his energy built.

Reshon .

A thought occurred to him. Ava wasn’t in control of her magic, but there was a way to make her stronger. To lend her his own. She wouldn’t be able to perform her half of the ritual—she didn’t know the songs—but he could perform his half, lending her his power and protection. She would heal faster. She wouldn’t tire. Her mind would be clearer and her sight better. If they were attacked again, it could mean the difference between life and death for her.

But not for you…, a small voice whispered. It would weaken him, because Ava couldn’t lend her own magic.

Thousands of you, Scribe. One of her.

She turned to him, lifting her face for a kiss. He met her mouth with eager lips, delving in to taste and tease. She responded by pulling him closer, melding her body to his in the small bed as his skin sang where she touched it. More. He had to have more of her. Malachi pulled off his shirt and hers until their bodies were pressed together. He’d never felt more whole. More alive.