“Yes! If she’d been raised like us, her mother and father would have hugged her and held her. She would have had a normal childhood. Not one where she was starved for contact with her own kind for twenty-eight years. It’s not fair for me to take advantage of that, Rhys. How would you react, if it were you?”
A bitter smile touched his lips. “You mean if I’d been denied the comfort and strength of a mate for two hundred years? If I had little to no hope of ever achieving the kind of connection with another Irin that my parents had? I just can’t imagine, Malachi. Who would be able to imagine that, except… oh, ninety-five percent of us?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“And you’re being ridiculous. You had feelings for this woman when you thought she was still human, you idiot. This sounds like some nonsense Damien told you.” Rhys only sneered when Malachi flushed in anger. “That’s right, isn’t it? Damien warned you off her. Filled your head with this rubbish.”
“You think he’s wrong?”
“I think he has a mate,” Rhys hissed. “Even though they rarely see each other outside their dream walks. And I think he distrusts anything and everything he doesn’t understand. I also think Ava has feelings for you, and you’re being a right ass toward her.”
Malachi stepped back and finished with the gas pump. Ava was still in the building. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“You think the right thing is leaving her without a friend in this crazy new reality?”
“I think she deserves to find out what all this means for herself without being influenced by what I want!”
“Truly? Well, then…” Rhys smiled. “Excellent.”
Malachi’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“It means the first new Irina seen in two hundred years is riding in the back seat with me all the way to Göreme, and I’m suddenly feeling much happier about the journey. Thank you.”
Malachi’s face fell. “You wouldn’t.”
“You seem to think that she might be drawn to anyone, so I might as well give her the option, my friend.”
A red haze fell over his vision, but just then, Ava stepped out of the shop, carrying three bottles of water and a bag of oranges. Rhys walked over with a smile, holding out his hands for the bag.
“Here, let me hold that. That was extraordinarily thoughtful, Ava. These look delicious.”
She smiled up at Rhys. “Well, I wasn’t sure what you guys like to eat, but I’m assuming it’s more than milk and honey. Or whatever the myths say.”
“Clever girl.” He slid an arm around Ava’s shoulders, guiding her back to the car. “I assure you our appetites are very similar.” He opened the car door and helped her inside. “And we always appreciate sweet things.”
He was going to kill Rhys. Slowly. In seventeen different ways so far, and they were only two hours past Ankara. The man talked and flirted, drawing Ava out in ways that had her confessing childhood mischief and university adventures. He asked about her travels and told her about his, making himself the hero of every confrontation, the key to every success.
Malachi was going to kill him.
He touched her casually, a brush on the arm, a bump of the knee. Ways that Malachi knew must be killing him. Like most of the Irin, Rhys hadn’t had regular contact with any woman since the Rending. He must have been as ravenous for Ava’s touch as Malachi had been on that hill by the monastery, but unlike Malachi, he had his control clamped down.
Malachi had been overwhelmed. Even the memory of her lips left him in a painful state of arousal, which was rather inconvenient, considering he had four more hours of driving.
He saw Rhys brush his elbow against Ava’s knee as he bent down to get something from his backpack. Malachi slammed on the brakes, sending Rhys’s head crashing into the front seat.
“Sorry.”
Rhys straightened, rubbing his forehead, murder in his eyes and a book in hand for Ava.
“No problem. Accidents happen.”
“I thought I saw a dog run across the road. False alarm.”
Ava said, “Rhys, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Ava. I’m used to Malachi’s driving. It’s always been quite bad.”
“Here, let me take a look.”
Then she put a hand on his jaw and pulled Rhys’s face down toward her neck so she could see the red bump on the man’s hard head. From the corner of his eye, Malachi saw Rhys’s eyes close in pleasure as Ava’s small fingers traced over the nonexistent wound.
“Does it hurt?”
“Only a little. Did it break the skin at all?”
“Not that I can see, but let me…” She started to run her fingers through the hair at his temple, examining it for any blood.
Eighteen. There were eighteen ways that Rhys could die.
It was nighttime when they pulled into the old house in Göreme. The small Cappadocian town was ancient, dug into the soft volcanic rock of the hills. Once an Irin retreat had thrived only a few miles away, but after the Rending, when most of the Irina and the children were gone, the remaining Irin took shelter in the scribe house. They dug farther into the cliffs, scribing spells into the rock that made the compound one of the most secure places in the world. The libraries were legendary, as were the skills of the scribes who had stayed.
Ava crawled out of the car, sleepy and stumbling on unused legs. They’d driven straight through without stopping after the last break for petrol. Rhys was still snoring in the back seat.
“We’re here?”
“Yes.” He opened the back of the car as she leaned against it.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“It’s fine. I can get most of it, and the others are expecting us.” Malachi could already see the gates that guarded the compound opening. Lights began to switch on all over the side of the hill and scribes climbed down from their solitary rooms to greet the visitors. “Everyone will be out in a minute. I’m sure they’ll have rooms ready for us.”
“This place is amazing.” She looked up at the terraces and caves that had been carved into the hill. The scribe house had been a work in progress for hundreds of years. The oldest parts were near the base where the library had been dug down into the rock, the dry Cappadocian air perfect for the preservation of manuscripts. The rest of the compound stretched up and back into the hill. A series of gardens, terraces, and decorative metalwork gave the compound a stark beauty.
Ava said, “Rhys told me the scribes here are older.”
“Yes.” He set some of his bags in the dust, moving them out of the way to get to hers. She would want her things so she could sleep. “Most of the scribes here came after the Rending. Many of them stopped casting the spells that prolong their life, so they are aging. More slowly than humans, but still aging.”
“How old are you?”
“Biologically?” He smiled. “Around thirty. But I’ve lived for over four hundred years.”
Her eyes were saucers. “Wow.”
“And you will live as long or longer than that.” He tried not to think about it. Tried not to see the gold letters forming under his fingers as they trailed down her spine to the small of her back. Tried to block out the rush of desire the image brought. “The magic is shared by Irin couples so they can age together.”
“Oh.”
Ava stared up at the stars, her skin pale and milky in the moonlight.
“What did I do to piss you off, Malachi?”
“Nothing,” he choked out. “You didn’t do anything, Ava.”
“Are you sure? It seems like you’re mad at me, but I don’t know why.”
“I’m not mad at you. I’m… trying to be your friend.”
“My friend?”
“Yes.” He forced a smile. “You told me once we were friends, didn’t you?”
“I guess I did.” She turned her eyes to him, and Malachi wondered whether those dark pools could see through him. See through to the longing inside. “I guess, I tho
ught there was something… I was probably imagining things, right?”
He cleared his throat. “You have so much to think about. So much to consider and learn. It’s not that I don’t want—”
“Are we here?” Rhys yelled from the back of the Range Rover. The door creaked open and he climbed out, unfolding his long legs from their cramped position. “Oh, Ava, love, do you need help with your bags?”
Malachi bristled. “I’ve got them, Rhys.”
“Good man.” His friend slapped him on the shoulder before he grabbed his own bag and hoisted it out.
Malachi saw some Irin walking through the old gates. An elderly scribe raised a hand and waved.
“Ms. Matheson?”
Ava stepped forward and held out her hand as Malachi and Rhys stopped to watch. Watch the old scribe take her hand delicately, then more confidently, his face breaking into a huge smile. Most of the Cappadocian scribes were older, having stopped their longevity spells after the Rending, but a few of the younger men gaped at Ava as Malachi and Rhys followed her into the scribe house with the luggage.
Rhys was still groggy. Sadly, he was also talking.
“She was pressed against me in the car, Malachi. Heaven, I’d forgotten what that felt like. Just to have the weight of a woman—”
“Really!” he burst out. “Just… shut up, Rhys.”
Thirty-three. There were thirty-three ways Malachi could kill him.
Chapter Ten
He was avoiding her. It was the only explanation for the fact that Ava had been at the scribe house in Cappadocia for almost a week and had seen Malachi a grand total of two times. Fine. Whatever. If he was avoiding her, she refused to be sorry about it. She had other things to do.
For the first few days, she slept. For once in her life, sleep seemed to come easily. There was something about the inner voices of the Irin scribes that soothed her. Though none had the resonance that Malachi’s did, the combined chorus of their souls blended into a soothing tapestry, almost like the white noise of ocean waves. She dreamed vivid dreams where she wandered in a dark wood. Nothing about it was frightening; it was profoundly peaceful.
Her days were spent with Rhys and the oldest scribe at the house, Evren. She’d met Evren the first night, and he seemed to take Ava under his wing. He told her he was seven hundred years old, but he looked around seventy. His dark hair was sprinkled with silver and curled at the neck. His skin was olive-toned, but pale. Ava suspected he spent most of his time among the books.
“And your mother’s maiden name?” Evren asked quietly, taking notes with a pencil as Rhys typed on a computer in the library. Small windows, high in the walls, were the only bit of the outside world she saw. Like much of the oldest parts of the scribe house, the majority of the library had been dug underground into the soft volcanic rock.
“My mom was born Magdalena Russell. Lena.”
“Ethnicity?”
Ava shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. Her family has been in America for ages. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her talk about relatives in another part of the world. I think I’m a mix of all sorts of stuff.”
Evren nodded patiently, taking more notes she couldn’t read. They were in the same rough script that marked his arms and the back of his hands. She could see similar markings peeking out from the collar of the loose shirt he wore. All the scribes were tattooed with what Rhys told her were spells to enhance different senses and control magic.
“You said she was from South Dakota originally. And your mother’s mother?”
“Just her mom?”
Evren folded his hand in a way that reminded Ava of one of her favorite undergraduate professors. “When researching the Irina, it is the female line that is important. Irina power stems from their mother’s magic. Even when tracing Irin bloodlines, we always start with the Irina. Irin scribes are the preservers of magic and knowledge, but Irina hold the creative force in our race.”
“Oh. Okay, my mom’s mom was Alice Cook. Her maiden name was Rutner. She was from Missouri. I think. I don’t know much about her. My mom and she weren’t close.”
“Your mother’s grandmother?”
“I think her first name was Sarah, but I’m not sure. We’re not big on family history. Do you need to know about my dad?”
“Probably not.” Evren smiled. “Though I’m sure that seems backward to one used to human tradition, where male bloodlines are more thoroughly documented.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest.” At least they didn’t need to know about her dad. Jasper’s family was a total mystery.
Evren cocked his head. “Do women still take a husband’s surname in America?”
“Not always, but it’s pretty common. My mom did with Carl. That’s why I’m legally a Matheson. He adopted me after they got married.”
“Hmm.”
Ava squirmed, feeling like she was under a microscope. “How about you guys? What’s your last name?”
Rhys turned from the computer. “We don’t have surnames in our culture.”
“Isn’t that confusing? I mean, you guys live a long time.”
Both men chuckled.
“Well, I suppose it helps that we don’t have many children,” Evren said. “They’re quite rare. If we were more prolific, I suppose it could be.”
Rhys said, “We have our own ways of keeping track of family history.” He reached down and pulled off the T-shirt he wore, then he rolled his office chair toward Ava and showed her his back, which was marked with more strange writing along with the first decorative tattoo work Ava had seen. Without thinking, she reached out and traced the intricate knot work that showed a distinct Celtic influence.
“This is beautiful.” She felt his warm skin shiver underneath her fingertips, but she didn’t take her hand away. Like any casual touch from one of the Irin, the contact was calming. “What is this? Is it magic, too?”
“Yes and no.” Rhys cleared his throat. “The writing on my back is the only work I haven’t done myself. My father did it. The names down the center are my family’s. Mother first—”
“Always the mother first,” Evren said. “Because we are protected by Irina magic when we are born.”
Rhys continued. “Then my father’s name. Then my maternal grandparents and then paternal.”
“So it’s like your whole family tree, written on your body. And the design?”
“From my mother.” His voice was quiet. “It was her gift to me.”
Evren said, “An Irin mother always designs something of beauty to add to her son’s talesm when he leaves for his training at thirteen, then his father does the tattoo. It goes on his back, over the heart. To be matched on the front of his chest when he is mated as an adult.” Then Evren’s face fell a little. “Though my son has neither, as he was only a child when his mother died.”
The look of sorrow on Evren’s face was enough to make Ava’s heart weep. His silent voice groaned at the mention of his wife as Ava waited for the words.
Vashamacanem, his soul whispered.
At least, that’s what it sounded like. Ava had come to think of it as the universal mantra of the grieving. She didn’t know what the phrase meant, only that she’d heard the same words from countless people around the globe. Funerals. Hospitals. It was one of the few phrases that was completely universal.
She pulled her hand away from Rhys’s back and squeezed Evren’s hand. “Where is your son? Does he live here, too?”
Evren squeezed her hand back and took a deep breath, forcing a smile. “He lives in Spain now. In a scribe house near Barcelona.”
A young man walked into the library, staring at Ava with the tentative awe she’d come to expect from most of the men. He bent down and whispered to Evren, who nodded and turned to her.
“We will have to take more notes later, Ava. I do apologize, but there is something I must tend to this afternoon.”
“Of course,” she said. “Don’t let me keep you.”
&nbs
p; “Is there anything you need before I go? There is an English section in the library. Not large, but there are some books about local history that might interest you.”
Rhys said, “I’ll show her around, Evren.”
“Are you sure? I can find where Malachi—”
“I’m sure Rhys can keep me entertained.” Ava said, winking at the young scribe, then turning to Rhys who offered her a mischievous smile. Evren smiled knowingly as he and the young man turned to go.
When they were alone, Rhys said, “You know, scribe houses are almost as bad as sororities when it comes to gossip.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Bad, tempting woman, you are.” He shook his head before he pulled on his shirt. “You’re going to get me stabbed. Malachi is not a man accustomed to sharing.”
“Well, then I guess he should be the one to keep me company. And you know about sororities, huh?”
“Sadly not through personal experience.” Rhys grinned. “But modern movies can be quite the education.”
“That was never my scene. Sorry. The popular girls don’t hang out with the crazy ones very often. Unless it’s to make fun of them.”
“Ava, Ava,” he muttered, throwing a casual arm around the back of her chair as they sat next to each other at the library table. “Don’t you know you’re not crazy? You’re special.” She felt him toying with an errant curl. “You’re magic, love. Someday you’ll understand how much.”
A beam of light came through a high window, flooding the room with sudden light and illuminating a mural on the other side of the library. One old man sat in the far corner, staring at the beautiful scene depicting a village bustling with life. In the six days she’d spent in the library, Ava had seen the old man do nothing else. He looked to be in his eighties or nineties, though like all the Irin, she knew he must be far older. Suddenly, she knew exactly what she wanted to do.
“Rhys?”
“Hmm?” He was staring at the mural, too.
“Will you tell me about the Rending?”
“There’s a human saying: You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. We Irin should have that tattooed on our foreheads.”
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