Damien and Rhys were preparing their needles by the sacred fire in Rhys and Meera’s tent. Ata stood over them, watching while Damien referenced the memory stone.
“Do you think we’ll all be necessary?” Rhys asked. “Two mated pairs almost seems like overkill.”
Damien said, “Overkill is never a bad idea when you’re dealing with an angel.”
Ata said, “It would work with only one of the singers. But Nalu killed many of our people before the spell overwhelmed him. I’m hoping that with both Sari and Meera performing it, the magic will work more quickly.”
Damien looked up from his needle. “And you?”
“A scribe’s magic is never as potent after death. Akune’s magic is more memory than power to me now.”
Meera felt the words in her chest in a way she couldn’t have before. Even in their nascent mating, she felt profoundly tied to Rhys. She tried to imagine losing him, and it took her to such a dark, rage-filled place she needed to back away.
No. Never. It could not be.
But that loss, that rending, was exactly what Ata had lived with for hundreds of years.
And she wants to die. She is doing all this so she can die to be with her mate.
It was a desire Meera felt more keenly now.
“Why did you change your mind?” Meera asked.
Ata looked up. “Why do you care? Do you want to learn or not?”
“I want to learn.”
“Then be quiet and wait for your mate’s mark.”
Rhys and Damien walked over. Meera and Sari had bared their backs, leaning forward on cushions so their mates would have an easier time giving them tattoos.
“Are you ready?” Rhys asked quietly.
Meera nodded, but she couldn’t speak.
Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic.
The talesm would start on her left side near her waist. It would rise up to her heart, over her shoulder, and across her back before it trailed down the right side. It was a single line. A single spell, and not one mistake could be made.
Damien settled behind Sari, his touch easy and sure. “Milá?”
“I’m ready.” Sari closed her eyes, and Damien kissed her spine a second before he began to write. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.”
“Are you sure?” Rhys asked Meera more hesitantly.
Meera thought about the dark lines marking Ata’s body and knew from that moment forward she would wear magic on her skin. Martial magic. Violent magic.
Blessed are the peacemakers.
The old human proverb sprang to her mind. Could one be a peacemaker when she was fundamentally marked by violence?
Meera would just have to see.
“I’m sure.” She gripped the edge of the pillow. “Go.”
Her skin quivered beneath his needle, but Rhys began the intricate spell and did not stop. He could not stop. He murmured the words under his breath as the magic came to life beneath his hand, marking the perfect skin of his mate.
As he tattooed, Meera and Sari began the song that Ata had spent the past two days teaching them.
The old spell depended on compounding magic. A singer using her voice to bolster a scribe’s strength while the scribe tattooed an intricate spell to strengthen the singer. Voice and writing working in harmony to build and build power.
Rhys could feel it coming like a trickle of water turning into a flood.
He had reached Meera’s shoulder when her mating marks came alive.
The pain was excruciating. The needle tapped over and over in rapid rhythm, but no endorphin rush came. No sense of calmness or peace stole over her. She felt a knotting in her belly like a twisting sickness. She concentrated on the magic she was chanting, ignoring everything but the building power.
The magic pierced her skin. Her voice reached up. The power was circular. Exponential. It built and built.
The needle had reached her shoulder when the knot in her belly loosed a flood of magic that threw her head back and opened her throat. What had been a whisper turned into a guttural shout.
The magic unleashed a dam inside her. The still sea of memory rose up and crashed over her.
She was Adelina, slaying the sons of her lover until his line was stricken from the earth.
She was Jaleh, who sang for the rain and drowned the army of Zarab where they stood.
She was Kokab, her song so painful it paralyzed the Grigori and stopped their hearts.
She was full to the brim. She no longer felt the needle. Didn’t feel her mate’s soft lips when he finished the tattoo and pressed his forehead to her spine.
Meera. His magic was within her; his voice was in her mind. Let me walk with you. He took her hand in the torrent and steadied her until she could channel the minds of other singers into steady streams.
There are so many. His mental voice was awestruck.
When Meera spoke, her voice was a chorus. I hold multitudes.
Warriors.
Peacemakers.
Healers.
Destroyers.
Irina are no strangers to vengeance.
NO.
She felt herself swimming to the surface. We must be better. When she opened her eyes, Meera was staring into Ata’s face and her voice came from the depths. “Sun Singer. Painted Wolf. Are you a healer or a destroyer?”
“Do I have to choose?” Ata asked. “All of us are more than one.”
Meera closed her eyes and saw the multitudes in her mind, felt the truth brimming inside her. Healer and destroyer. Mother and killer. To create was to destroy. Destroy the past to create the future. Birth a child destined to die. Bind up the wound and fight again.
There is no end to this.
“Somasikara,” Ata said. “You will take my memories now.”
Still overwhelmed by the churning consciousness within her, Meera only shook her head.
“You must,” Ata said. “I know what I am asking, but I challenge an angel tomorrow. I may not have another chance, and then my people will be lost. Take my memories now while you are flush with power.”
“Your people will never be lost,” Meera said, her senses renewed by the surging memory magic. “Their blood runs through this land. The earth itself sings of them. Can’t you hear it?”
“Please.” Ata bowed her head. “Do not let their memories die.”
“She’s too tired,” Rhys said. “Look at her.”
Sari stepped toward Meera, visibly shaking and wrapped in Damien’s linen robe. “She may be tired, but she’s near-bursting with power.” She put her hand on Meera’s shoulder. “I can feel you. Do this now. Taking her memories will purge some of this magic, correct?”
Meera could only nod.
“Then do it. Or you’ll be useless tomorrow.”
Meera knew Sari was right. Even though she wanted to beg Ata for another day or two, they didn’t have time. “Sit in front of me,” she said. “Give me your hands.”
Ata’s shoulders slumped in relief. She sat on the cushion across from Meera, held out her hands, and closed her eyes.
Meera dragged herself from the edge of exhaustion and began chanting the spell she would need to take Ata’s memory.
This time when she fell, the sea stretched into eternity.
“What’s happening?” Rhys asked in a panic.
Meera had taken Ata’s hands and started to sing the keeping spell, then her spine arched, her eyes rolled back, and the audible chant turned into inaudible whispers Rhys couldn’t understand. Her lips were moving too fast for him to keep track. He reached for her, only to have Damien tug him away.
“Don’t,” he warned. “I know this seems strange, but she’s entered the mind of a very old singer. She’s accessing not only Ata’s memory, but the ancestral memory passed from elder to child.”
Sari put a hand on Rhys’s arm. “The Uwachi Toma have spent thousands and thousands of years on this continent. The memories she’s sharing—”
“I know.” Rhys pu
lled up a low stool and positioned himself behind Meera. He shouldn’t touch her, but he wanted to remain close. “I’ve walked with her through other memories.”
“And when it’s time, you’ll walk through some of these with her too,” Damien said. “But the somasikara are vessels. None of this will make sense until Meera needs it to. That’s just the way her magic works.”
And tomorrow she fights an angel.
His mate might have seemed playful and delicate, but she had to be the strongest woman Rhys had ever met.
He glanced at Sari and Damien. “Do you understand what has to happen tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Damien said. “Do we have any idea what form this angel will take?”
“You’ll be surprised and you won’t.” Vasu appeared, sitting next to Meera. For the first time since the angel had appeared to Rhys, he didn’t feel like stabbing the creature. Vasu’s eyes were intent on the two singers. “This is never easy,” he murmured.
“How many times has she done this?”
“Five.” Vasu glanced at him. “Two before Anamitra died, the transfer between them when Anamitra was fading—that was the worst—then two since. This makes six.”
“And she just… takes all Ata’s memories?”
“She doesn’t take them away. Ata’s memories will remain hers. But the knowledge she holds… To put it in terms you might understand, this is a download. She’s adding the memories of the Uwachi Toma to the library that is her mind. You’re mated now. You’ve seen it.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me,” Rhys said softly. “I still don’t understand.”
Vasu’s voice was the closest he’d ever heard an angel to awestruck. “Her mind is a sea that is only a tiny facet of the Creator’s mind. Yet a glimpse of it might drive an angel mad because we long for it so much.”
“You long for it?”
Vasu met his eyes. “We are creatures of service. Our truest nature longs only for the Creator’s presence, even if we are exiled.”
“And Meera’s mind is a facet of that,” Rhys said. “That is why you follow her. That is why you were Anamitra’s friend.”
Vasu said, “I don’t have friends.”
“So you say.” Rhys turned back to Meera. “How much longer?”
“I cannot say. Every memory is different.”
Ata’s mind wasn’t a sea but a river. Deep, wide, and swift. It flowed from cold mountains to warm shallow pools. It dipped and trickled over stones. It roared and launched itself in violent waterfalls of memory. Meera flowed with it, rolling in the tangled waters of a people born of light and earth.
She cried, a newborn at dawn, staring into the radiant face of heaven. Blood of heaven and earth, she rose from the ground and danced on mountains thrusting toward the sky. Her hair grew long and caught the wind, carried her from snow-capped mountain to swift-moving stream.
She grasped at stars and sang with them before she fell to the earth. Dancing at sunrise, male and female, scribe and singer. The magic was circular. Complete. She pierced her body with thorns and ash from the holy fire. Her legs grew long and swift.
Mother to mother. Magic passed in the blood. Blood of the daughter given to the moon. Moon and sun in eternal concert, circling like the people of the lakes and streams.
We followed the sun, old voices whispered. It led us to the water. We followed the water; it led us to the sea.
Mountains rose in the forest, built with ice and magic. The earth rising and flourishing. Green grass and the taste of honey on her tongue. Milk flowed from her breasts and fed the earth where vines curled and twisted. Seeds dropped in the furrows and bellies grew fat and fertile.
Children’s laughter and women’s tears. The cries of warriors, male and female. A dying gasp of the lover who rested on her breast, followed by a golden dawn that stretched on and on until the day was ruled by the sun and the night was no more.
But fire came with the new day of peace.
And the serpent was slain by fire.
Smoke rising over a flooded forest. Blood stained the water and turned the soil red.
Blood and smoke. Ash and gold.
The circle was broken.
Broken.
The womb that was waiting ran dry.
Meera woke with a sharp pain in her belly, her womb seizing with loss. She lost her grip on Ata’s hands and rolled to the side, curled in agony.
“Meera?” Rhys was there, his soft hands held her.
“You lost your child when your mate died.” Meera’s voice was a rasp. “It was the beginning of the end.”
“The peace lasted for five hundred years.” Ata was pale and shaking. “Singers’ magic was passed from mother to daughter. My son would have taken my brother’s place as leader, but we could have survived his loss. If I could not have a child, then it could have been a woman of my blood. Someone. Anyone. Uriel’s line always found a way.”
“But you hesitated. Found excuses. You hoped to take another mate someday and have more children in your line.”
Ata nodded. “I was arrogant. Proud.”
“Then after the Rending, the women were gone,” Meera said. “Or scattered. You never shared your magic with anyone after that. The Uwachi Toma began to die.”
“We died the day I withdrew from the world,” Ata said. “There could have been others. I could have found them, gathered them. But I was stubborn and narrow-minded. Angry. I am the one who killed my people. And now you know.” Her shoulders slumped. “I have confessed, and I can die.”
“You’re full of shit.” Meera struggled to sitting. “The Grigori killed your people, but your stubbornness may bury them. There are others who would listen to you. Singers you can teach. You taught me. You taught Sari. You could teach the Koconah Citlal or the Dene Ghal. There are hundreds of others who are searching for wisdom, and you’re still hoarding it.” Rhys held her up, his arms bracing her. Meera felt different than she had after other transfers. Stronger. Healthier. And far more pissed off. She glanced to the left. “Vasu, what are you doing here?”
“Just watching.”
Ata eyed him with disgust. “If I had my knives with me—”
“I would have to hide them so you didn’t hurt yourself,” Vasu said. “You’re weak as a baby.” He smiled. “Why am I smiling?”
Rhys said, “Because you’re petty.”
Vasu’s eyes lit up. “Ah! Yes, that’s probably it.”
“Why are you here, Fallen?” Ata asked. “Do you have a message from Bozidar?”
Vasu lounged back on an embroidered cushion, looking like a lazy noble waiting to be served. “Yes. He’s coming tomorrow. He said thank you ever so much for opening the wards and he looks forward to killing you all.”
“Really?” Rhys asked.
Vasu shrugged. “Okay, he didn’t say thank you, but he is looking forward to killing you all. You should expect his Grigori tonight.”
Damien and Sari were still waiting by the fire. Damien rose and held out his hand for Sari. “We’ll alert the haven,” he said. “Meera, rest. I’ll let your mother know you need some tea.”
“With honey please.” She felt like she would crumble at any moment. “Vasu, are you staying?”
“Of course. I can’t let Bozidar do anything to you, can I? What would I do for fun?”
Rhys said, “I’m assuming you could just kill him yourself. Why don’t you?”
“Could I?” Vasu cocked his head. “I don’t know. Probably? Yes, I likely could. But I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
Meera muttered, “He’s still keeping a low profile. He has bigger targets in mind.”
Vasu winked at her. “Clever girl.”
“I hate him,” Ata said with a grimace. “And I want to stab him.”
“And yet you are too weak. How amusing.” Vasu disappeared without another word.
“He’ll be back,” Rhys said. “For now, both of you need to rest and recuperate. And Ata, this will likely not make any diff
erence in your plans, but I agree with my mate. You’re full of shit, and there are many singers who would be your ready pupils should you choose to share your wisdom.”
“I don’t care what you think.”
“I didn’t think you would.” He lifted Meera in his arms. “Now get out of our tent. My mate needs her rest, and you have to challenge an angel tomorrow.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The morning dawned cold and foggy, unlike anything the humans in Saint James Parish had come to expect. But they shrugged and went about their day, blind to the supernatural conflict brewing around them. No one had noticed when the sons of the Fallen stole into the country. No one connected the old people who hadn’t woken from their beds or the transients who had disappeared.
Humans could be so blind.
The old man sat on the dock at the bend of the river, watching the forest of trees that lined the old Delaure plantation. If he were only an old man, he would have seen nothing but an overgrown mess and a crumbling house fenced off from the road.
But he was not an old man, he was an ancient one.
The raven had come to him three days before, speaking in the Old Language of heaven’s sons, tempting him and teasing him with the promise of a feast. He’d smelled the echoes of fragrant meat roasting beyond the wards, smelled the spices drifting on the breeze with the scent of river mud and bayou rot.
They mock you, the raven said. They rise again, defiant in their celebration. Who are they to think they own the earth? They were mongrel dogs; he was the glory of heaven.
The old man plucked a twisting fish from the line and opened his mouth wide, swallowing the slithering creature whole. He coughed up the bones and flicked them to his hound.
His sons waited on the banks of the river, looking up at him in adoration, waiting for scraps.
“Go,” he whispered to them. “The wards will not stop you now. Your feast is within.”
The first Grigori came from the river. The Tomir sentry raised the alarms and the Koconah Citlal warriors descended on them, four warriors against two dozen. Even with those odds, it was no contest. The Koconah Citlal were an ancient clan who had never lived under a golden age. There was no peace between the Irin and the Fallen in the south. They swept down on Bozidar’s Grigori with no mercy, their blades swift and silent in the morning fog.
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