“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 Goreme. 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 thought 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?”
