Malachi nodded. “His purpose in heaven?”
“Barak was a guardian of the realm before he fell. He listened for unspoken threats. His gift is hearing.”
Damien’s eyes were sharp. “And you hear as he does?”
“Some.” Kostas shrugged. “In bits and pieces. I have no control over the ability, but the magic is there.”
“Hearing…,” Damien murmured. “Malachi?”
“I say Gabriel’s door,” he said. “Irin in Gabriel’s line have unusual skill in reading, but Irina of Gabriel’s line can hear beyond the normal range. I’d guess Barak’s magic is most closely associated with Gabriel.”
“I’d guess the same.”
Kostas said, “And I dislike the word guess. But I suppose it’s worth a shot. Which door is Gabriel’s?”
Malachi pointed to the second closest to the main passageway. The spellwork was complex. Layer upon layer of it, written in the black-red that marked them as blood-spells. For the Irin, blood mixed with ash from a sacred fire produced an ink of unmatched power. Indeed, it was the mix of blood and ash in their talesm that made the spells written on their body most potent. For written spellwork, you couldn’t get more dangerous than a blood-spell.
And this blood-spell would turn a scribe’s own magic against him. The more powerful, the more deadly.
Kostas stood in front of the door and took a deep breath. “What do I do?”
“Open it,” Damien said quietly. “Just turn the knob.”
The brass doorknob sparked when Kostas put his linen-covered hand on it. Malachi could almost see the slither of magic crawl up his arm, twining and testing the creature who dared touch it. Kostas’s jaw tensed, but he did not break contact or cry out.
“It feels like a snake tearing through my innards,” he forced out the words through gritted teeth. “How long?”
“I don’t know,” Damien said, carefully keeping his distance from the Grigori.
“What is it doing?” Kostas cast them a sidelong glance.
“It’s testing you. I think. Trying to find where you belong.”
“Good luck then,” the man groaned out. “I don’t belong anywhere.”
He wasn’t sure if the other man heard when Damien whispered, “I’m counting on it.”
Malachi saw Kostas’s knees buckle, so he stepped forward, only to have his watcher’s arm throw him back.
“Don’t touch him.”
“He’s falling.”
“But he’s not letting go.”
It was true. Though Kostas was on his knees, his hand had not dropped from the doorknob. The brass glowed red-hot, and the spells on the doorway slithered over each other, ancient blood rising to life to take its turn testing the strange creature attempting to breach the passageway. The spells moved like living creatures, sliding closer to the doorknob and then slipping away after Kostas’s body gave another jerk. Over and over, hundreds of years of blood-spells attacked the foreign intruder.
After more minutes than Malachi wanted to count, the crawling spells slowed. Kostas’s body was still jerking, but he hadn’t let go. His eyes were glazed over, and sweat soaked through his linen wrappings.
“How much longer?” he whispered.
Damien knelt down next to him. “Hold on, brother. When I tell you, you will give the command to open.”
“Command…?”
“Luoh,” Damian said quietly. “Say it now, Kostas. Luoh.”
“Luoh,” Malachi whispered along as Kostas groaned the old command.
With a heavy sigh, the reluctant door to the armory swung open.
THE whole Library stared at Vasu for silent seconds before the guards stationed at the foot of the stairs cried out and threw silver daggers at the angel.
Vasu simply disappeared and reappeared, now hanging on the tallest organ pipe. “That’s not going to work,” he said. “But do keep trying if you like.”
Scribes across the gallery began leaping to the ground, some rushing toward the balcony, others running toward the singers’ gallery where Irina had begun to chant over Vasu’s laughter. Ava felt the terror in the air.
“What do we do?” she shouted at Sari while trying to shield Kyra from the wave of panic taking over the room.
“I don’t know!” Sari looked across the Library, probably searching for Damien, but Ava had just looked and neither Malachi nor Damien were anywhere to be found.
“I think we need to—”
“Stop.”
A single word froze the crowd, the room, and everything in it. Knives hung suspended in the afternoon sun. Papers rested in midair. Two scribes froze, their leap from the gallery halted by a single command from the one being Ava had never expected to see in the heart of the Irin Council chambers.
Jaron stood before the crowd, not hovering over them as Vasu did, but standing among them, a creature of such frightening glory that Ava heard some begin to weep. He made no attempt to veil himself. He had become giant. A creature of majesty and power, terrifying and beautiful at the same time.
“I am Jaron,” he said, and though his voice was quiet, it filled every corner of the Library. “You will cease.”
Silver daggers frozen in the air dropped to the ground. Papers fell, as did the scribes. But though Ava saw them moving, the violence had halted.
In the space of a heartbeat, another angel appeared. If Jaron’s harsh features reminded Ava of a bird of prey, this being was a wolf. Silver-black hair hung thick around his face, and though his eyes were a glowing gold, his face reminded Ava of a winter lake. Calm and frozen.
Kyra let out a breath. “Father.”
So this was Barak. He angled his head up to the singers’ gallery. Kyra stepped forward, and Barak held up his hand.
But it wasn’t only Barak who spoke.
With one voice, the two angels said, “Daughter, come.”
It wasn’t even a question. Jaron spoke, and Ava moved toward him. She and Kyra walked toward the top of the stairs, as the Irina around them whispered furiously and parted the crowd.
“No!” Sari shouted, trying to grab both of their arms.
“He lied,” Ava whispered. Jaron had told her he couldn’t command her, but she couldn’t stop. She kept walking while Kyra wept, and Ava realized for the first time what the compulsion of the Grigori felt like.
Such exquisite torture.
Because nothing in this world, not the love of her mate or the strength of her will, could stop Ava from following Kyra down the stairs. Part of her didn’t want to, but the other part wanted nothing else. Her eyes locked with Jaron’s, and he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She would do anything for him.
“No,” Jaron said. “You will not.”
She couldn’t turn her head to look at Kyra, but she could hear the kareshta weeping, even as Barak made soothing noises to his child.
“I’m sorry,” Kyra kept saying. “Forgive me, Father. I’m sorry.”
“I do not want your sorrow,” a tired voice came. “I never did, child.”
When Ava reached Jaron, he turned her to face the crowd.
“This,” he began, his solemn voice filling the room, “is the daughter of my blood.” He put his hands on Ava’s shoulders, and her mating marks lit under his power. “Wholly mated to a son of the Forgiven.”
Ava felt every eye in the Library focus on her. She wanted to shrink, but there was nowhere to go. She wanted to hide, but Jaron would never let her. Whatever his purpose had been in keeping her safe, she knew it was for this moment.