Malachi nodded and ignored the voice in his head that told him sitting in the library with Rhys was most definitely not what he’d been born to do. What he’d been born to do was help his mate, who was somewhere in the world, suffering without him. The urge to get up and leave the library was hard to resist.
“I know you must be feeling stifled,” Rhys said. “Frustrated. But until we have some direction on where to look for Damien and Ava, it’s no use rushing off. We’d be just as well to stay here and try to figure out what you can and can’t do.”
Malachi pushed the Sumerian manuscript back toward Rhys. “I can read ancient languages and understand them. So useful. What else can I do?”
Rhys ignored the sarcasm and held up his hand. On the inside of his left wrist was a swirl of ancient letters, almost too small to read across the table. They curled around in a spiral until the words crawled up his forearm, then twisted and wrapped around his arm like a snake.
“You can do this.”
A low hunger started in his belly. Something in the dark corners of his memory told Malachi that this was something he wanted. “Talesm.”
“Talesm.”
“Our magic.” Malachi rubbed hands over his bare forearms.
Rhys took a deep breath before he spoke. “Irin have two kinds of magic. Natural magic, which we are born with—the kind that lets you read any language in front of you and see words even after they’ve been erased from the physical eye—and learned magic. Both were gifted to us by our fathers.”
“The angels?”
Rhys nodded. “Our books say that when the Forgiven left the earth, the Creator allowed them to hide a shadow of heavenly magic within their children. But not everything. That had been their mistake with their first children. They had given them too much power. So much that some had to be destroyed. Before they left, they divided their magic. To their sons, they gave the gift and power of the written word. To their daughters, the songs of the ancients, along with gifts of healing, foresight, and discernment.”
Malachi remembered the story on the clay tablet. “The daughters of Leoc?”
“An old name for those Irina who are gifted—or some say cursed—with visions. Different angels bore different gifts, depending on their role in the heavenly realm. Their children bear a fraction of their fathers’ powers, but it is still formidable. For Irin, we learned over time that we could work magic—control it, mold it for our own uses—through the written word.”
“And the Grigori?”
Rhys shook his head. “The Fallen were not gifted as the Forgiven were. Their children are more than human, yes, but they cannot wield magic as we can. A Fallen may loan some magic to a Grigori occasionally, but it is not really theirs. When we Irin tattoo spells on our bodies, we permanently make that magic a part of us.”
“It’s like armor,” he said.
“That’s one way of looking at it. We use it to strengthen our bodies. Make ourselves stronger. Increase our longevity. A mature and trained Irin scribe is practically immortal.”
Malachi rubbed the back of his neck. “But not entirely.”
“Clearly.”
Silence fell between them, with nothing but the tick of a mantel clock filling the air. Rhys watched him with some unspoken question burning in his eyes.
“What?” Malachi finally asked. “Are you tired of telling me all these things? We should take a break. I feel like running.”
“You generally do after a day cooped up inside. Or when you’re irritated.”
For some reason, Rhys’s knowledge of his habits irked him. Why did this stranger know more about him than he did?
“Will my talesm come back?” he asked. “Or are they lost? Will I have to tattoo them all over again? How long will it take to be strong enough?”
“We have no idea.” Rhys shrugged a single shoulder. “You need to do basic protection spells, at the very least. Once we find Ava—”
“And when will that be?”
“I don’t know.” Rhys’s eyes flashed. “I told you, we don’t know where Damien took her. We’re doing our best, but you’re going to have to be patient.”
“I am being patient,” he growled.
Rhys made a disgusted noise at the back of his throat. “You’re still so… you. Even when you’re not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His shoulders tensed.
“Never thinking ahead. Rushing into danger with no thought to—”
“I’m thinking of my mate,” Malachi bit out, rising to his feet. “She needs me, and I must go to her.”
“To do what? Protect her?” Rhys stood up, glaring at Malachi from across the table. “You can hardly protect yourself right now. You need to—”
“I need her,” Malachi said. “And she needs—”
“She needs her mate back!” Rhys snapped. “Right now, you’re only a shadow of who she needs.”
Malachi bit back the rage on the tip of his tongue and narrowed his eyes at the man who had called himself his friend. Or, he’d called the old Malachi his friend. Perhaps the two were no longer the same.
“You are angry with me,” he said, crossing his arms. “Resentful. Why?”
His old friend’s head snapped back in surprise, and his green eyes widened. “I…I’m not.”
“You are. Why?”
Rhys’s mouth dropped open, but he did not speak. When his words finally came, they were almost inaudible. “I love her, you know. Maybe not like you did, but I do love her.”
He shoved back the instinctive anger and spoke calmly. “She is my mate.”
“She is.” Rhys looked down, shuffling the papers they’d been looking at into a pile. “She is, without a doubt, your reshon. A true soul mate. I saw it even before you did, I think.”
Malachi didn’t know how, but the emotion was there, wrapping his mind with certainty. “I love her.”
“I believe you,” Rhys said, before clearing his throat. “You love your mate. But… you don’t love Ava. You can’t, because you don’t know her anymore.”
The hollow loss rang in his chest, and he knew, in part, that Rhys was correct. As much as he hated it, Malachi knew the other man spoke the truth. And there was nothing he could do about it.
“She needed you back. And you are. But you’re not the same man. I don’t know if you ever will be. And that—that is why I am angry.”
Maxim, Leo, Rhys, and Malachi met in the sitting room that evening. The outside air had taken on the snap of autumn, but in the house in the caves, the fire warmed the small room where they sat, drinking tea and talking.
“It’s clear we’re not going to find any written or electronic records,” Max said. “Damien is too savvy for that. What we need is a personal connection.”
Rhys scowled. “Damien doesn’t have any personal connections. Why do you think he made such a good watcher?”
“Watcher?” Malachi asked.
Leo was the one who answered. The friendly scribe had been the one person with whom Malachi felt at complete ease. “All scribe houses in cities are organized in teams of five to eight men. A watcher is the head of the house. He tends the sacred fire and makes the most important decisions. Damien’s your boss, in other words.”