Malachi crossed his arms over his chest. “While I’m duly terrified of your defensive abilities, canım, I’m more reluctant to attack you because you’re my mate and I don’t wish to hurt you. You may proceed without the attack from me.”
Ava’s jaw dropped. “Wow. Really? How old did you sound just then?”
Orsala said, “About four hundred years old. Ava, what did you expect? I told you it would be better to ask Rhys or Leo.”
Malachi glared. “Absolutely not.”
“Your friends would have no problem helping Ava practice.”
“They would if they wanted to avoid injuries from me.”
“Stubborn man!”
“I don’t need an old woman’s approval to protect my mate.”
Ava held up both hands and stepped between them. “We’re not doing this. I need to practice. This isn’t a battle of the sexes. Malachi, you’re my husband. Mate. Whatever. And I expect you to help me become stronger. I’ve tried unprovoked defensive spells, and they just don’t work. I’m not getting that gut reaction I need to make them effective. So if you aren’t willing or able to help me—”
“If there is no other option, then fine.” Her matter-of-fact attitude convinced him. She was correct. To not help her become stronger would be to fail in his duties as her mate. “And we’re getting married as soon as possible. If you prefer not to call me your mate, then I’ll at least be your husband.”
“Technically,” Orsala said as she moved back to the wall, “she’s not your mate either.”
Ava’s mouth dropped open, and Malachi said, “Yes, she is. Why in heaven would you say that?”
Orsala frowned. “Has she completed the mating ritual? I thought only you had performed it. Your magic doesn’t reflect a mated couple.”
Ava looked horrified. “I haven’t.” She turned to him. “What does that mean? What do I need to do?”
According to what he’d been told, Orsala was technically correct. Malachi had marked Ava before his death, but she’d never completed her side of the ritual, and he hadn’t tattooed the mark that would make her claim permanent.
Ava was upset. “But we’re dream-walking. And I… I feel you. I thought I was your mate. What we have—”
“Of course you’re my mate,” he said, soothing her. “We are reshon. Nothing can negate that. It’s fine, canım.”
“It’s not,” Orsala said. “He gave you his power, but you have not given him yours. Your mate will not heal fully until you do.”
“But what do I do?”
Malachi marched over to the old woman. “She will not be pressured into this. This is between Ava and me.”
“I’m not pressuring her. But you do her no favors. Mates carry each other’s burdens. Do you think she is not able to carry yours?”
“That has nothing to do with it.” And everything to do with Ava being as strong as possible. If she gave him her power, as so many Irina had before the Rending, then it was possible she would be weakened at a point when she might be vulnerable.
He turned to Ava. “We will complete the ritual in our own time. When things are safer for you.”
Ava stepped to him. “Is she right?”
He was unable to lie to her. “I’m strong enough without borrowing your power.”
Malachi saw Orsala shaking her head from the corner of his eye.
“It’s not about strength or weakness,” she said. “It’s about sharing a burden.”
The old woman strode over and, without warning, pushed Malachi over. Surprised by the old woman’s move, Malachi lost his footing, falling backward on the mat. His shoulders bounced off the practice mat, his hands slapped down. He was up as quickly as he’d fallen, his fists clenched and his shoulders squared.
“What was that?”
“A point,” Orsala said, circling the angry scribe. “I’m not stronger than you. Magically, perhaps, but I didn’t use magic.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Trust me. You’d know if did.”
Malachi felt the press of her influence in his mind, but he refused to look away from her testing eyes.
The corner of her mouth lifted in reluctant approval. “You have the will of an ox.”
“What is your point, old woman?”
“I’m not stronger than you, but you were not expecting an attack. You were unbalanced. Balance can be more important than strength, depending on the situation. If you and Ava are out of balance, then both of you are weaker. You are mates. Two halves of a whole. Learn from the foolishness of your fathers, Malachi of Sakarya, and do not make the same mistakes. Don’t underestimate your other half.”
Malachi looked at Ava. “I don’t want—”
“I’m offering.” Ava stepped forward. “I want this, Malachi. I’ve always wanted it. I didn’t like you giving me your power to begin with.”
“It was necessary.” According to Rhys, she wouldn’t have survived the battle in the cistern without his strength. Malachi had no regrets, even if it had cost him his life and his memories.
Ava turned away from him. “Teach me what to do.”
Malachi crossed his arms again. “Not at the expense of your defensive spellwork.”
“I can teach her both,” Orsala said. “Have no fear, Scribe. Your woman will be protected from all sides. And now can we depend on your help to finish this lesson?”
Malachi looked between Ava and Orsala, knowing that at some point he’d lost the upper hand. He just couldn’t figure out when. “Fine.”
“Cool!” Ava said.
She grinned and Malachi couldn’t be annoyed anymore. She looked too happy. He’d promised to attack her during her lesson, and she was thrilled.
“Gabriel’s bloody fist,” he muttered, bracing himself for the lesson ahead.
“I’M sorry!” She knelt over him, his hand clutched between hers. She might have said she was sorry, but she didn’t look it. She looked thrilled.
Malachi wiped the trickle of blood from his lip and grinned. “Very good, Ava.”
Without warning, he grabbed her by the shoulders and hooked his ankle around her knee, rolling them over so he was straddling her.
“Vashahuul,” she whispered, freezing him for a split second. In that moment, she lifted her knees up between his legs and pressed up, throwing him off-balance. “Vashaman!” she shouted, amplifying the spell. He froze again. It didn’t last long, but the split second he was paralyzed gave her an edge.
“Don’t forget ‘fasham,’ Ava!” Orsala shouted from the side of the room.
“Ya fasham,” she hissed, and Malachi felt the wave of dizziness hit him immediately. The ground tilted between his feet.
Fasham. A simple word in the Old Language meaning “to tilt or unbalance” but in the mouth of an Irina, ya fasham was the command to fall.
He fell. Flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him.
“Now the staff. And remember, any spell can be amplified with man.”
“Got it,” Ava said, panting. She rolled to the side and grabbed the short staff that all Irina trained with. Malachi could remember his mother’s. Always propped in a corner of the kitchen, it looked more like a broom handle than a weapon. But in the hands of a trained Irina—
“Ha!” It came down at the side of his head.
Narrowing his eyes, he reached out and snatched the staff from beside his head, giving it a swift tug and kicking his foot out to catch her ankle.
“Shit!” Ava yelled, losing her grip on the staff. Malachi spun it around and used it to vault himself to his feet.
“Did you mean to give this to me?” he said, taunting her. “Thank you so much. My mother had one of these. I felt it on my backside more than once.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So you’re used to taking a beating? Good. I won’t feel too bad then.”
“Ha!” He didn’t try to stop her when she ran for the row of weapons on the wall. She grabbed another staff and pounced, wasting no time before raining down a flurry of blows. She’d
been taught well—by Mala, he was guessing—but her inexperience showed. He easily parried her blows, pushing just hard enough to challenge her without frustrating her. He allowed her to land a few blows before he took control.
“I thought we were practicing your defensive spells,” he said.
“Seems a little unfair since I was beating you every time.”
He laughed and brought the staff down, tapping her ankle and forcing her to the corner of the mat. She feinted right, and the end of his staff bounced up, striking her right in the stomach. She went down with a sharp groan.
“Oof.” She rolled on the ground, clutching her belly.
“Ava!” He tossed his weapon to the side and fell to his knees. “Ava, I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect—”
“Vashahuulman,” she whispered, tensing under his hand. “Ya fashaman. Aman!”
The wave of dizziness swamped him, and when his eyes cleared, Ava was the one straddling him, a staff held over his neck and a smile on her lips.
“Did I ever tell you I went to acting camp?” she said. “We spent a whole week on how to take a fake punch.”
Malachi grinned. “You are evil, and I am very proud of you.”
“Thanks!”
THEY shared a shower later that afternoon before they went down to dinner. Ava was drying her hair and chattering about another spell Orsala had introduced to her that was supposed to cause instant nausea in any attacker. Messy, but effective. Malachi was listening with one ear but was distracted by examining the recovered talesm on his left arm.
“—for the spell. But that depends on me getting stronger, because that spell can only be used once I develop the ability to fly. Know what I mean?”
“Mmmhmm,” he muttered.
She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Hey, handsome.”
He looked up. “Yes?”
“So you’re cool with that, right? You can help me learn how to fly?”
He frowned. “What are you talking about? The myths about angels having wings are simply that. Myths. Ancient people had to rationalize angelic abilities somehow, thus the artistic depiction of… What are you smiling about?”
She tousled his hair. “You’re so cute when you’re being a nerd. But you should really listen to me instead of staring at your pretty tattoos.”
“I don’t remember writing them,” he muttered, “but I seem to have been somewhat obsessed in my early years with sexual potency.”
Ava burst into laughter. “Really? So that’s all magically enhanced, huh?”
He closed his eyes and gave into laughter. “Apparently so. I apologize if you thought it was natural. I hate to disappoint you.”
She was still laughing when she shoved him back and straddled his lap.
“Not disappointed, babe. Not even close.”
He lay back and let her lean over him, tracing the line of her shoulder with one finger. She’d been softer in his isolated memories of her before he’d been killed. Her arms hadn’t been lean with muscle. Her legs hadn’t been quite as thick. Part of him missed the soft give of her flesh under his hand, but the other part was satisfied that his mate was more formidable now.
“Talk to me about the mating ritual,” he said. “Are you sure you want it?”
“Why wouldn’t I want it?”
He shrugged.
“A shrug is not an answer.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I worry. It’s a permanent thing. Far more permanent than marriage.”
“But you’ve marked me, right? I’ll wear your mating marks forever.”
“Yes.”
“What did you write? What was your vow?”
He didn’t remember the ritual they had shared, but he had examined her body when the magic held her, had seen the marks he’d written with his power. They glowed gold when they were intimate.
He felt the heat in his face. “There are many passages from Irin poetry we write during the ritual. Just like there will be many passages you will have to memorize to sing to me. You know—”
“But there’s part that’s just yours, right? The part that goes up my back and then over my shoulder to my heart? That’s what Sari said.”
“Yes.” He traced the line of her back, seeing the words in his mind. He’d seen them countless times since. His own vow on her skin. A reminder of who she was and what he needed to be for her.
“What was it?”
“It was simple,” he said, suddenly feeling inadequate. The words he’d written weren’t enough. It wasn’t often that he wished he was less of a warrior and more of a poet. “I must not have had much time. If I’d had more time—”
“What did you write, Malachi?”
“‘I am for Ava,’” he said quietly. “‘For her… my hand and voice. For her, my body and mind. Her strength in weakness. Her sword in battle. Her balm in pain. I am hers. Hers to cherish. Hers to hold. Hers to command.’ That’s what I wrote.”
Malachi tried not to hear disappointment in her silence.
“I know it’s simple—”
“You see that, read that, every time my marks glow?” Her voice was hoarse with emotion.
He traced a finger over her heart, following the words he’d written there. “Yes.”
“So every time we make love, you are reminded of that vow. Every time you touch me”—she swallowed hard—“that promise is on my skin.”
“It is Irin tradition. It’s the way it has always been.”
“And you don’t want the same thing from me?”
Malachi dreamed of wearing her mating mark across his chest. It would be centered over his heart. And while the singer decided what words to include in her vow, it was up to the scribe to embellish those words and make them his own. His father’s mating mark had been an elaborate illumination from his mother’s German heritage. Scrolled flowers and birds marked the edges of her vow. He’d even broken tradition and added color.
And every time Ava faced him, her own promise would be written in his flesh.
“I want to wear your vow more than anything,” he said with a pounding heart. “But I worry. Everything seems so precarious right now.”
She sat up. “So you want me wearing your vow, but I shouldn’t make any promises to you?”
“That’s not… I don’t mean it that way. You don’t need to. I know you’re my mate.”
“Then you can take my mark, Malachi. You deserve my promise too.”
“Don’t you understand?” he asked. “You’ll be surrendering some of your power. To me. But it’s you that Jaron is tracking. It’s you whom Volund has attacked. Ava, I don’t want—”
“We’re in this together.” She spoke softly, but her voice was firm. “You heard what Orsala said. We work in balance or we don’t work at all. We survive together, or we don’t survive.”
“If we’d been mated when I was killed, it could have killed you. It likely would have.”
“You don’t know that. Plus I’m stronger now. And you’re not dying again.”
“Ava—”
“Stop.” She put a hand over his mouth and took a deep breath. “I’m serious. I don’t really know how I brought you back the last time. I think it was beginner’s luck. So don’t even think about trying it again, because you’ll probably just have to stay dead. And that’s not acceptable, not even an option, okay?”
He saw that despite her attempt at humor, she was fighting off tears. Her strength humbled him again. Malachi peeled her hand away and said, “Okay.”
“All right.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Discussion over. Let’s talk about what kind of mating mark I have in mind. I’m thinking maybe some Nickelback lyrics. What do you think?”
He couldn’t fight the smile. “Very funny.”
“Maybe Beyoncé, if we want to go the more epic route.” She traced something over his chest. “As for art, I’m cool with you just doing a little butterfly if you’re worried about the pain.”
He growled and flipped her
over when she started to laugh.
“You are in so much trouble.”
Chapter Eight
“HOW CAN WE PRACTICE like this and not…” Ava waved her hands at Orsala. “You know.”
The old woman smiled. “Why are we able to practice spells without actually working them?”
“Yes.”
They were going over the mating ritual in the library of the scribe house, taking advantage of the collection Rhys had been building. So much of the old library had burned in the fire the Grigori had set, but not all of it. Rhys was supplementing it with some of his own books and others that the scribes in Cappadocia had sent.
Most of the books had more information on written spellwork than spoken, but that was to be expected. Orsala and Ava could read and practice the poems she’d need to memorize for her mating ritual. Those were universal. But most of Orsala’s teaching was verbal in nature.
“We’re able to practice spells without actively casting them because…” The old singer frowned. “How to explain… Don’t you feel the difference? You’ve worked various spells now.”
“I have. I’m super careful about saying any words in the Old Language, though. The last time I did that, I brought my dead mate back to life, so… yeah, kind of makes me nervous.”
“I suppose it would.” Orsala paused. “There has to be… intention. Purpose. I suppose a spell only works when you believe it will work. What words, exactly, did you say when you called him back?”
Ava took a deep breath. “Vashama canem, reshon.”
“Hmm.” Orsala drew her hands together in front of her. “Not a command, then. A plea. To your reshon, specifically. A mourning cry.”
“I’d heard it so many times.”
“It’s something we all hear if we’re listening, isn’t it?” Orsala’s eyes filled with sorrow. “The soul cry at the loss of a beloved. A mate. A child. Irin and human alike. It’s not a spell. Not exactly. Though I suppose any words spoken with enough power could be. That was our bargain with the Forgiven. They gave their daughters their voice. Their songs.”
“What did they give their sons?”
“Glyphs.” Orsala ran her hands down her arms. “Their talesm. But angels are not tattooed as our males are; their glyphs are part of their skin.”