The Scribe

He was going to kill Rhys. Slowly. In seventeen different ways so far, and they were only two hours past Ankara. The man talked and flirted, drawing Ava out in ways that had her confessing childhood mischief and university adventures. He asked about her travels and told her about his, making himself the hero of every confrontation, the key to every success.

Malachi was going to kill him.

He touched her casually, a brush on the arm, a bump of the knee. Ways that Malachi knew must be killing him. Like most of the Irin, Rhys hadn’t had regular contact with any woman since the Rending. He must have been as ravenous for Ava’s touch as Malachi had been on that hill by the monastery, but unlike Malachi, he had his control clamped down.

Malachi had been overwhelmed. Even the memory of her lips left him in a painful state of arousal, which was rather inconvenient, considering he had four more hours of driving.

He saw Rhys brush his elbow against Ava’s knee as he bent down to get something from his backpack. Malachi slammed on the brakes, sending Rhys’s head crashing into the front seat.

“Sorry.”

Rhys straightened, rubbing his forehead, murder in his eyes and a book in hand for Ava.

“No problem. Accidents happen.”

“I thought I saw a dog run across the road. False alarm.”

Ava said, “Rhys, are you okay?”

“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 Göreme. 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—”