The Scribe

Ava couldn’t speak. Her eyes locked with Jaron’s as image after image flooded her mind. Bright, glaring, as if seen through eyes that took in every shadow and color in preternatural detail. The pictures flickering like an old film reel, she saw herself as a child, stumbling through her first steps. Splashing in a wading pool in front of a tiny house in Santa Monica. Riding a horse at Carl’s ranch.

Darkness.

Then images from her first days in Istanbul. Wandering through the spice market. Buying chestnuts from a vendor near Galata Bridge. Drinking tea with Malachi. Their kiss on the island.

Malachi.

Utter black. Pain. Despair.

She clutched Malachi’s hand tighter, gasping when the next images flew past.

Two dark-haired children. A girl with a golden gaze, laughing as butterflies swirled around her. A boy, staring back at her with his father’s eyes. An ink-black jaguar curled around the children protectively as a wolf and a tiger paced behind. The tiger bent to the girl, opening his mouth. Ava felt her heart race, but the great beast closed his jaw around the girl’s nape gently as she continued to smile and pet its cheek. The image flickered away as a great circle rose in the sky, like a sun twisted with gold and silver. Higher and higher it rose, until the sun faded away to stars, a million scattered points of light dotting the heavens, dancing in concert to a growing song.

Darkness.

Ava felt Malachi’s arms around her. Heard Jaron’s whisper in her mind. Not in the Old Language, but in her own.

I show you what has been. What will be. And what could be. Do not fear the darkness.

Her eyes came back into focus, staring into Malachi’s as he looked down on her. She must have stumbled, because he was holding her in his lap, sitting in a chair in the doctor’s office.

“Ava?”

She couldn’t speak for a moment, still lost in the eyes of the boy as her mate’s eyes stared back at her. She reached up, brushing away the dark hair that had fallen across his face.

“I will not fear the darkness,” she whispered. Turning her head, she looked at Jaron again, but the radiance had grown dim and the Fallen appeared more human, though no less frightening. “Who are you?”

“You ask the wrong question, child.”

“Who am I, then?” She blinked and sat up, trying to fight the wave of nausea that swept over her. The instinctive fear that hummed in her blood.

“A better question, but one I have already answered.”

“No, you haven’t.” She frowned when she saw the angel’s lip curl slightly at the corner.

“You’re right. It’s better to say that I’ve answered it as much as I want to right now.”

“I don’t understand any of this.”

“You will.” He shrugged. “Or you won’t. Try to understand, as more fates than yours rest in your song.”

Ava stood, vibrating with anger. “Why don’t you tell me more, then? What am I?”

She felt Malachi rise behind her, putting a calming hand on her shoulder. “Ava—”

“I’m not scared of you, Dr. Sadik. Or Jaron. Or whatever your name is.”

The angel looked amused. “You should be scared. Wiser ones usually are.”

Malachi growled behind her, trying to push forward to stand between Ava and Jaron. Ava wouldn’t let him; she pushed forward.

“Ava, stop—”

“If I’d wanted her dead, Scribe, she would be,” Jaron said, his voice growing more resonant and his face starting to glow again. “If I’d wanted to harm her, she would be gone. Wiped from the Earth and your memory as if she had never existed.”

“Impossible,” her mate murmured, drawing Ava back to the safety of his arms.

“Very possible,” Jaron whispered. “Never underestimate my kind, Scribe. She has chosen you, yes. But I am not convinced you are equal to the task. What darkness have you truly battled?”

She felt him draw one of the daggers from under his arm. It glinted in the light from the window as he held it between Jaron and herself.

“I have battled evil like you before.”

In the space of a heartbeat, the angel towered over them. Ava trembled, but Malachi stood firm, his arm across her chest never wavering. His hand on the dagger didn’t tremble.

Jaron spoke, and his voice moved over them like a wave. “You have never battled one like me. You will meet the darkness, and it will overwhelm you.” His gaze flickered down to Ava. “She knows what could be now. Protect your woman, Scribe. Get her out of this city. It is no longer under my domain. Others seek to take her from you. They will show you no mercy. Even now, your brothers battle children who are not of my blood, and one carries a heavenly blade.”

Then Jaron spoke something in the Old Language, and the writing that covered his body, even more intricate and beautiful than Malachi’s talesm, glowed with a burnished-gold light. Ava had to shield her eyes, and when she opened them, the angel had disappeared.

“We have to get out of here,” Malachi said, tugging her away from the gold glow where Jaron had been.

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. We have to move, Ava. Now.”

Bursting through the door, Ava could hear them. Silent physically, but their dark minds scratched at her own. Vicious whispers of violence and blood. She ran after Malachi, halting briefly when she saw the blood.

The receptionist and the nurse were dead, their necks split open, blood pooling on the tiled floor and staining the intricate carpet in the waiting room. Malachi cursed under his breath and pulled her from her shocked stupor.