The Scribe (14 page)

She gasped and clutched the front of his shirt. “Malachi?”

He continued in soft words he knew she couldn’t understand. “Where have you heard this, beautiful one?” Malachi lifted trembling fingers to a curl of her hair, then he asked in English again. “Where have you heard this, Ava?”

She clutched his shirt tighter. “Everywhere,” she choked out. “I hear it everywhere!”

He shook his head, disbelieving. “It can’t be.”

“Every person. All over the world. I hear them, Malachi. In my head. The same language, over and over.” Her tears kept falling, and she wouldn’t let go of his shirt, almost as if she was afraid he would run. “I’m crazy. I know it. I told myself if I could just figure out what they were saying, it would make sense, but—”

“You’re not crazy.” Malachi lifted a tentative hand to her cheek.
He had to know.
“You’re not crazy, Ava, you’re—”

He broke off when she leaned her face into his hand, resting her cheek against his frozen palm.

Ava whispered, “You make the voices go away.” Then she closed her eyes, let out a soft breath, and Malachi
felt
her.

The rush of energy filled him, lifted him. His heart raced as the force of it elevated him. Malachi lifted his other hand to her neck, tracing the ancient letters over her skin, watching as the faint golden glow illuminated in the shadow of the pines. A choked laugh bubbled up in his throat and Ava’s eyes flickered open. His hand traced lower, brushing over her bare shoulder, down her arm, and everywhere his hand went, her skin gave off a faint, shimmering gold.

“You’re not crazy.” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from his fingers touching—actually touching—her. “You’re not crazy, Ava. You’re… a miracle.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she whispered.

“I don’t know, either.” The contact was intoxicating. Malachi trailed his hand up her arm again, finally cupping her face in both hands.

“Malachi?” The frown was back, but this time, he let his finger smooth away the line between her eyebrows.

“
Irina
,” he breathed out, then his lips lowered to hers. The first brush of his kiss was soft and testing. Reverent. But Ava didn’t faint. She leaned closer, and Malachi was lost.

His hand slid around to the nape of her neck to hold her as he let himself linger at her mouth. His other hand slid down her arm and around her waist, pressing her closer as he deepened the kiss. Her mouth moved against his, searching. Then he felt her hands.

He pulled away, groaning, “
Yes
.”

Her hands came around his neck, fingers lacing together as she held him against her. Malachi’s mouth fell to her neck, pressing kisses against the soft skin there as she laid her cheek against his and held him close.

“Closer,” he murmured. “More.”

She left one hand at his neck and brought the other to his cheek, stroking the rough skin there. “Malachi?”

“Touch me, Ava.” He kissed up her neck and over her jaw, searching for her mouth. “
Please
. It’s been so long.”

His rough hand stroked the small of her back, over her shirt, then he let a finger slide under the edge. She didn’t faint. Didn’t grow weak. Instead, the energy he felt from her seemed to surge wherever their skin touched. He slid his hand under her shirt, pressing it full against the small of her back as Ava let out a breathy moan.

“So good…”

He captured her mouth again, his tongue tracing along her lips until she opened to him. He slid closer. Tongues and lips. Her teeth scraped against his lower lip.

More.

More.

Her mouth was as eager as his when she pressed closer, gripping the hair at the nape of his neck as they knelt under the trees. Her knees buckled and he laid her down on the soft bed of needles, rolling on his side and bringing her with him, never breaking her glorious hold.

“Ava, Ava, Ava,” he whispered against her lips. He let one hand trail down her arm, tracing along her skin, feeling the rush of magic that followed. “You’re a miracle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but don’t stop.”

“I can’t stop. I don’t want to ever stop.”

Her hands were brushing over his cheeks again, her fingernails scraping against the stubble. He’d forgotten to shave that morning. Usually he never thought about it, but he did now. He wanted nothing between her skin and his. He let the hand at the small of her back rise, fingers trailing up her spine as she pulled away and arched her back with a moan. He kissed her neck. Her shoulder. The delicate skin over her collarbone.

“Ava, wait…” He groaned. “We have to stop. I don’t want to, but—”

“No.” She was trembling in his arms. “More.”

“This is—”

Just then, she let out a shudder that racked her whole body. Malachi felt her heave a great sigh, then she stilled, going limp in his arms. He pulled away, panicked for a moment until he saw the deep breaths she was taking. He put his ear to her chest; her heart was strong and steady. There was a peaceful smile on her face. He gently laid her back on the bed of pine needles and pulled off his shirt, tucking it under her head. Then he lay on his side and stared at her.

Malachi brushed tentative fingers over her arm, still disbelieving what he saw with his own eyes. The gold glow was there, if anything, brighter than it had been at first. He scrolled letters over her, brushing spells across her skin to aid in rest and health. To give her peace of mind and sweet dreams. The breeze swept over them both as they rested in the dappled shade that overlooked the sea.

Ava rested, and Malachi watched.

A miracle.

A mystery.

Malachi hadn’t seen one in over two hundred years.

Irina
.

Chapter Eight

Ava woke slowly. Her eyes were stiff and heavy with exhaustion like she’d never known before. She stretched her legs, moving languidly in the cool sheets that smelled of lemon and… Malachi?

She forced her eyes open, blinking as she looked around. Early morning sun spilled across the sheets, crisscrossed by shadows from the wooden blinds. She was alone in the room, but it wasn’t hers. A thousand mornings waking in foreign rooms had trained her. Her bag would be in one corner. Her phone by the bed. Shoes set by the door.

This room was not hers.

It was dominated by a wall of bookcases. On the bookcases were volumes of paperbacks, hardcovers, and more. Intricate, leather-bound tomes. Books in boxes. Even a few scrolls. And the walls that didn’t have books had art. It was a small room, narrow and long, but packed with traces of its owner.

It was Malachi’s room. It had his smell. Even more, there was a certain odd balance and masculinity to it that reminded her of him. Simple and bold at the same time. At the foot of the bed, Ava noticed some books had been pulled out. She crawled that direction, unwinding the sheet that covered her.

How had she gotten here?

She searched her memories, but they were fuzzy. Her whole head was fuzzy, an odd feeling for her, though not entirely unpleasant. Usually, Ava woke restless. She rose with the feeling that she was already behind in… something. Some task had escaped her. Some memory forgotten. If she was in a hotel, early morning voices whispered to her, almost always in a hurry.

Rush rush rush.

Mornings for Ava were manic.

But this morning…

She took a deep breath and leaned against the wall where the large bed had been pushed and looked around again. The room almost reminded her of a dorm room. A small desk was in one corner with a computer on top. Packing boxes were stacked in another. She saw a narrow door she suspected was a closet.

Or a bathroom.

She jumped up and ran to it, disappointed when she saw all the clothes. Luckily, another glance to the right revealed a narrow door open to a sliver of a sink. With a sigh of relief, Ava walked in and took care of her most urgent concern, looking around for a moment as she sat.

If this was Malachi’s room—and she was almost certain it was—how did his shoulders fit through that door? Did he walk sideways into his own bathroom? And that shower was ridiculous. Did he crouch in it? His scent was stronger in the bathroom. As she was washing up, she picked up a bar of soap.

Yep, definitely Malachi.

“Think, Ava.” Her voice was rasping and hoarse. She needed water. There’d been some in the backpack she took to the island…

“The island.” She met her own surprised gaze in the mirror. “We were on the island.”

The island. The mountain. The monastery.

The
gun
.

She groaned. Leave it to Carl to send her a .45. He knew she was more accurate with a 9mm. Still, when one was sending contraband handguns to one’s stepdaughter in Turkey, Ava supposed one couldn’t be too picky. And leave it to Malachi to be more concerned than frightened when he saw it.

She walked back out to the bedroom, head still a little fuzzy.

What was she doing in Malachi’s room? How had he gotten her there? The whole time between the hike and waking was a blur. They’d been hiking to the monastery. Ava had confronted Malachi with the gun.

And then…

The memory rang clear as the morning light.

Where have you heard this, Ava?

She almost ran into the door.

Malachi had spoken it! Her unknown language. Only a brief mutter at first, but her mind had latched on to it. Then more. He had spoken the words that haunted her. Not a whispered cadence. His voice had been real, and Ava had…

Well, she’d completely freaked out.

Where have you heard this, Ava?

He’d spoken it. Not in a whispered jumble. Not in a stutter or a whisper as she’d often tried. He’d spoken it like a native.

Malachi knew what her language was.

You’re not crazy. You’re a miracle.

A miracle of what? She closed her eyes and flushed at the memory of his kiss. More than a kiss. It had been
more
. Right and whole and real and true. Like the realization she’d had at the bar, it struck her soul-deep. Malachi was made to kiss her, and she was made to kiss him. He’d kissed her on the edge of that mountain like it was his purpose in life, and a small hopeful voice whispered to Ava that perhaps it was true.

She looked at the door, knowing that somewhere on the other side, she’d find him. She’d find Malachi, and he’d be able to answer her questions. Questions that had plagued her for twenty-eight years. And Ava had to admit the idea of finding answers was almost as frightening as the unknown. She sat down on the edge of the bed with trembling knees.

“Get a grip, Ava.” She clenched her eyes shut and commanded her heart to stop racing. “Focus.”

Irina
, he’d whispered.

“Who is Irina?”

The sunlight flowed through the window, illuminating a book open at the end of the bed. There was a chest there with more books, but one was open, and Ava moved closer, drawn to the gold-trimmed page that glowed in the slanting light.

It was a manuscript. A very well-preserved one. The illuminations marked it as medieval, but the writing wasn’t like any she’d seen before. Ava had studied enough foreign languages and religions to know it was probably Middle Eastern. Something about it reminded her of Hebrew, but it wasn’t. It was older. Simpler. Not hieroglyphics. A simple alphabet that could be carved as easily as written, she was guessing. It had shades of both Hebrew and Arabic but was neither. Phoenician? And what was it doing combined with what looked like Medieval European illustrations?

The art next to the script was exquisite. It was a picture of a couple embracing. The man’s upper body was covered in strange, silver tattoos, and his face was a picture of ecstasy. The woman held him, her body also covered in the same marks, but the artist had used gold to draw hers. They twined together, two halves of one whole. Everything about them spoke of completion.

She closed the book and looked at the binding. It was old, but well oiled. The book, whatever language it had been written in, was exquisitely preserved. There were marks in the corners of the vellum and a few pages had been torn at the corner. This was not a museum piece. It had been treasured but used. Finally, she opened it at the beginning.

The first thing she saw was an intricate page of illuminated letters in the unknown language. Text only. Then, there were pictures of men with glowing faces and white robes. Beautiful women embraced them. Ava continued to turn the pages, not understanding the writing, but looking for the story the pictures told. Children were born. The figures showed both joy and sorrow. Then the men with glowing faces left, the women’s arms held out to them in supplication. There were more pictures of children. Pictures of young men building what looked like temples. Houses? More men copying books and building fires. Writing on walls. A room full of scrolls. A library?

There were pictures of women. Breathtakingly beautiful and detailed, the pictures of the women were wrought with infinite delicacy and vivid color. Women holding children. Women putting hands on the sick. Overseeing a building project. Tending and drying flowers. A woman standing in front of an assembly, who looked like she was singing. The faces of the audience, each rendered in detail, exhibited awe.