The Scribe
Page 37

Malachi glanced at Damien, then back to her. “I’ll be right back.”
“And I’ll call my mom.” She waved her phone. “I guess I’ll tell her… something.”
By the time Malachi returned to the room, Ava had ended the call with her mother after spinning a very elaborate story about Malachi and the old bodyguard miscommunicating. About how, really, it had all been a huge misunderstanding, and Ava was fine, and it had all worked out for the best.
Because she and Malachi were now involved in a whirlwind romance.
If there was anything that could distract Lena Matheson, it was speculating about her daughter’s love life. Plus, Ava figured that it would keep her mom from calling too often if she was daydreaming about the nonexistent grandchildren Ava might someday give her when she found “the right man.”
She had the book open again, staring at the entwined couple, tracing the edges of the page and remembering the way that Malachi’s touch had lit her skin from within.
“Ava?” His voice was soft and solemn.
“Hey.”
“How is your mother?”
“Happy, actually. I convinced her that it was all a misunderstanding, and we’re now involved in a torrid affair. That’ll distract her.” She kept her eyes on the book. Now that they were alone, she didn’t know how to act around him. She craved his touch, but the craving put her on edge. Was it natural? Normal? If he was really part of some supernatural race, could he make her feel things she wouldn’t otherwise feel? Her heart told her Malachi was trustworthy, but a lifetime of rejection warned her to be cautious.
Malachi said, “That would have distracted my mother, too.”
There was a strange sort of sadness in his tone. A tone that told her, somehow, in the moments they’d been apart, something delicate had shifted. He stood a little farther back, and a shadow tinged his voice.
“Your mom…” She lifted the corner of the page and tried to pretend the shadow wasn’t there. “She’s…”
“She was Irina. Our women are called Irina.”
“Ah. And you think I’m one of them.” Her finger trailed lightly over the gold leaf on the woman’s skin, illuminated just as hers had been when Malachi touched her.
“I think you have to be.”
“You think I’m part… angel?”
“It’s slightly more complicated than that, but yes.” He brought a chair over and sat across from her.
“My stepdad would disagree strongly with that.”
“It’s not what humans think.”
“But you think I’m like you.” She pointed to the woman in the book. “Like her?”
“I do.”
She paged through the book a bit more but kept coming back to the picture of the couple he’d left the book open to at first.
Malachi said, “You’re taking this all rather well. No running and screaming. Part of me expected you to be on a plane back to Los Angeles by now.”
“You have to remember”—she closed the book and let out a rueful laugh—“you’re talking to a woman who’s heard strange voices from people’s heads her whole life, remember? I don’t think you can classify me as a skeptic.”
“I suppose that’s true. So you believe us?”
“Sort of. Kind of. There’s a lot I don’t understand.”
She heard him shift in his seat, but he didn’t come closer. “Then we will help you find the answers.”
“Is that why you kissed me?” she asked quietly. “Because you wanted to know if I was like them?”
He paused. “Partly.”
“Of course.” Ava nodded. “That makes sense.”
Malachi said nothing, and Ava refused to look up. She just stared at the couple. A perfect balance of male and female. Perfect longing. Perfect love. She ached for something always out of reach. She’d thought she felt a hint of it with him, but maybe it was all an illusion. Malachi certainly wasn’t making any grand declarations about his feelings. His arms were crossed over his chest; his eyes avoided hers. Ava itched to reach out and trace the intricate letters that were marked on his skin, taste the edge of his jaw the way she had when they kissed, but everything about his body language screamed stop, even as his silent voice coaxed her closer.
“Ava, there is a scribe house east of here, in Cappadocia. One of the oldest in existence. There are scribes there who are far older than me or even Damien. Scribes who might know how all this is happening. Understand why you have the magic you do, even though you weren’t born Irina. I think there might be answers there.”
“You want me to go with you.”
“Yes.”
“To Cappadocia?”
“Yes.”
“To visit a bunch of old scribes.”
He finally cracked a smile. “We’re a bunch of old scribes, too. We just don’t look it.”
And suddenly, she was wondering just how old he was. “I’m almost afraid to ask. So, you really think there are answers there?”
“There’s a greater chance of answers there than here. The library of Cappadocia has been preserved for hundreds of years. And it would also be for your safety. To get you out of the city. Damien will continue to investigate why the others are looking for you. But in the meantime, you’d be somewhere much safer.”
“I don’t know…”