The Scribe
Page 42
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“Are we here?” Rhys yelled from the back of the Range Rover. The door creaked open and he climbed out, unfolding his long legs from their cramped position. “Oh, Ava, love, do you need help with your bags?”
Malachi bristled. “I’ve got them, Rhys.”
“Good man.” His friend slapped him on the shoulder before he grabbed his own bag and hoisted it out.
Malachi saw some Irin walking through the old gates. An elderly scribe raised a hand and waved.
“Ms. Matheson?”
Ava stepped forward and held out her hand as Malachi and Rhys stopped to watch. Watch the old scribe take her hand delicately, then more confidently, his face breaking into a huge smile. Most of the Cappadocian scribes were older, having stopped their longevity spells after the Rending, but a few of the younger men gaped at Ava as Malachi and Rhys followed her into the scribe house with the luggage.
Rhys was still groggy. Sadly, he was also talking.
“She was pressed against me in the car, Malachi. Heaven, I’d forgotten what that felt like. Just to have the weight of a woman—”
“Really!” he burst out. “Just… shut up, Rhys.”
Thirty-three. There were thirty-three ways Malachi could kill him.
Chapter Ten
He was avoiding her. It was the only explanation for the fact that Ava had been at the scribe house in Cappadocia for almost a week and had seen Malachi a grand total of two times. Fine. Whatever. If he was avoiding her, she refused to be sorry about it. She had other things to do.
For the first few days, she slept. For once in her life, sleep seemed to come easily. There was something about the inner voices of the Irin scribes that soothed her. Though none had the resonance that Malachi’s did, the combined chorus of their souls blended into a soothing tapestry, almost like the white noise of ocean waves. She dreamed vivid dreams where she wandered in a dark wood. Nothing about it was frightening; it was profoundly peaceful.
Her days were spent with Rhys and the oldest scribe at the house, Evren. She’d met Evren the first night, and he seemed to take Ava under his wing. He told her he was seven hundred years old, but he looked around seventy. His dark hair was sprinkled with silver and curled at the neck. His skin was olive-toned, but pale. Ava suspected he spent most of his time among the books.
“And your mother’s maiden name?” Evren asked quietly, taking notes with a pencil as Rhys typed on a computer in the library. Small windows, high in the walls, were the only bit of the outside world she saw. Like much of the oldest parts of the scribe house, the majority of the library had been dug underground into the soft volcanic rock.
“My mom was born Magdalena Russell. Lena.”
“Ethnicity?”
Ava shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. Her family has been in America for ages. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her talk about relatives in another part of the world. I think I’m a mix of all sorts of stuff.”
Evren nodded patiently, taking more notes she couldn’t read. They were in the same rough script that marked his arms and the back of his hands. She could see similar markings peeking out from the collar of the loose shirt he wore. All the scribes were tattooed with what Rhys told her were spells to enhance different senses and control magic.
“You said she was from South Dakota originally. And your mother’s mother?”
“Just her mom?”
Evren folded his hand in a way that reminded Ava of one of her favorite undergraduate professors. “When researching the Irina, it is the female line that is important. Irina power stems from their mother’s magic. Even when tracing Irin bloodlines, we always start with the Irina. Irin scribes are the preservers of magic and knowledge, but Irina hold the creative force in our race.”
“Oh. Okay, my mom’s mom was Alice Cook. Her maiden name was Rutner. She was from Missouri. I think. I don’t know much about her. My mom and she weren’t close.”
“Your mother’s grandmother?”
“I think her first name was Sarah, but I’m not sure. We’re not big on family history. Do you need to know about my dad?”
“Probably not.” Evren smiled. “Though I’m sure that seems backward to one used to human tradition, where male bloodlines are more thoroughly documented.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest.” At least they didn’t need to know about her dad. Jasper’s family was a total mystery.
Evren cocked his head. “Do women still take a husband’s surname in America?”
“Not always, but it’s pretty common. My mom did with Carl. That’s why I’m legally a Matheson. He adopted me after they got married.”
“Hmm.”
Ava squirmed, feeling like she was under a microscope. “How about you guys? What’s your last name?”
Rhys turned from the computer. “We don’t have surnames in our culture.”
“Isn’t that confusing? I mean, you guys live a long time.”
Both men chuckled.
“Well, I suppose it helps that we don’t have many children,” Evren said. “They’re quite rare. If we were more prolific, I suppose it could be.”
Rhys said, “We have our own ways of keeping track of family history.” He reached down and pulled off the T-shirt he wore, then he rolled his office chair toward Ava and showed her his back, which was marked with more strange writing along with the first decorative tattoo work Ava had seen. Without thinking, she reached out and traced the intricate knot work that showed a distinct Celtic influence.
Malachi bristled. “I’ve got them, Rhys.”
“Good man.” His friend slapped him on the shoulder before he grabbed his own bag and hoisted it out.
Malachi saw some Irin walking through the old gates. An elderly scribe raised a hand and waved.
“Ms. Matheson?”
Ava stepped forward and held out her hand as Malachi and Rhys stopped to watch. Watch the old scribe take her hand delicately, then more confidently, his face breaking into a huge smile. Most of the Cappadocian scribes were older, having stopped their longevity spells after the Rending, but a few of the younger men gaped at Ava as Malachi and Rhys followed her into the scribe house with the luggage.
Rhys was still groggy. Sadly, he was also talking.
“She was pressed against me in the car, Malachi. Heaven, I’d forgotten what that felt like. Just to have the weight of a woman—”
“Really!” he burst out. “Just… shut up, Rhys.”
Thirty-three. There were thirty-three ways Malachi could kill him.
Chapter Ten
He was avoiding her. It was the only explanation for the fact that Ava had been at the scribe house in Cappadocia for almost a week and had seen Malachi a grand total of two times. Fine. Whatever. If he was avoiding her, she refused to be sorry about it. She had other things to do.
For the first few days, she slept. For once in her life, sleep seemed to come easily. There was something about the inner voices of the Irin scribes that soothed her. Though none had the resonance that Malachi’s did, the combined chorus of their souls blended into a soothing tapestry, almost like the white noise of ocean waves. She dreamed vivid dreams where she wandered in a dark wood. Nothing about it was frightening; it was profoundly peaceful.
Her days were spent with Rhys and the oldest scribe at the house, Evren. She’d met Evren the first night, and he seemed to take Ava under his wing. He told her he was seven hundred years old, but he looked around seventy. His dark hair was sprinkled with silver and curled at the neck. His skin was olive-toned, but pale. Ava suspected he spent most of his time among the books.
“And your mother’s maiden name?” Evren asked quietly, taking notes with a pencil as Rhys typed on a computer in the library. Small windows, high in the walls, were the only bit of the outside world she saw. Like much of the oldest parts of the scribe house, the majority of the library had been dug underground into the soft volcanic rock.
“My mom was born Magdalena Russell. Lena.”
“Ethnicity?”
Ava shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. Her family has been in America for ages. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her talk about relatives in another part of the world. I think I’m a mix of all sorts of stuff.”
Evren nodded patiently, taking more notes she couldn’t read. They were in the same rough script that marked his arms and the back of his hands. She could see similar markings peeking out from the collar of the loose shirt he wore. All the scribes were tattooed with what Rhys told her were spells to enhance different senses and control magic.
“You said she was from South Dakota originally. And your mother’s mother?”
“Just her mom?”
Evren folded his hand in a way that reminded Ava of one of her favorite undergraduate professors. “When researching the Irina, it is the female line that is important. Irina power stems from their mother’s magic. Even when tracing Irin bloodlines, we always start with the Irina. Irin scribes are the preservers of magic and knowledge, but Irina hold the creative force in our race.”
“Oh. Okay, my mom’s mom was Alice Cook. Her maiden name was Rutner. She was from Missouri. I think. I don’t know much about her. My mom and she weren’t close.”
“Your mother’s grandmother?”
“I think her first name was Sarah, but I’m not sure. We’re not big on family history. Do you need to know about my dad?”
“Probably not.” Evren smiled. “Though I’m sure that seems backward to one used to human tradition, where male bloodlines are more thoroughly documented.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest.” At least they didn’t need to know about her dad. Jasper’s family was a total mystery.
Evren cocked his head. “Do women still take a husband’s surname in America?”
“Not always, but it’s pretty common. My mom did with Carl. That’s why I’m legally a Matheson. He adopted me after they got married.”
“Hmm.”
Ava squirmed, feeling like she was under a microscope. “How about you guys? What’s your last name?”
Rhys turned from the computer. “We don’t have surnames in our culture.”
“Isn’t that confusing? I mean, you guys live a long time.”
Both men chuckled.
“Well, I suppose it helps that we don’t have many children,” Evren said. “They’re quite rare. If we were more prolific, I suppose it could be.”
Rhys said, “We have our own ways of keeping track of family history.” He reached down and pulled off the T-shirt he wore, then he rolled his office chair toward Ava and showed her his back, which was marked with more strange writing along with the first decorative tattoo work Ava had seen. Without thinking, she reached out and traced the intricate knot work that showed a distinct Celtic influence.
