He saw that despite her attempt at humor, she was fighting off tears. Her strength humbled him again. Malachi peeled her hand away and said, “Okay.”
“All right.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Discussion over. Let’s talk about what kind of mating mark I have in mind. I’m thinking maybe some Nickelback lyrics. What do you think?”
He couldn’t fight the smile. “Very funny.”
“Maybe Beyoncé, if we want to go the more epic route.” She traced something over his chest. “As for art, I’m cool with you just doing a little butterfly if you’re worried about the pain.”
He growled and flipped her over when she started to laugh.
“You are in so much trouble.”
Chapter Eight
“HOW CAN WE PRACTICE like this and not…” Ava waved her hands at Orsala. “You know.”
The old woman smiled. “Why are we able to practice spells without actually working them?”
“Yes.”
They were going over the mating ritual in the library of the scribe house, taking advantage of the collection Rhys had been building. So much of the old library had burned in the fire the Grigori had set, but not all of it. Rhys was supplementing it with some of his own books and others that the scribes in Cappadocia had sent.
Most of the books had more information on written spellwork than spoken, but that was to be expected. Orsala and Ava could read and practice the poems she’d need to memorize for her mating ritual. Those were universal. But most of Orsala’s teaching was verbal in nature.
“We’re able to practice spells without actively casting them because…” The old singer frowned. “How to explain… Don’t you feel the difference? You’ve worked various spells now.”
“I have. I’m super careful about saying any words in the Old Language, though. The last time I did that, I brought my dead mate back to life, so… yeah, kind of makes me nervous.”
“I suppose it would.” Orsala paused. “There has to be… intention. Purpose. I suppose a spell only works when you believe it will work. What words, exactly, did you say when you called him back?”
Ava took a deep breath. “Vashama canem, reshon.”
“Hmm.” Orsala drew her hands together in front of her. “Not a command, then. A plea. To your reshon, specifically. A mourning cry.”
“I’d heard it so many times.”
“It’s something we all hear if we’re listening, isn’t it?” Orsala’s eyes filled with sorrow. “The soul cry at the loss of a beloved. A mate. A child. Irin and human alike. It’s not a spell. Not exactly. Though I suppose any words spoken with enough power could be. That was our bargain with the Forgiven. They gave their daughters their voice. Their songs.”
“What did they give their sons?”
“Glyphs.” Orsala ran her hands down her arms. “Their talesm. But angels are not tattooed as our males are; their glyphs are part of their skin.”
“So why did my words, which aren’t even a spell, bring Malachi back from the dead?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps because it wasn’t a spell. It was a plea. To Malachi? To the Creator? Maybe it was simply an answered prayer.”
Ava paused. “It wasn’t because my power is different?”
“Your power is different and it isn’t,” Orsala said, leaning her elbows on the table. “It feels the same as all Irina power but… condensed. Your eyes are so gold. Your power so raw. Even untrained, you worked incredibly powerful magic. Your bloodlines must be very potent, whatever they are.” There was a flicker of concern in Orsala’s eyes, but then the old woman blinked and it was gone. “We should get back to—”
She broke off at the commotion near the doorway. There was a slam. A shuffle of coats and shoes. Low, urgent voices. Ava and Orsala rose to their feet just as the door burst open.
Maxim strode into the room.
Leo followed him. “But I don’t understand—”
“Ava,” Max said. He came to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and stared. “Ava.”
“Max, what is it? Why are you here?”
Orsala looked past them to the door. “Renata? What are you doing here?”
Ava put her hands over Max’s and ignored the other voices in the room. She almost felt as if she were the one holding the massive man up. His eyes were focused on her as they had been the first time they’d met in the old scribe house, when Malachi had drawn the ancient words over her skin, marking her as one of their lost Irina. Max had stared then as he stared now.
Wonder. Confusion. Awe.
“Max, what’s going on?”
“I can’t…” His eyes pleaded with her. “I can’t explain. You have to see.”
“See? See what? What are you talking about?”
She turned when the door from the kitchen opened and Malachi walked in.
“Maxim,” he said. “What has happened?”
Max just shook his head, still staring at Ava.
Renata walked further into the room and said, “We’ve just come from Bulgaria. The two of you—”
“He said nothing about Malachi,” Max said.
“He is her mate,” Renata said. “She’s not going without him.”
Rhys walked in on the commotion. “What in heaven’s name—”