The Singer
Page 31
“There might be more human Irina out there.”
The idea of lost Irina living in the human world was shoved to the back of Malachi’s mind when he entered the ritual room with Leo. Both men wore nothing but the traditional linen wrap used during ceremonies. Malachi’s unmarked skin was stark in the shadowed room, which had been decorated with countless spells and enchantments dug into the soft rock. Some were scribed in different colors. Some surrounded intricate mosaics and paintings in vivid hues. The entire room, from the polished floor to the ceiling, was covered with Irin magic.
Evren followed them. He and Leo spoke words over the fire that was burning in the center of the room. Then Leo waved Malachi over, and the ritual began.
First, he prepared the ink, made from the ashes of the fire Evren tended every morning. Mixing the powdered ash with oil, he carefully poured the ink into an alabaster bowl that had been stained black from hundreds of years of use. Then he reached for the needle that Leo held out.
Leo was murmuring under his breath. “…and for the blessing of this power, handed down to us from our fathers. For the right use of our magic. For the balance of our race. We ask the Creator’s blessing on this scribe.”
Evren echoed Leo’s words with a few of his own, but Malachi heard little. There was only the ivory needle in his right hand. The ink in his left. He sat down on the stool with the small table before it and imagined in his mind the characters he would write. He closed his eyes and felt a slow curl of power building up from his chest, clearing his mind, and steadying the hand that had been shaking.
Then Malachi opened his eyes and began to write.
The first prick of the needle pierced the fog of magic that had covered his mind. It hurt. He dipped into the ink and made a few more rapid strikes the way Leo had shown him. It still hurt, but slowly he reached past it. The first character formed under his skin, glowing with a dull, pewter-like shine. Malachi started on the second. He felt the magic unfurling within as the pain reached a clarifying plateau.
By the fourth letter, his muscle memory awakened, and the magic took over.
Dipping from the ink to his hand, over and over again, Malachi steadily scribed the ancient words, calling on his angelic ancestors, his mother, his father, and the long line of Irin before them. He claimed his power in black ink as the spells circled the inside of his wrist, slowly curling like a snake around his forearm and crawling up his elbow. They twisted and shone as he marked himself, calling on the powers of Uriel, for longevity. On Rafael for swift healing. He harnessed Mikhael’s magic for swift hands in battle and Ariel’s for protection from blades.
Malachi focused on the oldest of the Irin spells, those given to the earliest scribes by the Forgiven. Other, more nuanced, magic could come in time. The power flowed over and through him. His skin was alive with it. His hand never wavered.
Behind him, he felt Leo’s hand on his shoulder, his brother sharing the magic and grounding him as he wrote. He took deep, steady breaths that Malachi copied when he realized he was holding his own breath, gritting his teeth against the constant pain.
And there was pain.
Through the endorphin rush and the magical high, Malachi could feel the sharp ache as his skin closed around the ink, red and angry from the ivory needle.
He didn’t stop.
Finally, Leo squeezed his shoulder and leaned down.
“Finish this spell, and then enough, brother.”
Malachi blinked, not halting in the repetitive tapping that dug the needle into his flesh. “Enough?”
“It’s been seven hours, Malachi. That’s enough.”
“Not finished…” He knew—an ancient, aching part of him knew that this magic only touched the edge of what he’d once owned. He wanted more.
More power.
More strength.
More.
“Enough.” Leo squeezed again, and Malachi finally paused. “Enough, brother.”
“Enough for now,” Malachi said, finishing the last character on a spell that he knew would help him see more clearly through deception.
“Fine.” Leo sounded amused. “Enough for now. And you better not eat anything for at least a day. You’ll be sick from it. It’s well past midnight. Go lie down and let your system even out.”
Malachi knew what he needed and, though his skin was still bloody and raw, he’d never wished more fervently that his mate was nearby.
Evren must have come back to the ritual room sometime in the previous hours. He took one look at Malachi’s expression and raised an eyebrow.
“Shower, then lie down. Leo’s right. You’re flush with magic. How do you feel?”
Malachi’s voice was rough. “Strong.”
And hungry. He’d never felt more hungry.
He rose and put one hand on the wall to steady himself. His left arm ached where his new talesm shone, glowing in the candlelight. The spells had reached halfway up his arm before Leo stopped him. He slowly walked toward the door, leaning against the wall for another moment to let a wave of dizziness pass.
Leo laughed and slapped his right shoulder before he hefted an arm around Malachi and led him toward his room.
“This, my brother, is as close to intoxicated as we get. Enjoy.”
All Malachi could think was he’d enjoy it a lot more with his soft mate under him.
He managed to make it into his room and get cleaned off before he fell into bed, exhausted, wired, and aching.
“Come to me,” he whispered before he fell into dreams.
The idea of lost Irina living in the human world was shoved to the back of Malachi’s mind when he entered the ritual room with Leo. Both men wore nothing but the traditional linen wrap used during ceremonies. Malachi’s unmarked skin was stark in the shadowed room, which had been decorated with countless spells and enchantments dug into the soft rock. Some were scribed in different colors. Some surrounded intricate mosaics and paintings in vivid hues. The entire room, from the polished floor to the ceiling, was covered with Irin magic.
Evren followed them. He and Leo spoke words over the fire that was burning in the center of the room. Then Leo waved Malachi over, and the ritual began.
First, he prepared the ink, made from the ashes of the fire Evren tended every morning. Mixing the powdered ash with oil, he carefully poured the ink into an alabaster bowl that had been stained black from hundreds of years of use. Then he reached for the needle that Leo held out.
Leo was murmuring under his breath. “…and for the blessing of this power, handed down to us from our fathers. For the right use of our magic. For the balance of our race. We ask the Creator’s blessing on this scribe.”
Evren echoed Leo’s words with a few of his own, but Malachi heard little. There was only the ivory needle in his right hand. The ink in his left. He sat down on the stool with the small table before it and imagined in his mind the characters he would write. He closed his eyes and felt a slow curl of power building up from his chest, clearing his mind, and steadying the hand that had been shaking.
Then Malachi opened his eyes and began to write.
The first prick of the needle pierced the fog of magic that had covered his mind. It hurt. He dipped into the ink and made a few more rapid strikes the way Leo had shown him. It still hurt, but slowly he reached past it. The first character formed under his skin, glowing with a dull, pewter-like shine. Malachi started on the second. He felt the magic unfurling within as the pain reached a clarifying plateau.
By the fourth letter, his muscle memory awakened, and the magic took over.
Dipping from the ink to his hand, over and over again, Malachi steadily scribed the ancient words, calling on his angelic ancestors, his mother, his father, and the long line of Irin before them. He claimed his power in black ink as the spells circled the inside of his wrist, slowly curling like a snake around his forearm and crawling up his elbow. They twisted and shone as he marked himself, calling on the powers of Uriel, for longevity. On Rafael for swift healing. He harnessed Mikhael’s magic for swift hands in battle and Ariel’s for protection from blades.
Malachi focused on the oldest of the Irin spells, those given to the earliest scribes by the Forgiven. Other, more nuanced, magic could come in time. The power flowed over and through him. His skin was alive with it. His hand never wavered.
Behind him, he felt Leo’s hand on his shoulder, his brother sharing the magic and grounding him as he wrote. He took deep, steady breaths that Malachi copied when he realized he was holding his own breath, gritting his teeth against the constant pain.
And there was pain.
Through the endorphin rush and the magical high, Malachi could feel the sharp ache as his skin closed around the ink, red and angry from the ivory needle.
He didn’t stop.
Finally, Leo squeezed his shoulder and leaned down.
“Finish this spell, and then enough, brother.”
Malachi blinked, not halting in the repetitive tapping that dug the needle into his flesh. “Enough?”
“It’s been seven hours, Malachi. That’s enough.”
“Not finished…” He knew—an ancient, aching part of him knew that this magic only touched the edge of what he’d once owned. He wanted more.
More power.
More strength.
More.
“Enough.” Leo squeezed again, and Malachi finally paused. “Enough, brother.”
“Enough for now,” Malachi said, finishing the last character on a spell that he knew would help him see more clearly through deception.
“Fine.” Leo sounded amused. “Enough for now. And you better not eat anything for at least a day. You’ll be sick from it. It’s well past midnight. Go lie down and let your system even out.”
Malachi knew what he needed and, though his skin was still bloody and raw, he’d never wished more fervently that his mate was nearby.
Evren must have come back to the ritual room sometime in the previous hours. He took one look at Malachi’s expression and raised an eyebrow.
“Shower, then lie down. Leo’s right. You’re flush with magic. How do you feel?”
Malachi’s voice was rough. “Strong.”
And hungry. He’d never felt more hungry.
He rose and put one hand on the wall to steady himself. His left arm ached where his new talesm shone, glowing in the candlelight. The spells had reached halfway up his arm before Leo stopped him. He slowly walked toward the door, leaning against the wall for another moment to let a wave of dizziness pass.
Leo laughed and slapped his right shoulder before he hefted an arm around Malachi and led him toward his room.
“This, my brother, is as close to intoxicated as we get. Enjoy.”
All Malachi could think was he’d enjoy it a lot more with his soft mate under him.
He managed to make it into his room and get cleaned off before he fell into bed, exhausted, wired, and aching.
“Come to me,” he whispered before he fell into dreams.
