“Please,” Malachi said. Rhys had handed him a Bulgarian dictionary as soon as they’d crossed the border, so Malachi had already absorbed most of the language. “Please, miss, who can I call for you? Surely, there is someone—”

“There was Ciril,” she choked out. “There was only Ciril. And now there is no one.” She clutched her head, pressing her palms to her temples as she wailed.

“He would have hurt you,” Malachi said, speaking softly as Rhys and Leo approached. “You’re safe now.”

Finally, the woman’s eyes lifted to his. His stomach dropped when he saw them. Blank. Dead. There was nothing behind the young woman’s gaze.

“You know nothing,” she whispered.

Then she lunged forward, bashed her forehead into Malachi’s nose, and scrambled up, darting between Leo and Rhys and out of the alley before Malachi had time to recover. Blood streamed down his nose and into his mouth. She was gone by the time he reached his feet.

“What was that?” Leo asked with wide eyes.

“I have no idea.” He wiped the blood from his face with the corner of his sleeve. “I killed the Grigori, and she went crazy.”

Rhys shook his head sadly. “It’s horrible. They become obsessed. I only hope she has someone she can go to.”

Malachi narrowed his eyes. “She knew his name. Do they usually tell humans their name?”

Rhys shrugged. “He told her a name. I doubt it’s his. Let’s go. Who knows who that woman is calling right now? She could be running to the police. We need to get back on the road.”

Leo was staring at the spot where the woman had been crouched, his eyes lost in thought. After a second’s silence, he shook his head and said, “Rhys and I will grab some food from one of the corner shops. Malachi, you get back to the car. Your face would draw too much attention right now.”

“All right.”

As they walked, Rhys slapped Malachi’s shoulder. “How do you feel? No trouble with the new spells?”

“I feel fine,” he said, rolling his shoulders as he felt his nose start to knit together. “Actually, I feel amazing.”

It was true. Nothing about the fight had been a struggle. It was as if his muscles knew exactly what to do, from the way to immobilize his opponent to the exact angle at which to stab the knife. Like so many things, he only consciously thought about his actions after they were over, not unlike watching a movie on rewind, wondering how each point connected to the last.

Leo asked, “Did you remember anything more? Rhys and I have been debating whether or not tapping into your magic and scribing some of your old spells would help your memory.”

“I don’t remember anything more about Ava,” he said, “if that’s what you were wondering.”

No, he didn’t remember anything from the past, but his dreams—the intimate communion he reached for in sleep—those, he decided, they didn’t need to know about. Perhaps he was falling in love with his subconscious memories of the woman. He knew her without question in his dreams. He only wished he had something to hold on to when he woke.

“Tell me where you go,” she asked after they had sated their bodies on the forest floor. “When you leave me here, where do you go?”

The moss was a thick green carpet at his back, and the night birds sang overhead as he cradled her on his chest.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I don’t remember, exactly. I only know you’re not there. But you’re here when I sleep.”

“Hmm.” She closed her eyes and traced her fingers along his collar. “I miss your markings.”

“I have some back.” He raised his left arm and she trailed her fingers along the black ink. “I will write more for you.”

“Okay.”

“Are yours still there?”

She smiled up at him. “Of course, silly. They’re always here.” She lifted his hand and put it over her heart. “And they always will be. Kiss me.”

He kissed her, and her lips were honey to his tongue. Far too soon, she pulled back, and in the low light of the misty forest, he could see them—his own marks—glowing in the darkness. Gold magic swirled on the skin over her heart. It shone on her shoulders. He sat up, twisting her until she sat in his lap with her back to his chest. Then he leaned back on his arms, staring at the intricate letters that trailed up her spine, over her neck and shoulders.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, stroking the magic that he’d used to claim her. “I love seeing these on you.”

“I know.” She was smiling as she looked over her shoulder. Her gold eyes, he realized, were almost the same color as her mating marks.

“Extraordinary.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.” He kissed her again, pulling her closer before he laid them down again on the moss.

“Reshon?” she whispered against his chest.

“Yes?”

“Come back to me.”

“Come back now, brother.” He felt the hand slapping his cheek and he bolted awake.

“Ah.” Leo was grinning. “There you are. You were dead to the world.”

“Hmm,” Malachi grunted, blinking the image of his mate’s bare shoulders away.

Dream. Just a dream.

“Come back to me.”

“Where are we?” he asked in a rough voice.

“Twenty kilometers outside Belgrade. You’ve been sleeping for almost four hours. Rhys is stopping for petrol, then it’s your turn to drive.”

He nodded his head, swiping a hand over his face to rid himself of the misty dream. Then he slapped his cheek and said, “Get me some tea and I’ll be fine.”

The three men stopped at the all-night petrol station, stretching their legs as they walked to the small shop to get coffee for Malachi and a bottle of water for Rhys.

“Don’t you want anything?” Malachi asked Leo.

“No.” The blond man shrugged. “If I sleep, I sleep. I’m not tired though, so I’ll probably keep you company.”

“That would be good,” he said. It was true. There was still an underlying tension between Malachi and Rhys, as if the man resented Malachi for the loss of his memories. With Leo, however, there was only a cheerful acceptance. Malachi decided it would take more than death, resurrection, and amnesia to rattle the goodwill of the optimistic scribe. Plus, Leo was a font of information.

“Tell me more about the council,” Malachi asked when they were back on the road and Rhys was snoring.

Leo frowned. “I’m not sure where to start.”

“How was it formed? Has there always been one?”

Leo nodded. “Well, for as long as anyone knows. The stories say that before they returned to heaven, the seven cardinal Forgiven chose seven scribes and seven singers to guide their children. So, that’s where the council came from, according to tradition. They say there are written records from the beginning, but no one ever sees them, of course. Maybe the Chief Scribe in Vienna. According to Max, he sees everything. If there is one Irin scribe who knows the whole of our history, it would be the Chief Scribe.”

“The written history, that is.”

“Hmm?”

“Well… the Irina would keep an oral history, wouldn’t they?”

Leo looked as if he’d never considered the question. “Of course. I suppose they would.”

“So, the Chief Scribe wouldn’t know all the history. Just what the scribes had written down.”

“Yes.” Then Leo grinned. “But we write everything down.”

“And the council. Can they see it?” Malachi was wondering whether or not there was some clue about Ava’s past in that great library. Perhaps, if they asked the Chief Scribe, there might be some other incidence of a human turning into an Irina somewhere in the past.

“I suppose they could see whatever they want, but they’re hardly historians, are they? The council is made up of politicians. No avoiding them, no matter what race you are. But the Irin council… it has a spiritual purpose, too. Or it’s supposed to.”

“You said there were seven singers on the council. What happened to them after the Rending?”