“Any word from Vienna?”

“Nothing since last week.”

Orsala and Sari were in the city with Damien, quietly taking stock of the fallout from their confrontation with Volund’s Grigori in Oslo. The rumbles of discontent from the watchers over Europe had grown, and the Scribe Council in Vienna had been forced to take notice. But for the almost-immortal elder scribes on the council, change did not come swiftly. It would take more than the concern from soldiers in charge of the scribe houses to make the politicians take action.

The stated policy of the Irin Council had not changed.

Protect humans from the Grigori, but do not engage further.

Do not provoke the attention of the Fallen.

Defense, not offense.

But though the Irin Council remained silent, formerly hidden Irina around the world had been roused by the attack on Sarihöfn.

Irina who had hidden themselves since the Rending were making their way to scribe houses around the world.

And the Irina weren’t interested in defense.

SHE watched him as he ate, marveling at even his simplest gestures. The way his full lips closed around the tines of a fork. The movement of his throat when he swallowed. The shadow of stubble that grew every day, only to disappear each morning when he shaved. It would rasp against her lips when she kissed him at night, an edge of coarseness against the soft strength of his mouth.

He looked at her, the corner of his lips turning up. “What are you thinking?”

She smiled back and took another bite of the stew he’d made. Ava was pleased to discover that Malachi was a very good cook. He’d never cooked for her in the scribe house in Istanbul. The quiet routine they’d fallen into when they came to the sea was nothing like what they’d ever had before. There had been the tumult and the ecstasy of their time in Turkey. The agony of their separation. The uncertainty of their reunion in Oslo.

They had never just been.

“You know what I’m thinking,” she said. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking we should finish dinner and clear the table.”

“We could leave the dishes until later.”

“We could, but I have other plans for the table.” He patted a hand on the edge of the sturdy table where he’d eaten as a boy.

Ava smiled. “Your grandmother would be scandalized.”

He laughed, and the rich sound of it filled one of the cracks that still riddled the tentative foundation they were building.

“If you knew her and my grandfather,” he said, “you’d know how false that is.”

“What were they like? Do you remember much?”

He nodded. “I’ve remembered a lot since we’ve been here. Stepping through the door. Hearing the ocean… I remember much more about my childhood with the anchors here.”

Malachi never said it, but she knew he wanted to go back to Turkey. Wanted to try to jog his memory where they had first met.

According to Leo, it was safe. He and Rhys had been put in charge of rebuilding the Istanbul scribe house, and with so many of Volund’s Grigori dead from the attack in Norway, there was little supernatural activity in the city.

It was quiet, but Ava sensed it was the stillness before a violent storm. Jaron’s visits had not lessened, and the darkness she sensed around the edges of her dreams only grew deeper.

“Tell me,” she said. “About your grandparents. What were they like? They were married—mated?”

“Yes, but not as we are.”

“How?”

He took a sip of red wine and refilled her glass from the bottle on the table. “They were mated, but they were not reshon.”

“What?”

He smiled. “I told you not every Irin couple has that connection. They met when they were both young. They fell in love and took mating marks, even though they knew they might meet their soul mate later.”

“What would happen if they did?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. They were bonded. They had shared their magic. They loved each other very deeply and were committed for life.”

Ava blinked. “Did they dream-walk?”

“I imagine so. That’s a consequence of mating, not because a scribe and a singer are reshon.”

“But…”

Malachi hooked his ankle around her leg. “What?”

“I guess I can’t imagine it. To not have that connection… You make everything weird about me make sense.”

“I’m glad.” His eyes warmed. “Even though I don’t think you’re all that weird.”

“I am. You just don’t remember.”

He smiled, even as his eyes drifted to the fire they’d started earlier. It crackled and popped in the cold air. “Are we more than soul mates, Ava?” His voice was pensive. “I wonder sometimes. If you are here—with me—from only that obligation.”

“I’m not with you out of obligation.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.” She blinked the tears away. She was done crying, and he deserved more than her doubt. He deserved his life back. His memories. His mate. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He waited for her to speak, but she said nothing. “Come here.”

Ava stood and slid into his lap as he pushed away from the dinner table. His arms came around her, and she laid her head on his shoulder, pressing her cheek to his neck. Skin to skin. The comfort was instant. The voices swirling at the edges of her mind were silent. The terrible energy that crawled under her skin calmed.

“Do you want to go back to Istanbul?” she asked.

“I want to be where you feel safe. And happy.”

She opened her mouth but paused before she gave him an automatic answer.

He deserved honesty too.

“Happy may still be a ways off. But… I’m content with you. I feel complete.”

“You’re still frightened.”

“Yes. But being with you makes me feel safer. It’s going to take time.”

“Do you want to go to Istanbul?”

“I want you to find yourself again. To get back to your life. With me in it, of course. But you need to have a purpose again. To help your brothers. I know you’re restless here. And I can take pictures anywhere.”

“I’m fine.”

“You have chopped enough wood in the past month to heat a castle for a year.”

“I have not.” He ran a hand through her hair. “I’ve worked off energy in other ways too.”

“And I’m a fan of those ways.” She kissed his neck. “We can go back. If you want to.”

He held her tighter. “Are you sure?”

No.

She took a deep breath and said, “I will be.”

Chapter One

MALACHI WATCHED THE TRAFFIC crawl by as they eased onto Atatürk Bridge before crossing the Golden Horn in the taxi Ava had flagged down outside the airport. She’d resisted telling anyone they were returning to the city, still wary of any communication that could put them at risk. They’d flown from Frankfurt to Istanbul during the night, arriving just as the sun was rising. It was rush hour, and the familiar shouts of drivers and vendors filled the air along with the smell of the water.

He glanced at his mate, who was sitting quietly next to him in the back of the car. Her phone was out and her fingers danced over the small keyboard, but her leg rested against his.

Touch. Connection. He suspected in the tumult of the busy city she needed as much as possible.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Answering e-mails.” She tapped faster. “Checking… stuff.”

“Anything interesting?” Malachi might have lived longer, but in some ways, he was far more ignorant of the world at large. Ava was independent. She managed her own finances. Ran a business. He knew she had a home in California, but he didn’t think she’d been back for over a year.