“No, but they have control over their mates. Other than a few deserters, the Irina in hiding are mated to active scribes who owe their own allegiance to the council. For the past two hundred years, the council has asked no questions when a scribe has left his post for a time—even if it’s for years—”

“Somebody has to raise children if our race is going to survive. I can count on one hand the number of scribes I’ve known who’ve had children in the past two hundred years.”

“Exactly. They’ve ignored it when a scribe has left his post when his mate was with child. Asked no questions. But what will happen to those mates if compulsion becomes law? They can make an issue of scribes leaving their posts if they want to. If the Irina they’re mated to is not in a retreat.”

“It’s madness.”

“It’s control wearing the mantle of security. And some on the council are obsessed with it.”

Malachi walked in silence, entering the maze of the palace complex along with myriad other workers and suited men as they made their way into the tangled streets and the network of passageways that made up the Hofburg Palace.

Massive buildings of every design—Gothic, Baroque, and Classical—surrounded them as he and Damien moved among the working population of the palace. Over five thousand humans worked in the Hofburg complex, janitors and tour guides, clerks and government officials. It was the perfect hiding place for the Irin Library, and some version of the council had resided here for over five hundred years after having made a secret pact with the Hapsburgs. The empire had been lost, but the Irin had remained hidden with the help of their gold, influence, and magic.

Malachi knew that many of the suited men making their way into the government buildings wore talesm under their dress shirts. As a center of commerce, culture, and international intelligence, Vienna was the perfect seat of Irin power.

Damien knocked on an intricately carved wooden door hidden in the corner of a small courtyard. A buzzing sound followed and they pushed it open, only to be met by two scribes who were obviously part of the Library Guard. They wore suits and earpieces Rhys would be jealous of. They nodded to Damien with familiarity but still searched both their bags. Malachi turned in the pair of silver daggers he carried and received a receipt to retrieve them at the end of his business.

Damien was smiling when Malachi finally joined him.

“What?”

“You have caught the Guard’s attention. They don’t often see scribes carrying weapons here.”

The Library Guard was one of the most prestigious postings a warrior could have, but it was also one of the least dangerous.

Malachi grunted. “Then they are complacent.”

“Don’t underestimate them.”

The ground floor housed the cleansing rooms. Malachi breathed deeply of the steam and smoke when they stepped through the door. His heart swelled with longing. It had been too long since he’d been able to truly pray. While the political maneuvering was not how he would wish to spend his day, the ritual of the bath was welcome.

Stripping off his street clothes, he entered the chamber.

The bath’s marble walls were carved with centuries of protective spells. Words dark with age. He could hear low prayers chanted from the far room as scribes who had already cleansed their bodies cleared their minds of earthly cares.

Malachi walked into the pool and took a deep breath before he immersed himself. Warmth, light, and love. Held in the water’s embrace, he felt another door open in his mind.

“Like this?”

“Evet, oğul. Just like that, Malachi.”

Water sluiced over his small body as his father hummed a song his mother had taught him.

“You have taken your first marks. Every year, we will do this now. To give thanks.”

“Every year?”

“It is tradition. Tradition is important.”

Whispers drifted in the water, and there came a flash of light behind closed eyes.

Malachi floated.

Songs in the air.

A vivid sky cut with beams of gold light. Crystal waters and presence.

Holy and wholly.

His body feels no pain. His soul, no struggle. Body and soul are one. Complete joy. Complete peace.

Love surrounds him. Perfect love.

He cries with joy because he is home.

“Son.”

He is there. He is eternal.

This is what they long for.

Who would not long for this?

He is surrounded by love. Complete. Replete.

He needs nothing.

“She calls you,” a familiar voice whispers.

He hears.

Longing.

Need.

He chooses.

And like the angels before him, he falls.

Malachi rose with a gasp and lifted his eyes to see the carved marble and stone encasing him.

His body ached, his flesh a prison he’d never felt before.

In the space of a single breath, in the thin line between the present and eternity, Malachi remembered heaven.

He had danced in the presence of the angels. Welcomed as a beloved son.

“Vashama canem, reshon.”

He had come back for her.

But until that moment, Malachi hadn’t remembered what he’d given up to return.

He didn’t sense the tears on his face until Damien reached him.

“Brother?”

“I’m fine.” He wiped his eyes and dipped in the water again, brushing the wet hair back from his face and pulling the water from his beard. “I’m fine, Damien.”

His watcher held Malachi with his eyes. “Tell me.”

Malachi shook his head. How could he explain?

“I was in the heavenly realm for months, brother.” He wiped the water from his face and moved to exit the bath. “Some memories I wish I did not recover.”

“But why?” Damien followed him, and the men dried themselves with the linen towels provided. Their wraps had been placed on marble benches near the entrance to the ritual room. “You must have seen things—”

“It was perfect beauty. Perfect peace,” Malachi said quietly. “And I chose to give it up. It was my choice, and I’m glad of it. But at this moment, it hurts.”

He held the towel to his face and sat on the marble bench, staring into the steaming pool where the memory of heaven had been given to him.

Why?

“Choose.”

He’d chosen Ava. He would still choose her.

Perhaps this was the answer to his desperate prayer that morning. Perhaps it was only the assurance that, no matter what the future held for him and his beloved in the earthly realm, something even more beautiful waited for them should they fall.

“I think I’d pull down heaven if that’s what it took to keep you here with me.”

“And I’d abandon it if you weren’t there.”

The memory snapped into place next to his vision of heaven. He and Ava, lying in bed after they’d made love. A different kind of completion, but no less beautiful. His mate, a daughter of the Fallen. Malachi, the son of the Forgiven.

“We were meant to be like this. Two halves of the same soul. Dark and light together.”

Their union was a reflection of the peace he’d seen. Holy and wholly.

And Malachi finally realized what Jaron truly wanted.

Forgiveness.

He wrapped himself in linen and entered the prayer room, kneeling before the sacred fire and giving up the remnants of his pain as thousands of others had done before him. He left his sorrow and regret there. Burned slips of prayers in the fire. He let his soul mourn for what it had given up, while it caught fire with the vision he’d seen.

He’d left the heavenly realm for a reason. He was Mikhael’s son, and he’d returned to earth to battle for the soul of his people.