The Scribe Read online

  Contents

  The Scribe

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  First Look: The Singer

  Acknowledgments

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Other Work

  Praise for Elizabeth Hunter

  Copyright

  The first book in the Irin Chronicles, the new contemporary fantasy series from Elizabeth Hunter, author of the Elemental Mysteries.

  THE SCRIBE

  Irin Chronicles Book One

  Hidden at the crossroads of the world, an ancient race battles to protect humanity even as it dies from within.

  Ava Matheson came to Istanbul looking for answers, but others came looking for her. A reckless warrior guards her steps, but will Malachi’s own past blind him to the truth of who Ava might be? While ancient forces gather around them, both Ava and Malachi search for answers.

  Whispering voices. Deadly touch. Their passion should be impossible… or it could be the only thing keeping them alive.

  "THE SCRIBE is a perfect marriage of urban fantasy with tinges of romance. Creating a world in which ancient evil battles for turf and the heart, and the innocent are trapped in the crossfire, [Hunter] leads us on a riveting journey through the streets of Old Istanbul and old magic. An awesome ride!"

  —Killian McRae, author of 12.21.12

  "Hunter's finest work to date.... This book is simply stunning."

  —Leisha O'Quinn, Rolopolo Book Blog

  THE SCRIBE

  Irin Chronicles

  Book One

  ELIZABETH HUNTER

  To the Telerant-Faith clan

  For making me feel so very much at home,

  even thousands of miles away.

  Prologue

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

  “Are you?”

  “No. Though I suppose most crazy people think they’re sane. So it doesn’t matter what I say.”

  There was a pause as the doctor studied the young woman. The listless mouth and relaxed demeanor were belied by the fierce expression in her gold eyes. Barely suppressed anger and… resignation. An odd combination for one so young.

  “Why do you assume I will think you’re mentally unstable? You’re a professional woman. Obviously intelligent based on our previous conversation. University educated. Successful in a highly competitive field—”

  “They all think I’m crazy, Doctor Asner.” She shifted in her seat, letting her gaze drift out the window to the tree-lined street as a mother with two laughing children passed. A flicker of sadness in her eyes, then nothing again. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

  “You hear voices?”

  “No question mark on the end.”

  He blinked and looked up from his pad of paper. “Excuse me?”

  The look she gave him was almost amused. The woman’s dark curls fell over her shoulder as she angled herself toward him and crossed her arms. “No question mark. I hear voices. Your intonation held a slight lift at the end of that statement, indicating you questioned what you were saying. There is no question. I hear voices. I told you before. I’ve heard them for as long as I can remember. You can believe me, or you can think I’m insane. But it’s not a question.”

  “You’ve studied linguistics.”

  “Linguistics. Phonetics. Ancient languages. Modern languages. I have a very generous stepfather who likes it when I’m not home. Getting several degrees seemed like a good way to pass the time.”

  “But you became a photojournalist.”

  “I’m a travel photographer. You don’t have to make it sound more important than it is.”

  He shrugged. “Your work has appeared in major magazines. You make your living with what you do. Are you embarrassed by your work?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then why qualify?”

  “I don’t believe in putting on false fronts. Dishonesty irritates me. I am not a photojournalist. Remember the generous stepfather? He also gives me a very generous allowance in order to keep me out of his hair and out of the country. I can afford to travel lots of places that make for pretty pictures. Magazines like to buy them. I’m not saving the world or exposing the horrors of war. What I do is fun, not meaningful.”

  “Would you like to do something more meaningful?”

  A rueful laugh was her first reaction. “God, no.”

  “Why not? The… voices?”

  “There’s that unspoken question again. Yes, the voices.”

  “Is that why you’ve never had a serious relationship?”

  “So my mom called you before the session, huh?”

  Asner smiled. “She’s concerned about you. That much was evident. Are you and your mother close?”

  “I suppose so.” The young woman shrugged. “She’s the reason I’m not locked up, so I can’t really complain about her.”

  Her eyes drifted to the window again.

  “Miss Matheson?”

  “Ava.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Ava blinked and turned her eyes back to the doctor. “Call me Ava. Matheson is my stepfather’s name.”

  “But he raised you? Your stepfather and your mother raised you, didn’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you only recently met your biological father.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is that why Mom and Carl insisted on this appointment? Because of my father?”

  “He’s a new presence in your life.”

  “Not really. I’ve been a fan for years.”

  He gave her blank look.

  Ava sighed. “Yes, he’s a new presence.”

  “He’s a musician?”

  “Please don’t pretend you don’t know who my father is. It’s irritating. I knew him as an old friend of my mother’s—that’s it. When I found out he was my actual father, it wasn’t a big deal. I’ve known since I was little that Carl adopted me.”

  “But you had no idea the man was your real father.”

  “No.”

  “Did he know you were his?”

  “Yes, but he agreed to let my mom raise me. He’s not the most… together person. He knows that.”

  Asner paused thoughtfully. “Do you think your voices have anything to do with your father? A shared… creativity, perhaps?”

  She curled her lip. “My father—as messed up as he is—is a brilliant composer. He hears music in his head and writes it down and makes lots of money. I hear garbled voices I don’t understand. Not really the same thing. You don’t get locked up for being a brilliant composer.”

  “Do you fear being institutionalized?”

  The fierce expression returned. “Why would I? As you said, I’m a successful photojournalist. Plus, thanks to my surprise dad, I’m rich enough to be eccentric instead of crazy.”

  He couldn’t stop his own smile. “Tell me more about your voices. What do they say?”

  She sh
ifted again, and her eyes drifted back to the window. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean exactly what I said.”

  “So you don’t hear language. You don’t hear other people’s thoughts?”

  “I don’t know what I hear.” Her eyes swung back and narrowed on him. “But I know you believe me more than the others. I wonder why that is.”

  “I’m an open-minded individual.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Tell me more. How do you know I believe you? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What am I thinking?”

  “I can’t tell you that. That’s not the way it works.”

  “Do you sense my feelings?”

  “It’s all in the tone of your voice. The voice I hear, anyway.”

  “And what voice is that?”

  “The one everyone has.”

  “Everyone?”

  She took a deep breath and he saw the hints of resignation again. “Every country and every age. Different voices speaking the same language. That’s what I hear.”

  He leaned forward. “Every voice sounds the same?”

  “Of course not. Everyone has a different voice. They just all speak the same language.”

  “Everywhere in the world?”

  “Everywhere I’ve traveled so far. So… a lot of it.”

  “What language is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What are they saying?”

  Frustration flashed. “I don’t know.”

  “So how do you—”

  “It’s a language, doctor. There are rises and falls in the rhythm. There are common words and phrases I hear again and again. I hear the same things from the minds of people all over the world. I just don’t know what they’re saying.”

  He had to pause to contain his reaction. It didn’t matter.

  She cocked her head. “That’s exciting to you.”

  He smiled. “It’s very interesting, Ava.”

  “Interesting is one word for it.”

  He heard the irritation in her voice. “Though I’m sure it is frustrating, as well. I imagine it can be quite distracting.”

  The corner of her mouth turned up. “It’s enough to drive you crazy.”

  Asner laughed a little, and Ava relaxed a bit. “How do you sleep?”

  “Probably the same way you do. A bed is usually involved, but I’m pretty comfortable on trains, too. Planes are harder. Buses, practically impossible.”

  “What a clever and humorous deflection of my question.” He stretched his legs in front of him, almost spanning the small office. “When you sleep, do you dream?”

  “Vividly. Always have.”

  “And these voices… do you hear them in your dreams?”

  She frowned, and Asner wondered if he was the first mental health professional to ask that question. Ava Matheson had seen more than her share.

  “No. No, I don’t hear them in my dreams.”

  He smiled. “That must be a relief.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Is that part of the reason you prefer to work alone? No voices?”

  “Yes.”

  “And happy, relaxed places. Vacation spots instead of conflict areas.”

  “It’s all falling into place, isn’t it, Doc?”

  “Have you tried medications?”

  “All sorts of them.” She reached out and grabbed the arms of the chair she sat in. “Most of them make me sleepy. Kill my appetite. That’s about it.”

  He nodded, jotting down more notes as she examined him. “Do the voices… are they always the same volume? Are some louder than others?”

  “Everyone is different. Some people are clearer than others. Yours right now is very quiet, but… urgent. You want to get this information as quickly as possible, but you’re trying to remain calm.”

  He stopped and looked up at her. “That’s very disconcerting, Ava.”

  She gave him an innocent smile. “Imagine what it must be like for me. What do you want, Doctor? You want something.”

  He paused, trying to decide how to answer. “I’d like to refer you to a colleague. He’s someone I think might be able to help you.”

  “Why?”

  “I remember him speaking once about a patient with similar symptoms. Do you mind traveling to see him?”

  She waved at the distant ocean. “I was in Cyprus when my mom called and told me to go to a doctor in Israel for my yearly ‘what’s-the-matter-with-Ava’ appointment. What do you think?”

  “Excellent.”

  “I might not go, though.” She shrugged. “Carl and Mom get pushy about once a year, but mostly, they leave me alone. Especially now that I have Jasper’s money.”

  “Jasper is your father?”

  “Yeah.” A hint of a smile crept across her face. “I guess you could call him that.”

  “I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I know we’ve gone over the hour—no charge, of course—but…” Asner scribbled down a name and telephone number from memory. “I do hope you’ll see my colleague. He’s in Istanbul. Have you been before?”

  Ava’s eyebrows furrowed together. “No, but I’ve been told it’s beautiful, even though it’s crowded.”

  “And you don’t like crowds because of the voices?”

  “That and the lack of deodorant on hot days. I might check it out.” She shrugged. “Like I said, no guarantees. If I happen to be in Istanbul, I’ll look him up.”

  He smiled politely and rose to his feet as she stood to gather her things: a large messenger bag, a battered camera case, a light scarf thrown around her neck to keep the dust of the city away. She grabbed the paper from Doctor Asner’s hand and had started toward the door before he spoke.

  “May I ask…?”

  The young woman turned, tucking a curl behind her ear before she put her sunglasses on. “You can ask whatever you want. If I don’t want to answer, I won’t.”

  He frowned. “Your name—Ava—means ‘voice’ in Persian. Did you know that?”

  The sunglasses hid her eyes. “Yes.”

  “Who gave you your name?”

  She paused. “My father did. It was the one thing he asked for. To name me Ava.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No.”

  “And you never asked?”

  She shrugged. “Does it matter? It’s a nice name. Maybe he just liked the actress, you know?”

  “Names are important.”

  She smiled a little. “Good-bye, Doctor Asner. Fun chatting with you. I probably won’t see you around.”

  Mikhail Asner watched her through the window as she wound through the narrow streets of Neve Tzedek and wandered north toward the city center. The slight woman with curly black hair melded into the city landscape effortlessly, a seasoned traveler accustomed to blending with her surroundings. He watched for a few more minutes, then picked up the phone, dialing a number from memory.

  “You haven’t called me in some time,” said the voice on the other end.

  “I found someone of interest.”

  “Did you give her my number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her name?”

  “Ava Matheson. American.”

  A notable pause followed Asner’s declaration.

  The voice asked, “Will she come?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Did you tell her I could help her?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then she’ll come.”

  Chapter One

  Istanbul, Turkey

  Malachi spotted the Grigori foot soldier at the edge of the bazaar. The man walked slowly through the spice market, stopping occasionally to examine wares he wouldn’t buy, scanning the crowd for…

  Her.

  Dark curling hair shielded her face, but her figure was slight and quick. The human woman radiated energy, even as she strolled through the cacophony of sounds, sights, and smells
that careened through the market in the heart of Old Istanbul. Vendors yelled out their wares as tourists sampled the variety of spices, dried fruits, and nuts the market held, and deft boys dodged the traffic, delivering trays of dark tea.

  The woman seemed to exist in her own space, blending into the colorful mosaic of the bazaar, though she spoke to no one.

  Malachi’s gaze drifted away from her, back to the Grigori soldier. In his mind’s eye, he approached the man quietly, stalking him to a deserted corner before he grabbed him silently and stabbed a sharp blade into the base of his skull, killing the murderous creature and releasing its soul to face judgment. Then he melted into the crowd, another passing traveler at the crossroads of the world.

  You’re reckless. Looking for trouble instead of using your head.

  The voice of his last watcher mocked him, so Malachi did none of those things that morning. Instead, he fought back the instinctual rage and watched the man carefully.

  The Grigori was hunting.

  Casually adjusting the silver knives he wore under his shirt, Malachi tossed a few lire toward a vendor, then grabbed a small bag of roasted almonds, just another nameless tourist in the market that morning. Though he was one of the taller men in the crowd, hundreds of years had taught Malachi the art of blending into his surroundings. He followed the Grigori as the creature followed the woman. Hunting him, hunting her. The soldier kept his distance but never let the woman stray too far ahead. There was no sense of urgency as was usually seen when a Grigori was tracking his prey. The man almost looked relaxed if one didn’t notice the dark eyes that never left the figure as she wound her way toward the courtyard that separated the bazaar from the mosque.

  The man was nondescript, as the best soldiers were. Local, if he had to guess, though he’d never seen him before. But Malachi had returned to the country of his birth after hundreds of years away. It was possible one of his brothers was familiar with the soldier who was tracking the woman with such restraint.