The Storm Read online

  Balien, on the other hand, had traveled the whole world. He’d come to the mountain the summer before, a weary warrior who’d fought too long without respite. Balien of Damascus was a warrior of an ancient order, his blood a rich mixture of the Near East, Northern Africa, and Europe. Like his blood, his looks were a striking combination that had fascinated Renata and drawn her attention at first glance.

  His people were not the rulers of their territory, but they were renowned for two things: skill in battle and magic in healing. Balien was a Rafaene scribe, descended from the offspring of the archangel Rafael and gifted in healing arts.

  A blessing and a curse for one destined to wage war. Most Rafaenes took regular breaks from battle against the Grigori—the descendants of fallen angels who preyed on humanity—to rest and heal their spirit. It was accepted and necessary.

  But when Renata had met him, Balien hadn’t taken a break in three decades. Forced into respite, he’d come to Renata’s beloved mountains, acting as a courier for a scribe house in Jerusalem. A tedious job for a warrior feared by demons on three continents.

  But Renata had met him, and she knew. Balien had taken one look at her and been struck dumb. All they’d needed was a single touch to feel their connection.

  Reshon.

  Destined by heaven, Balien was the man designed to complete Renata’s soul, as she’d been created for him. Once they mated, they would live in each other’s subconscious, connected by dreams, even if their paths took them to opposite corners of the earth. It was the mating that every Irin dreamed of.

  She rested her head against his heart, listening to the strong beat of it as her parents’ distant voices grew nearer.

  “… the conflict between the written and the oral versions of the tale only confirm—”

  “That there is no conflict?” her mother asked with a laugh. “Why must everything be so rigid, Giorgio? Scribes must write everything down and file everything in neat boxes. That is not how Irina history is kept.”

  “Which makes it less exact,” Giorgio said.

  “Which makes your scrolls only words on a page,” said her mother, Heidi. “They convey nothing of the meaning—the emotion—behind the history.”

  “And do you want emotion with your history?” Giorgio asked. “Is that necessary for learning?”

  “Of course we do,” Balien said quietly, interrupting him. “For the horror of war isn’t captured by words, Father, but by the lament of a widow. The cries of a fallen brother. If we forget the emotion behind history, we have lost our souls.”

  Giorgio nodded deeply. “I see your point, my son.”

  “But you didn’t see mine?” Heidi said. “It had to come from a soldier for you to listen?” She narrowed her eyes and stalked up the path, brushing past Balien as Giorgio ran after her.

  “Heidi!” he cried. “That’s not what I was trying to say. I was only…”

  Their voices drifted in the distance as Renata bit her lips to hold in her laughter.

  “They will be like this always,” Balien said. “Won’t they?”

  Renata let herself laugh. “I’m afraid so.”

  He took her hand and tugged her along. “Ah, we can always take to the roads if it becomes too much.”

  “I can protect you,” Renata said. “I have my staff.”

  Balien winked at her. “Thank heaven.”

  Despite his joking, she knew he adored her family. His own parents were formal and a bit distant. Not unloving, but it was not in their way to be familiar. The chaos and warmth of the library at Ciasa Fatima was welcome to him. It was a small library with only four or five families in residence at once. They were constantly running out of room for people in favor of making room for books, so rooms were constantly being added and construction never ceased. It was crowded and messy and highly unorganized in anything nonacademic.

  And Renata thought it was glorious.

  Her mother and father were the undisputed leaders of the small Irin community as others came and went, but those who left always came back to visit. Ciasa Fatima was a haven in the wilderness and free of the politics that often marked larger and more connected libraries.

  They crested the last hill before the house and almost ran into Giorgio and Heidi.

  “Father?” Balien asked. “What is it?”

  Both her parents were frozen. Still as statues. They stared into the distance, and Renata could feel a deep surge of magic swirling around them.

  Balien’s eyes followed theirs and he pushed her behind him. “Renata, stay back.” He drew out the twin silver daggers he always wore.

  “Balien?”

  Giorgio grabbed his own daggers and fell into step behind Balien. For though every Irin male was tasked with the protection of wisdom and knowledge, every scribe was also a warrior, trained in the killing arts to protect the vulnerable.

  “Mother?”

  Heidi grabbed Renata’s hand and gripped tight. “Raise your shields,” she choked out, lifting the staff she used for walking and for fighting. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand.”

  Finally moving around her mother, Renata peered through the dense tree line along the meadow. She could see the house in the distance. For a second, everything seemed as it had before they’d left two weeks before on a trading trip.

  But there was no smoke in the chimney. She could hear the milk cows lowing in pain. Goats and sheep wandered outside the pen, and not a single one of the shepherd dogs barked.

  Renata lifted her shields, listening for the dozen familiar souls who shared their home.

  Nothing.

  “No.” Renata started forward, but her mother grabbed her and held her back. “No!”

  “Hush.” Heidi slapped a hand over Renata’s mouth. “Be quiet!”

  Balien and Giorgio moved through the grass, her warrior so stealthy she barely saw him. She could see his magic ripple around him. The grass barely moved as they rushed through it. Both scribes ran in complete silence. They split near the fence that surrounded the compound and disappeared from view.

  Renata lowered every shield, desperate to hear anything.

  A few minutes later, the low keening of her reshon’s soul moved Renata to run. Her mother was only steps behind her.

  She ran straight to the house. She could hear no one and nothing but her intended mate and her father.

  No, no, no.

  Bursting through the kitchen door, she saw signs of struggle. Saw upturned chairs and blackened pots on the stove. She saw spatters of blood and a staff broken in half by the stove.

  The first clothes she saw were the crumbled garments of Werner, the small boy who loved feeding the goats.

  “No!” She knelt by the bench at the kitchen table, her fingers trailing though the remains of gold dust he’d left as his tiny soul rose to heaven. “Mother!”

  Heidi had bypassed the kitchen and ran into the large living room. Renata could hear her sobbing. Clutching Werner’s small jacket, she rose and walked to the hearth.

  More violence. More destruction.

  More blood. More dust.

  Empty clothes lay scattered around the room, some kicked askew and others lying neatly on the floor, as if their owners had simply set them out to wear in the morning. Renata wandered through the room in a daze. Her father rushed in and grabbed her mother, clutching her to his chest as they both wept. Renata had never heard her father weep like that. They were deep, gut-wrenching cries of grief and rage.

  Every room had more empty clothes.

  Every room had more dust. More blood. More horror.

  Balien found Renata in the ritual room where the sacred fire of the library had been snuffed out. Linen robes from the two elders lay there, the scribe’s robes bunched by the door, lying scattered in smears of blood. The Irina robes were drenched with it, as if someone had cut the elder singer’s throat as she faced the fire.

  “The elders,” she muttered. “The children…”

  Balien stared at her, his
face blank. “Everyone is gone. The whole house reeks of sandalwood.”

  Sandalwood. The heady fragrance could only mean Grigori killers. Their mountain fortress had been invaded by the sons of the Fallen. Renata couldn’t even imagine them being a target. They were a library. Balien was the only warrior here. Their community was made of old men and women. Scholars and dairymen and farmers. Children.

  She couldn’t fathom it. No, this was a bad dream. This was a horrible nightmare, and she’d wake up and Balien would be warm next to her in bed, and she would hear the songs from the kitchen and the children’s laughter outside. The house would smell like cinnamon again, and the scribes and singers would be cheerfully arguing among themselves in the library.

  Renata closed her eyes, but she didn’t hear laughter when her legs went out from under her.

  She only heard her father weeping.

  Rome

  Midwinter

  Renata watched her mother light the candles with dead eyes. The songs that should have filled the house during the longest night of the year were absent. They hadn’t baked the honeyed bread that filled the house with warmth. They’d bought plain bread from the human bakers and hid in the small house on the outskirts of Rome.

  Balien had kept them alive through the Rending, but it had not been easy. They’d fled Ciasa Fatima the same night they found the remnants of their community. They’d hidden in caves in the mountains for weeks, only coming down when runners from Vienna reached the library.

  It wasn’t only their library. Irin communities around the world—even those across the ocean—had been destroyed by a burst of Grigori violence that had sprung up in the warm summer months. Northern warriors were desperately trying to reach Irin communities in the south, hoping to fortify their numbers before winter broke and Grigori attacked there too.

  They’d had no word from Balien’s family. Rumors were rampant that Irina centers of learning had been hit first and fiercest. Thousands had been killed. Children were slaughtered. The girls, in particular, were hunted like animals.

  “What are we celebrating?” Renata asked quietly.

  “The longest night.” Her father put an arm around her mother and kissed the top of Heidi’s head. “The nights will grow shorter from this one. Light will come again. The sun will shine, and our people will recover.”

  Balien didn’t speak. He rarely spoke anymore. Though he still shared Renata’s bed, they took little comfort from each other in their grief and uncertainty. Renata wished Balien was willing to go forward with their mating, but he refused until the situation had stabilized.

  “It’s not safe. Mating involves a transfer of power. We will both be weaker for a time. We need to be safe before we perform the ritual.”

  “It may never be safe,” she said. “Will we never be mated?”

  He said nothing.

  “I know you fear—”

  “You don’t know what I fear,” he said. “You’ve never been in war. You don’t know the depravity the Grigori are capable of.”

  “Don’t I?”

  There were times when she felt him on the edge of her dreams, reaching out for her. It was the only thing that gave her hope. Though he’d marked her with his magic, they’d never claimed each other. Until they did, his walls could not be breached by her magic.

  Renata reached out and took Balien’s hand, linking their fingers together. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he kissed her forehead. The simple movement brought her to tears.

  Her mother sang the songs quietly. Her father read from the scrolls he’d saved from the library. But when Balien and Renata took to bed that night in the small room at the top of the narrow house, joy was a stranger to her.

  “Will we ever feel happy again?” she asked. “I can’t imagine ever wanting to sing. Maybe it’s better that we don’t mate. If we mated, I might want children.” Her throat closed with emotion. “And we should not bring children into this world. Not like this.”

  Balien turned to her and enclosed her in his embrace as she cried. “Your father is right,” he said, clutching her tightly. “We will smile again. We will sing again. We will recover from this, Renata.”

  She had no words. His reassurances rang hollow.

  “I’m sorry I have been distant.”

  “You had no idea there was a threat,” she said. “You carry no guilt for their deaths, Balien. You couldn’t protect them if you didn’t know.”

  Balien hugged her tighter. “How well you know me.” He cleared his throat. “If I were there—”

  “Then we might all be dead,” she said. “We don’t know how many there were. They might have known you were there. They might have sent a legion of Grigori. They might have overwhelmed you, and then Mother and Father and I would all be dead.”

  She felt the tension in his shoulders ease a little.

  “You didn’t know, Balien. No one knew.”

  “You are wise, my little librarian.”

  She pinched his arm, and it was the first time in months she’d felt like smiling. “I am not little.”

  “You are my delicate bird,” he said gruffly. “Flying across the hills like… You know, maybe you are not a bird. Maybe you’re my delicate goat.”

  She laughed, then slapped her hand over her mouth as Balien threw his leg over hers, trapping her beneath him.

  “I love you so, Renata.” He kissed her. “I love you. I would have nothing but joy for you, my love. Nothing but peace.”

  “You give me joy. You give me peace.” She started humming a song to him, one of his favorites. It was the first song that had left her lips in months.

  He closed his eyes. “I do not deserve you.”

  Renata felt her unused smile spread.

  But that smile died when she heard whispers on the edge of her senses. They were a faint scratching sound, like claws on stone. She clutched Balien’s nightshirt as her heart began to race.

  “Renata?”

  “They’re here.”

  In seconds, the talesm that covered his body burst to life with magic.

  “Be quiet.” He sprang from bed, slipped on his boots, and reached for his weapons. “I’ll get your father. Stay here.”

  His strength could not distract from the growing voices encroaching. Renata covered her ears and bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

  “There are too many,” she whispered. “Too many. Too many. Too many.”

  Balien shook her shoulders. “Renata, how many?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  “How many?” he yelled.

  “I can’t— Too many!”

  Dozens of clawing minds surrounded them. They were coming like an avalanche, surrounding the house. The useless magic she’d been taught died on her tongue. She was no warrior. As fierce as her mate was, this enemy was too much for him. Too much for her parents. They had been running too long.

  She looked at Balien. “I love you. I promise I’ll be brave.”

  “No!” he yelled, seeing the resignation in her eyes.

  Renata heard the street door crack. She heard her father rushing down the stairs and her mother whispering spells in her bed. Renata saw the wheels turning in Balien’s head a moment before he jumped on the bed, reached for his sword, and plunged it into the rafters. Punching with sheer force and rage, he tore open a hole in the old roof and dragged her up, shoving her through as she heard her father’s soul go silent.

  “Run!” he roared. “Renata, you must run!”

  Her mother’s voice was gone.

  She shook her head. She heard the feet on the stairs. So many of them. Too many.

  She couldn’t leave him. She didn’t want to live if he didn’t.

  “RENATA, YOU MUST RUN!”

  She had nothing.

  Nothing.

  Renata hid in a human church for days, willing the Grigori to find her. But because heaven was perverse, they never did. Days passed. Then a week. She considered searching for the nearest scribe house, but Balien
had known none of the brothers there. He didn’t trust them. He only trusted those he knew, and he knew none of the scribes serving in Rome.

  She left Rome, traveling north, hiding in churches at night.

  It was winter and bitterly cold, but icy winds didn’t bother her, so she had the roads to herself. When it began to rain, she found another church. Sometimes she thought she saw shadows in the trees and heard the distant soul voices of other Irin, but none of them approached her. She wore heavy clothing and sheared her hair when it became tangled. She didn’t bathe. She only ate enough to survive.

  Every night, she prayed to heaven that the Grigori would find her and give her peace.

  They never did.

  Renata traveled north. Venice was the only port she knew of, so she took the road to the sea, hoping to find a ship that could take her to the east. She had half her family’s gold sewn in the hems of her garments, and she thought she had enough money to buy passage to Jaffa. Balien had spoken about a brother who lived there. Perhaps, if she made it to Jaffa, she could find Balien’s people. She had the ring he’d given her, and his seal on her forehead. Perhaps it would be enough and they would give her some kind of home.

  She had no one and nothing.

  She was sleeping in a church outside Ravenna when she woke to a hand over her mouth. Renata’s eyes went wide as something dragged her from the base of the altar and into the shadows of a chapel. Her heart raced for a second before she slumped against her attacker.

  Finally.

  She let out the breath she’d been holding for months, waiting for the cool piercing metal at the base of her spine that would release her from the hell she’d been living in.

  The cold silver never came. The hand over her mouth eased away, and two dark brown hands turned her around. She blinked in the darkness, trying to see who was with her. No one spoke. In the dim candlelight, she could see a figure unwrapping the heavy scarves around their head. The face revealed was a woman’s with skin darker than any Renata had seen. It was the color of seasoned walnut and perfectly smooth except for a vicious red wound on her cheek and jaw.