The Silent Page 6

  “A monk?”

  Niran shook his head. “No. I don’t know what gods he believed in, but his life was honorable, his body was healthy, and he claimed to be over one hundred and ten years old.”

  Kyra said, “Humans don’t live that long.”

  “Sura believed him. And this man, he had many markings. All over his arms…” Niran rolled up his sleeves to show Kyra a stylized tiger on his forearm surrounded by unfamiliar writing. “His legs. His chest. The old man had tattooed himself the same way his father tattooed himself. The same way he taught his sons before they left him.”

  “But what did the tattoos mean? They were human? Or did he learn them from the Irin?”

  “He was human. And the tattoos were very old mantras written in Pali, the language of the Buddha. He called them Sak Yant and told my brother Sura that he would teach him if Sura was willing to learn and to take care of the old man until he died. The old man also told Sura that in order to teach him, he would have to live according to five laws.”

  “What kind of laws?”

  “Simple things for a human.” Niran paused and pulled a ripe mango from a tree near the temple. “Don’t kill. Don’t steal. Don’t lie. Don’t lust. Don’t live a hedonistic life of pleasure.” Niran pulled out a knife and sliced the mango neatly, carving petals from the flesh of the golden fruit. He handed them to Kyra as they walked. “These laws are all things humans endeavor to do anyway. Most human laws relate to this.”

  Kyra understood immediately. “But not Grigori laws.”

  “We have no laws,” Niran said. “And to Sura—for a Grigori raised by a Fallen angel—these ideas were revolutionary. We and all our brothers were taught from birth to kill and lie and steal and lust. That was our identity. It was also what was rotting my brother from the inside. He took advantage of our father’s absence and fled into the forest to learn from the old man. Over the years, he went back again and again. He discovered that the meditation he practiced and the words the old man tattooed on his body—later the words he tattooed himself—cleared his mind.”

  “It did what the Irin tattoos do for their warriors.”

  Niran shook his head. “I’m sure their systems are more extensive. Their spells are far more complex. They have thousands of years of scholarship behind their traditions. But for us—for those who don’t have anyone to teach us—these human tattoos do help.” He motioned to the temple where saffron-clad Grigori walked in prayer or meditation.

  Some were cleaning. Some tended plants. Some sat in quiet conversation. All of them bore the same intricate tattoos Niran did.

  “You’ve seen the Grigori here,” he continued. “We still train to protect the city, but all of us live according to those five rules. All of us wear the tattoos that Sura taught us. All of us live more normal, more controlled lives. We’re not special, Kyra. We were as violent as any in our race. If we can do this, so can others.”

  Kyra didn’t need more convincing. She’d listened to the soul voices of Niran and his brothers. It wasn’t an illusion. They were more calm. More controlled. More peaceful. “This could help my brothers,” she said. “This practice could help them too.”

  She imagined Kostas with tattoos that could help him control his cravings for human energy. She imagined Sirius being stronger and more focused. They patrolled every night, plunging into temptation over and over again, battling the worst parts of their nature to defend humans against Grigori in thrall to other Fallen angels and themselves against Irin who were trained to stab first and ask questions later.

  Niran stopped at the steps of the temple. “There’s another side effect of this,” he said. “We’re also better fighters. Because we’re more focused and present, we are far more deadly to our enemies. That is why I am so cautious with this knowledge. I am not being greedy or controlling, but this practice in the wrong hands could undo everything free Grigori like me and your brothers have been trying to prove to the Irin world. We are capable of living peaceful and protective lives. But we have to make sure that those who hold this knowledge are willing to live as we do.”

  “I understand.”

  Kyra toed off her shoes with Niran and ascended the steps to the temple. She could smell the fragrant incense and the flowers filling the front of the temple. A large golden Buddha sat peacefully at the front while a line of monks sat along the side of the room, chanting a mantra. Kyra followed Niran to the opposite side of the temple where a young monk, no more than twenty, bent over the back of a shirtless man. The man looked up, nodded at Niran and Kyra, and closed his eyes. It was the Grigori who had come to receive Sak Yant.

  “Sit with me,” Niran said. “Make sure the soles of your feet are not exposed.”

  Kyra sat cross-legged, her palms resting on her knees as she watched the young monk and the Grigori.

  The monk’s lips moved in prayer, then he opened his eyes and began to write on the man’s back in a quick, curving script. His pen didn’t stop until he’d written multiple lines across the man’s shoulders. He set the pen aside and took a long bamboo rod with a metal tip and dipped it in ink.

  As the monks on the far side of the temple chanted, the young monk set a quick rhythm, piercing the man’s skin with the metal point over and over again as he tattooed the words into the man’s back. Kyra watched in amazement as the Grigori sat motionless, not even flinching. He kept his eyes closed, his lips moving in his own prayer as he sat in the lotus position on the ground of the temple, a string of marigolds in one hand, a small gold coin in the other.

  The tattoo must have taken an hour or more to complete, but the wind passed through the open windows of the temple, carrying the smell of frangipani to her nose. The incense and the chanting lulled her into a meditative state, and in what seemed like only moments, the bamboo rod ceased moving. The monk sat up straight. He prayed over the Grigori in words Kyra didn’t understand. Then the Grigori turned and bowed to the ground, offering the flowers and the gold coin the monk took and put on the altar beside him.

  He said a few more words over the man, then the Grigori rose, nodded to Niran and Kyra, and walked silently out the door.

  Kyra sat silently until she felt a movement on her hand. Looking down, she realized she’d taken Niran’s hand at some point, and their palms were lying pressed together. She looked at him, blinking as if just waking up. His voice was a quiet murmur in the background of her mind, like the soft chanting of the monks in the temple.

  Niran smiled. “Hello.”

  Kyra pulled her hand away and felt the heat on her cheeks. “Hi. I apologize.”

  “There is no need.”

  “That was…” Extraordinary. Unearthly. “Magical.”

  “Yes.” Niran pulled his knees up and rose, holding his hand out to her. “It is very magical.”

  She took it and rose to her feet as the young monk who had performed the tattoo rose with them.

  “Kyra,” Niran said, motioning to the monk. “I’d like you to meet my older brother, Sura.”

  Sura walked with Kyra through the night market, nibbling on noodles and crispy tofu as the sounds of pop music and bargaining surrounded them. There was a band at the end of the street, and the rhythm filled the air, along with honking horns and the sizzle of frying food. Niran had walked ahead with two of his Grigori, and Intira walked beside them.

  “I’m so glad you like our city,” Sura said. He’d abandoned his robes and was wearing a pair of jeans and a traditional cotton shirt. “It’s a very cool place. Niran worries so much, sometimes I don’t think he enjoys it at all.”

  Kyra was delighted by Sura. He looked like a college kid, had the aura of an old man, and a wicked sense of humor. He’d jumped at the chance to visit the market when he learned his sister was coming. Then he’d hung back with Kyra and Intira, offering a running commentary on the best shopping, the most delicious noodles, and the coldest beer while Niran and the other Grigori kept watch on the market where locals and tourists mingled.

  �
�How are you doing?” Kyra asked Intira.

  The girl’s dimples told the story. “Good. This is fun.”

  Intira was wandering the market with the wide, innocent eyes of a child. She’d visited the city before but hadn’t ever been exposed to crowds like those at the night market.

  Kyra said, “You must tell me if you have trouble with your shields. There is no shame in asking for help. You’re doing so well, but everything is still new to you.”

  “I understand,” Intira said. “When we passed the music I had trouble. Then once it quieted down, I remembered to sing.”

  “Loud noises distract me too. I’m glad you recovered. If you get in trouble, grab my hand.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sura grinned at the girl and gently touched her shoulder. “I’m so happy for you, sister.”

  “You’re the youngest and the oldest,” Kyra said. “I just realized. Niran said you were the oldest brother. And Intira is the youngest sister.”

  “Yes,” Sura said. “There are more stories to tell, but maybe not at the market tonight.”

  “No.” Kyra watched Intira take everything in. She was like a sponge. A delighted sponge. “This night is too beautiful to share those stories.”

  “You speak the truth.”

  Kyra remembered the first time she’d experienced the public market in Thessaloniki, near where she’d been born. It was the first time Kostas had taken her into public with him after they thought they were free of their father.

  Kyra had ended the day shaking and in tears. The voices in the market had nearly rendered her unconscious. She’d been told from birth she was weaker than her brothers. Told she was fragile and breakable and incapable. No matter how valued her twin brother was, Kyra was useless and always would be because her mind was weak.

  Her first foray out of her father’s compound confirmed every fear she’d harbored.

  Kostas had told her she was strong, but she’d never believed him. And his protection over the years and decades since—no matter how well-meant—hadn’t helped her confidence. She still struggled with malicious voices in her mind. Once, they’d come from the outside. Now they whispered from within.

  “Sura, look! Is that the ice cream?” The young girl pointed in the direction of a stall selling elaborate treats with candied fruit.

  Intira didn’t wear Kyra’s shadows. According to Niran and Sura, she’d been sheltered nearly from birth. Her mother had died, not from the strain of an angelic pregnancy, but from trying to escape from their father. It was the woman’s death that had spurred Niran, Sura, and Kanok to action. Sura had gathered allies from his travels who helped them, other Grigori who bore the tattoos he’d learned to ink.

  “The Grigori you tattooed today,” Kyra said. “Is he still around?”

  Sura paused. “I believe he’s staying at a temple closer to Chiang Rai. Many of our free brothers choose a monastic life if they can handle it. It lessens temptation.”

  “You’re a monk.”

  “For now. My vows were not for life. I try to be open to possibilities in all things. Right now my sisters’ well-being is at the front of my mind. That’s why I’m so grateful that you’ve come to teach them what I can’t.”

  “Kyra is a great teacher.” Intira looked up at her brother. “But you’re still my favorite big brother.”

  “Fine. You can have the rest of my noodles,” Sura said, handing his bowl to Intira. “But that doesn’t mean I’m sharing my ice cream with you.”

  “You said you would!”

  “I’ll buy you your own.” Sura slung his arm around Intira’s shoulder and steered her toward the ice cream vendor who was spreading fruit and other sweets over the ice-cold slab where he mixed the treat.

  Kyra watched them walk away and wondered if she should try to catch up with Niran. She eased past a crowd watching a street performer with puppets and started when someone grabbed her hand.

  She stopped with a gasp when everything went quiet.

  Everything.

  The crowds.

  The band.

  The background hum of the souls surrounding her.

  Kyra didn’t need to turn around to know who held her hand in his warm grasp.

  She turned anyway.

  “Leo.”

  Chapter Six

  She was here. In front of him. Real and tangible, not one of the dreams that tormented him. Her gold eyes were wide with shock. Her fair skin had grown tan, and her dark hair had streaks of amber through it.

  “Leo.”

  She said his name, but he couldn’t speak.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Leo’s heart was beating out of his chest. His mind was a jumble, and no coherent thought would form. A singular instinct took hold of him.

  Away.

  He tugged Kyra’s hand and turned, ducking under a hanging rack of lanterns and pulling her down a narrow alley between two market stands. She went with him for a few meters, then pulled on his hand.

  “Stop!” she cried. “You don’t understand. I’m with friends. It’s not what you think.”

  He turned and Kyra’s momentum pushed her into his chest.

  She looked up, her expression still baffled. “Leo, I don’t understand what you’re doing here.”

  He swallowed and opened his mouth, but again no words came out. How could he explain? How could he explain anything? His appearance. His actions. The reaction he had toward her.

  Reshon.

  The longing thought leapt to his mind. Was it the voice of his soul or a mad wish? He’d vowed to wait for his reshon—his soul mate chosen by heaven—when he was a young scribe, hopeful and romantic. A vow he’d wondered about since the first time he saw Kyra and she told him, “You make the voices go away.”

  “Leo, tell me—”

  Leo bent down and wrapped his arm around her waist, drew Kyra’s mouth to his, and kissed her.

  Her taste exploded on his lips. It was everything new and everything familiar at once.

  Yes.

  There you are.

  Her kiss tasted like ginger and oranges. Her lips were as unpracticed as his own. Kyra’s arms came around his neck, and he felt the contact move through him like an electric current. Her kiss was the rain. Her touch, the lightning. He gripped her waist harder. Would he bruise her? She kissed him back, one hand gripping his hair at his nape as her mouth moved eagerly against his own.

  He’d only kissed her in his dreams. He’d imagined it in real life a hundred times. A thousand perhaps.

  The heady taste of Kyra was far better than dreams.

  She pulled back, gasping. “What are you doing?”

  “Kissing you.” His voice was rough. “I’m kissing you.”

  Leo kissed her again, ravenous for another taste. Her head fell back and he kissed her neck. Behind her ear. He set her down so his hands could slide over the delicate wings of her shoulder blades where her skin was bare. Was his skin too rough? He had many calluses from training. Would they scratch her? Did she like to be scratched?

  “I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long,” he said against her mouth.

  “I don’t understand.” Her teeth scraped across his lower lip, and Leo shuddered. “What are you doing here?”

  “I told you.” Heaven above! Did every woman’s skin taste so delectable? How did their mates keep their mouths away from them? Leo kissed along Kyra’s jawline. And her scent! “So good,” he muttered.

  He’d been aroused before; after all, he was hundreds of years old and scribes were never meant to be monks. But nothing compared to the pounding urgency in his body to take her, devour her, consume her passion to feed his own.

  A mate chosen by heaven.

  “We need…” She let out a short gasp when Leo nibbled on the muscle at the side of her neck. “Leo, stop.”

  What? No! Why?

  He frowned and lifted his head. “Am I doing something wrong?”

  Kyra blinked. “I don’t… know. No?”


  His eyes fell to her swollen lips. “I like kissing you.”

  She let out a small groan.

  “So much.”

  Her chest heaved. Which caused her delicate breasts to rise and fall. Which was so, so good. They drew his gaze like magnets.

  “Did you like it too?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yes, but—”

  “Good.” Leo bent his head, but she put a hand over his mouth and pushed.

  “What are you doing in Chiang Mai?”

  He opened his mouth. “I’m—”

  “Other than kissing me,” Kyra said. “I think I understand that part.”

  Oh. Hmm. How to explain? “I was called to Bangkok by the watcher there.”

  “The Irin watcher?” Her eyes went blank. “But why are you in Chiang Mai?”

  Leo hated the blank expression. He automatically knew she was hiding something. “There were pictures of you.”

  “What? Where?”

  “In Bangkok. Surveillance pictures.”

  “They’ve been watching the Grigori here,” she said quietly.

  He smoothed a hand over her mussed hair. “That’s what we do.”

  “They are not your enemies,” she said. “No one here—”

  A slight sound caused Leo to turn a second before the knife would have sunk into his shoulder. He batted it away and pushed Kyra behind him, putting himself in the path of his assailant.

  “Leo, no!”

  “Stay back.” He drew a silver dagger in one hand and a silenced 9mm in the other. In a place like the market, he didn’t want to have to use the gun, but he would if necessary. His aim was steady.

  Leo’s attacker didn’t hide. He walked out of the alleyway with his own gun pointed in Leo’s direction. Leo brushed a thumb over his talesm prim and felt his spells come alive. With that brush, he was effectively wearing a suit of living armor. His hearing sharpened. His vision became hyperaware. His skin would be hotter if Kyra touched him.