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  “Acoustics,” Renata said, still at the end of the hallway. “When we—when my mother would sing a history, she would stand here so everyone could hear her. The acoustics of the hall carried it. The angles of the reading room magnified it. When my mother sang, she didn’t sound like a single voice. She sounded like a chorus.”

  Max sat on the edge of the table. “Sing to me,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  He walked back toward her. “That must have been incredible.”

  “It was.” She stepped out of the alcove and turned right, stopping dead in her tracks as the hallway branched.

  “What is it?”

  She held up a lamp. “This is the hallway where the classrooms were.”

  “Let’s look.” Max took her hand and lifted his lamp, intrigued by a scent he’d caught in the air coming from the hallway.

  Renata didn’t move.

  “Reni?”

  “This is where the children ran,” she said. “We found their clothes in the room at the end of this hall. There were six children here when they came. Four girls and two boys.”

  He didn’t try to make her move. “And they ran to their classroom.”

  She nodded.

  Max didn’t wait for permission. He enfolded Renata in his arms and held her tight. She was frozen, but he kept holding her.

  “Did you ever let yourself grieve?” he whispered.

  “There wasn’t time to grieve.”

  “There hasn’t been time in two hundred years?”

  “It’s useless,” she said, pulling away from his arms. “After a while… it’s useless.”

  No, it wasn’t, but it would take time for her to see that. Max was starting to understand Renata’s walls. She’d never really allowed herself any kind of family after losing this one. She’d become part of the Irina community in exile, but only peripherally. She had a few friends—a very few—but she didn’t live with them. She worked constantly, rarely staying in one place, even her own flat, more than a month.

  “Our time in Vienna,” he asked quietly, “was that the first time?”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “Was that the first time since the Rending that you’d shared a home with someone?”

  She stiffened and tried to walk past him. “That wasn’t a home. It was a rented flat we shared while we were working.”

  He caught her arm. “We slept in the same bed at night. We cooked and ate together. We hung our laundry and bitched about who needed to clean the bathroom. We laughed and fell asleep in front of the television.”

  “That isn’t—”

  “It was a home. Our home. Or at least the beginnings of one.”

  Renata said nothing. She didn’t even look at him.

  “You keep coming back here, don’t you? Every Midwinter, you come. You keep looking for the same feeling you lost, but you won’t find it because it was never the building. It wasn’t these caves, even with all the history and love and magic I can feel lingering here.”

  He drew her closer, linking their hands together. Renata’s face was blank, but she wasn’t running away. Not yet.

  Max lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Home is what we could have together, but you’re too afraid to build it.”

  She wrenched her hand out of his grasp and left him in the tunnel.

  Max let her go.

  He explored every nook and cranny of the library, studying the intricate carvings along the wall and the lists of singers and scribes whose names were carved into the walls. Next to the alcove was a list of the chief Irina archivists, ending with the name Heidi von Meren. In the reading room, the list of librarians ended with the name Giorgio di Lanzo. Were they Renata’s parents? Max guessed they were, but there was no way to be certain. If the Rending hadn’t happened, would Renata’s name have followed Heidi’s?

  I was a little girl who sang songs about history and magic and thought they meant something.

  Renata had been an archivist like her mother. She’d spent her whole life learning about Irin history and magic and could likely recite massive volumes of Irina history purely from memory. Prior to the Rending, she would have been a powerful and influential woman, valued anywhere in the Irin world for her magical skill and knowledge. Archivists were the kind of Irina who occupied the elders’ seats in Vienna. They were influential and feared.

  But Renata lived in hiding, venting her rage on the Grigori who had stolen her life.

  Stolen her love.

  His name was Balien of Damascus. He was a great man. A warrior… a knight of Jerusalem, a Rafaene scribe, and my reshon.

  Who was Balien of Damascus, and why hadn’t he protected this library? An Irin warrior with extensive training could fight off a dozen armed Grigori and not sustain injury. And why hadn’t he mated with Renata as soon as he knew she was his reshon? The only mark she wore was a single sign on her forehead.

  If Renata wanted to be his mate, Max would abandon his own brothers to claim her.

  He returned to the passageway leading to the classrooms where the children had fled. In the last classroom on the left, he found where they must have died. Max set his lamp in front of the longest wall and sat on a bench carved into the rock, staring at a lush scene painted on the limestone.

  Mala.

  Max remembered his cousin mentioning that the fearsome warrior was also an artist, but he’d never seen her work. Despite the darkness in the caves, the scene glowed with vivid joy. Children of every color and age ran toward a golden mountain, surrounded by animals. Elephants and lions guarded their path as birds sang in the trees overhead. Monkeys clutched flowers and ate vibrant purple fruit. Sheep and antelope lay sleeping at the feet of the lions while cattle grazed on the hills in the distance.

  It was a scene of paradise and joy. Laughter instead of tears. A scene designed for loved ones to stop and linger and remember beauty. Renata, frozen in grief, had probably never seen it.

  But someone had. Because in this room—and several of the others—there wasn’t a spot of dust on the table, and the lamp held a fresh beeswax candle. Childish drawings sat on a low school desk, and the smell of fresh bread lingered in the air.

  Someone was living in the caves, and judging by the smell of bread, they hadn’t been gone long.

  Chapter Five

  Did you ever let yourself grieve?

  What a ridiculous question. Renata knocked back the dough she’d set out to rise the night before, kneading it a touch more before she began to shape the loaf. In the chilly air, it took a full day to bake her mother’s honeyed bread, but it was the only thing to do at Midwinter. She’d already chopped the dried fruit and nuts she’d sprinkle on top. She split the dough into three ropes, sprinkled more cinnamon, then began to braid.

  Home is what we could have together, but you’re too afraid to build it.

  She ignored the longing that twisted in her chest and thought about how she could get Maxim out of the house. Would it be too cold for him to sleep in the dairy barn? Probably. She didn’t have any fuel for the heaters out there. Conserving heat in a limited space was the only way she managed to survive on her own during the weeks around Midwinter. She had fuel and food, but only for herself. She would need to go hunting.

  Or you could kick him out.

  Impossible. Her traitor heart rebelled at the thought. Her traitor heart was the one who’d led her down the stairs the night before, longing for the comfort of Max’s arms. Her traitor heart would give the man everything if she let it.

  She finished the loaf and put it in a long proofing basket. It would be ready to bake that night. Ready to eat in the days leading up to Midwinter.

  Midwinter.

  The night she’d finally lost everything.

  Renata closed her eyes and clutched the edge of the counter. Why had he come? Hadn’t she hurt him enough? It was only going to get worse. She was weak and he knew it. If he pushed hard enough, she’d give him everything. Again.

  And
then what?

  Force him to live a half-life with a broken mate? Unacceptable. Force her back into a world where all the rules she’d known were upended?

  Renata was still coming to terms with the new order in the Irin world. Grigori—once their hated foes—had now proven that not all of them were murderous monsters. The Grigori Max had met so many years ago in Prague hadn’t been lying. Some Grigori even had sisters to protect, half-angelic daughters tormented by humanity’s soul voices because they had no control over their magic.

  It wasn’t that she was unsympathetic. She had plenty of sympathy. For the women.

  For the Grigori? How was she supposed to quash her instinctive, murderous impulses when she smelled the scent of sandalwood? Would their unnatural beauty ever cause her anything but cold rage? The scraping sound of their soul voices made her nauseous.

  It might have been the mandate of the council that free Grigori who were living peaceful lives could be Irin allies, but no one had asked the Irina who survived their murderous rampage, had they? Was she supposed to forget two hundred years of training and go back to singing songs?

  She wasn’t the woman she’d been. She never would be again. That girl had died with Balien. Maybe now that Max had found this haven and taken away her last hiding place, she would have to move on. Maybe it was better that she lose this sanctuary.

  You keep looking for the same feeling you lost, but you won’t find it because it was never the building.

  He was right. Max was right. She simply didn’t know where else to go.

  Renata wiped her eyes and walked to the cold storage. There was cured sausage and cheese to eat, along with a loaf of bread she’d cooked yesterday. She’d eat a little bit and set out the rest for Max when he returned from exploring the caves. He was a curious man—it was one of the things she loved about him—and Renata suspected he could spend days just reading the spells along the walls. She didn’t need to read them. She’d spent two hundred years reading them and hoping they’d give her peace. They hadn’t. She doubted she’d ever find peace again.

  Max returned from the caves while she was reading a book by the fire.

  “There is food set out in the kitchen,” she said quietly, not looking up.

  “Thank you.” He didn’t go to the kitchen. He crossed the living room and sprawled on the couch, forcing his head into her lap. “That library must have been remarkable.”

  She put her book down, knowing he took pleasure in distracting her. “It was.”

  “Has no one come back in over two hundred years? No one even came looking for the scrolls?”

  “Maybe.” She combed her fingers through Max’s thick blond hair. It was wavy—almost curly—and shone gold in the firelight. “I didn’t return to this place for over one hundred years. Someone might have been back before that, but they would have seen everything gone.”

  “Not everything.” He grabbed her hand. Kissed her palm. “I can still feel so much joy in that place. The magic in the walls is still vibrant.”

  Renata closed her hand, curling her fingers into her palm. “I only feel pain. Loss.”

  “There are both. Pain and joy. That is life. There’s something in the tunnels I want you to—”

  “Don’t make me go back there.” She sighed. “Max, I know I can’t get rid of you, but can you just…”

  “What?”

  “Let me be.” She closed her eyes. “Just let me be. Ignore me. You are welcome to stay here and rest. Explore the library as much as you want. Eat my food. But let me be. If you need to, pretend I’m not here.”

  He nipped the heel of her hand with his teeth. “Well, that would be idiotic.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t come here for a quiet mountain getaway, Reni. I didn’t come to explore a library. I came for you.”

  “You came to prove you could find me. To prove that you’re a better tracker than I am.”

  Max flipped, grabbed Renata by the waist, and pulled her under his body. The move was so fluid she blinked, and he was leaning over her, his shoulders so broad he blocked the light.

  “You think you know why I came here?”

  She couldn’t not react. He was too vital. Too desirable. Too much of everything she admired.

  “We aren’t this,” she said. “We never were.”

  He cocked his head. “Where have you been the past eighteen years?”

  Running away from you.

  “I’ve been living my life, Max. A life that you’ve only ever touched the edges of.”

  “I know I don’t know everything about you. That’s what makes it fun. I don’t mind secrets, because I like finding answers.”

  “Oh? And what happens when you find everything? You move on to the next challenge?”

  “I might if I didn’t think the woman I was chasing didn’t have a thousand new ways to surprise me.” Max leaned down, his lips inches from hers. “Is this your argument, Reni? Is this the best you’ve got? Do you really think I’m going to get bored? That’s insulting to both of us. Is that the excuse you’ve been using all this time? That I have a short attention span?”

  No. When Max was on a hunt, his failing was extreme focus, not short attention span.

  Renata said, “I think you don’t know what it means to be in a relationship. It’s not all chases and excitement.”

  “We have a relationship. Don’t fool yourself. And we did just fine in Vienna. It wasn’t all chases and excitement there. It was long days and frustrations and bitching about our bosses, as the humans say. Guess what? Still wasn’t bored, Renata. I still wanted more.”

  Damn her heart. “You’re right. You should have more.” She gently shoved him to the side and stood. “I need to put the bread in the oven.”

  She let him stay in her room that night. It would have been pointless to have him sleep downstairs when she’d end up beside him eventually. Max didn’t gloat. He simply moved his backpack up to her room and made himself at home, as if it was his right.

  It was far too easy to fall into the familiar patterns they’d begun to establish in Vienna. She knew what side of the bed he liked and how affectionate he was in the morning. He dropped off to sleep quickly at the end of the day but would laze in bed every morning, given the chance. She knew he was fastidious about brushing his teeth and would wake at the slightest sound in the night, slide on his boots, and be halfway to the door before she opened her eyes.

  He was sleeping with his arm around her waist, one leg thrown over hers as if trying to keep her in place. Renata was not sleeping at all. There’d been something in the caves earlier that had caught her attention, but she’d been too distracted by having Max there to pay attention.

  “Bread.” She glanced at Max, but he didn’t wake.

  The smell of fresh bread had been in the tunnels. She was sure of it. She’d dismissed it initially because she assumed what she’d caught a hint of was herself. She’d been baking so much that week it was an easy mistake to make. But the smell in the tunnels was too fresh. She hadn’t baked that morning, not until she’d left the caves.

  Gently, she lifted Max’s arm and slid out from under his hold. He shifted, pressed his face into her pillow, then let out a long sigh. Renata walked to the door and opened it, grateful that the caretaker regularly oiled the hinges. She walked downstairs, wrapping a woolen shawl around her, and put on her boots before she made her way down the hall. She grabbed a flashlight this time. She didn’t want to use magic when she was trying to examine a scene.

  Renata slowly walked through the reading room and down the hall, opening her senses to her surroundings.

  Nothing. The library was as cold and lifeless as a grave.

  Has no one come back?

  She didn’t want this place filled with voices again. Didn’t want new songs to fill the hall. It would have seemed as irreverent as a feast on a grave.

  Renata walked back to the children’s tunnels and paused at the entrance, sure she did
n’t want to follow through but certain this was the place where she’d caught the scent earlier in the day. It was gone now, but she could swear she heard the stomp of running feet and the sound of childish laughter.

  Relentless curiosity won out over the ghosts.

  She walked back, carefully examining each room with the clinical eye of an investigator. By the time she reached the end, she was certain someone had been in the caves. There was little dust and the air wasn’t stale.

  She turned to the last door on the left and hesitated. Images of empty clothes and abandoned shoes filled her mind. Gold dust in the air and blood spattering the walls.

  With a scream trapped in her heart, she walked in. She kept her eyes from the corner opposite the door and swept her flashlight along the far wall. It was empty. No clothes. No shoes. No blood. Mala had been the one to clear this room. Renata hadn’t had the courage.

  Her flashlight stopped on the table. Paper and colored pencils. Mala was an artist, but these didn’t look like her work. These drawings could only have been made by a child.

  Renata walked closer and slid them across the table. Most were animals. A cow with a bright bell around its neck. A lion. A well-rendered stag and a flock of sheep on a mountainside. The last one was a bright red fox with his head lifted in a howl, the artist dropping the brown colored pencil in the middle of a stroke, as if she had been interrupted.

  What was this?

  There had been nothing left like this after the Rending. The colored pencils were new. Modern. She’d seen that brand in the shops in the village.

  She lifted her flashlight and turned it around the room. When her flashlight illuminated the mural, she froze.

  Mala had cleaned the room, but she’d done something more. The painting filled a wall that had been covered in blood and little handprints. The wall was warped by Renata’s scream when she’d discovered it. The surface had buckled with her magic, like a body absorbing the force of a blow. What once had been smooth had become rippled and jagged.