The Scribe (8 page)

She felt him step closer. Could feel her body react. His lips were sealed, but his voice whispered to her. Taunting, teasing whispers that begged her to come closer. She turned her head, and her heart raced as his eyes dropped to her mouth. He leaned down, parting his lips as if to speak, but before he could say anything, a child bumped into Ava from behind, giggling as she sent Ava stumbling into Malachi’s chest.

He caught her elbows, and she heard him suck in a breath.

There was a flash of awareness. A sense and a silence. In that second, his pure voice was the only thing she heard, and the sense of harmony threatened to overwhelm her. Ava gasped.

She needed.

Wanted.

Needed
.

Utter and complete peace enveloped her for a brief moment, then it was gone when Malachi dropped his hands. Eyes blinking, he backed away, and she let out the breath she held. Once again, the voices wrapped around her, muffled—like a distant chorus they circled and taunted her.

For a second, they had been gone. Completely gone.

And his voice was the only thing she’d heard.

“Malachi?”

“Hmm?” His face was an impenetrable mask, half-cloaked in darkness.

“I…” What was she going to say?

Touch me.

Hold my hand.

Can you make them go away?

“I… don’t feel very well,” she breathed out. “I’d like to go back to my hotel now.”

“Of course,” he said quickly, immediately ushering her toward the exit.

Did he know? Could he feel it, too? Ava shook her head to try to shake some sense into it. Of
course
he hadn’t felt it. He wasn’t nuts. The odd feeling was probably a result of the strange mood in the underground cistern combined with dehydration and an unexpected—and entirely impractical—attraction to the man.

It had snuck up on her, but she was honest enough to acknowledge it, even as she recognized the futility of the attraction.

What man would want a relationship with her? Her lovers were fleeting. They had to be. Prolonged contact only made her condition worse. Her longest relationship had been during college. It was only three months before he’d been overwhelmed by her, and she by him. She’d flooded him with her energy, her moods, her manic bursts of activity.

“I can’t keep up with you.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“Too much, Ava. You’re just… too much.”

Too much.

It was all too much. She and Malachi walked through a tour group coming down the stairs. Dozens of people brushed past her, almost causing her to stumble. For a second, tears welled in her eyes. She saw Malachi reach for her hand instinctively, then he stopped, drawing his fingers back like a child not allowed to touch. She stayed close behind him, letting his broad shoulders clear a path through the crowd. When they finally reached the outdoors, the sound of traffic overwhelmed the wash of voices. The honks and shouts of the drivers were an unexpected relief.

Ava slipped on her sunglasses and, without waiting for her shadow, started back to the hotel.

Her appointment with Dr. Sadik couldn’t come early enough the next day. She left Malachi drinking tea at a café across the street and walked up to the office, opening the door on the third floor landing before she made her way down the hall and into the office. The pleasant receptionist greeted her with a smile.

“May I get you some tea, Ms. Matheson? You are a few minutes early. Dr. Sadik should be ready for you shortly.” She rose before Ava even answered, moving to the corner where a pot of the tea sat in a clear carafe. Taking one of the modern armchairs, Ava held out her hand when the young woman brought her the drink.

“Thank you. And please, call me Ava.”

“Such a beautiful name,” the receptionist said with a smile. “Please let me know if there is anything else I can get you, Ava.”

“Thanks.” She settled in, sipping the tea and listening to the quiet hum of the woman’s mind drift over the meditative music that filled the room. In a few minutes, she heard the door on the other side of Dr. Sadik’s office close, signaling that his other client had left. A few moments later, his smiling face poked through the door.

“Ava! How are you this morning?”

Immediately put at ease by his presence, she rose. “Doing fine, thank you.”

The look in his eyes told Ava that he knew there was more to the story, but he didn’t prod in front of the receptionist. She walked to the office and quickly took a seat on the chaise. “Is Rana here yet?”

The nurse who helped with the massage was usually there when Ava came in the office.

“She is running just a bit behind today. I apologize. Why don’t we talk for a few moments?”

She took a deep breath. “Sure.”

“How have the voices been?” He cut straight to the chase.

“Um… good.” She smiled tentatively. “Well, better.”

Dr. Sadik nodded, his gold-rimmed glasses flashing in the light from the window. He was sneaking up on middle age, but something about his expression and manner seemed far older. It was probably just a cultural difference.

The doctor said, “I believe I told you to expect that, did I not? We are not attempting to
cure
you of anything, because it is my belief, and yours as well, that there is no mental illness to cure. What we are doing is learning to manage the unique circumstances—an unusual perception, shall we say—under which your mind works.”

“Yes.” She let out a breath and tried to relax. “I like it. I feel better. And I’m glad you don’t think I’m crazy. You’re probably the first person to treat me who doesn’t think so.”

He smiled. “I told you, you are not my first patient with this condition. And the others saw relief with the treatments, as well.”

She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Did Rana say how long she’d be?”

“Just ten minutes or so.”

Most of the pressure-point massage happened in the head, neck and shoulders, but Dr. Sadik seemed to be very cautious about contact with Ava unless his nurse was present. He’d insisted on it from the beginning, which had put her at ease. Ava was eager to end the small talk and get on with her appointment.

“How are you enjoying Istanbul?” he asked. “You are traveling alone, am I correct?”

“I am. But everyone here is so friendly, I almost feel like I’ve been here before and they recognize me.”

He smiled. “Turks take hospitality very seriously. It is a wonderful part of their culture.”

Their
culture? She frowned. Ava had assumed the doctor was Turkish. “Yes, well… I’m enjoying it. I’ll definitely come back. Someone I met told me that Istanbul feeds the soul. I think he may be right.”

She caught a flash in his eyes, as if he recognized the saying. Was it a common proverb in Turkey? The expression fled, and polite interest took its place again.

“Istanbul has been important to many world religions, particularly Islam and Christianity. But even before that, it has always been rich with enlightenment and culture. One could definitely say it is good for the soul.”

“Maybe that’s why the voices aren’t as loud,” she joked. “My soul isn’t as hungry here.”

“Perhaps.” He didn’t seem to take it as a joke. “There are many beliefs about the soul. Ancient Persians were one of the first to classify the soul as something distinct and eternal. They believed the soul survived death, as do Jews, Christians, and Muslims. The Egyptians believed the soul existed with five distinct parts, one of which was the heart.” He smiled and patted his chest. “Others believe the soul is what gives a person their personality and creativity, though we know those are functions of the brain, of course.”

“Of course.” Why was he on this tangent? And when was the nurse going to get there? She didn’t have all day.

Well, actually she did.

“But the mind is where
my
interest lies, of course.” Dr. Sadik was still talking. “The mind… such a complicated, wonderful organ. So many mysteries to solve. Perhaps the mind is the seat of the soul. After all, it is the seat of creativity, which many world religions consider a reflection of the divine.”

“What is? The mind?”

“Creativity,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “Surely, as an artist, you have experienced this. The flash of insight that seems to come from outside yourself. Some would say creativity is the voice of the soul.”

His inner voice was muffled, but she could still sense his excitement. “I’m… I’m just a photographer, Dr. Sadik. I don’t really create like that. I’m not a painter or anything.”

“Ah.” He leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps that is not where your true creativity lies.”

At that moment, Ava heard the door open and Rana walked in.

“Dr. Sadik, I am so sorry! Ms. Matheson, forgive me. My father is unwell, and—”

“Not to worry, my dear.” Dr. Sadik rose from his chair. “Ava and I have just been chatting. But we should begin.” He turned to her and held out a hand. “Ava, are you ready?”

She heaved a sigh of relief that the odd philosophical conversation was over. “Absolutely.”

Chapter Five

It was close to dawn when Malachi heard his watcher stir. Damien paced outside the locked ritual room the scribes used to write
talesm
as Malachi worked. Candles flickered against walls inscribed with their own unique magic, old protective charms the Irin who built the house had carved into the limestone walls. No electric light was allowed in the room. No windows pierced the web of incantations. A meditation fire burned constantly, tended by the watcher of the house. It was probably why Damien was pacing.

Let him wait.

Malachi didn’t look up from his skin. He was working on a new spell for his right arm, a particularly intricate
talesm
to guard against temptation and provide focus. The ivory needle pierced his skin at lightning speed, the sacred ink luminescing with a faint silver glow as the spell worked itself into his body. He could feel it pulse and grow, the new magic twining with the ancient symbols that surrounded it. Malachi, like all Irin scribes, had become inured to the physical pain the tattoo produced. He only stopped to dip the needle into the ink made from the ash of the ritual fire. Within minutes, the characters of the Old Language took shape, twisting and joining the existing pattern of spells.

When he finished, Malachi took a deep breath and focused on the flames. He gave silent thanks to the Creator. To his mother who bore him, and his father who trained him. To his teachers. The council of the Elders. He closed his eyes and let the magic take hold. Then slowly, he opened them and looked down.

On a human, the skin around the tattoo would still be red and weeping, but Malachi wasn’t entirely human. The
talesm
was already sealed, a thin layer of ink dried over the old letters; by morning, the scab would be gone. The silver glow surrounding the tattoo would fade until activated by his
talesm prim
, the circular spell inscribed on his left wrist.

As if sensing the waning magic, a soft knock came at the door.

“Malachi?”

“You can come in, Damien. I’m finished.”

The door cracked open and Damien entered, clad only in the ceremonial wrap all watchers wore when attending to the sacred fire of their scribe house. The wrap covered his hips and upper legs, allowing the rest of Damien’s
talesm
to warn anyone watching of his years and skill with magic.

Malachi, still flush with new power, sat back in the wide chair and let out a long breath. He could feel the magic working within, connecting and bonding with the older characters that marked his body.

“Good morning,” Damien said, “You’re up early.”

“I slept little.”

Damien grunted and rubbed his eyes. “You have finished your new
talesm
?”

“I have.”

The watcher glanced over at Malachi’s bicep, and his eyebrow lifted. “Self-control?”

“And focus.”

There was a thoughtful pause before he asked, “Have you given thanks?”

“I have, Watcher.”

Damien nodded.

Malachi took another deep breath as the other man kneeled before the fire, lifting his left wrist and tracing the letters of his own
talesm prim
. As the magic rose, Malachi could see the faint silver glow travel over Damien’s body, from the newest spells on the man’s legs to the family tattoos marking his shoulders and back. Malachi had similar tattoos, the only ones he had not written himself. He’d received the first from his father at the age of thirteen. The first taste of the ancient strength he would spend centuries perfecting.

As a boy, his mother’s power had protected him, but at thirteen, Malachi was no longer considered a boy. His eyes were drawn to the first halting letters on his left wrist. The old spells hadn’t faded, but the clumsy, boyish work still made him smile. The characters slowly grew more sophisticated as they traveled up his arm, trailing over his shoulder and collarbone before they started their centuries-long journey down his right arm. Wrapped and stacked around each other, each was unique, an expression of the scribe who wrote it.