The Staff and the Blade: Irin Chronicles Book Four (13 page)

The tangle of scribes and angel rolled across the floor of the tower, fire shooting from the hands of the Fallen. Every time one of his brothers screamed, Damien felt it. But fighting an angel was dirty and taxing. They wrestled with the giant creature who continued to pierce them with what magic he had, which mostly consisted of fire and mental blades. Wind filled the tower, making even a scrap of cloth a weapon.

A clay bowl bashed Damien on the temple and he went down, but Monroe grabbed his arm and yanked him up.

“Now!” Damien saw four scribes, including one of his archers and a pale Faraz dragging himself on his elbows, holding the roaring angel down. Arrows littered the angel’s back and blood dripped from multiple gashes and wounds, but none of them would kill the creature. Only Damien could do that.

“Damien!”

He leapt on the back of the Fallen, adding his weight to the mass of scribes restraining the monster. Climbing up the back of the angel, he used his elbow to pummel the creature’s proud head.

“I will kill you, Mikael’s blood!” it yelled.

But it wouldn’t. Damien grabbed a handful of the angel’s golden hair and yanked up. Then he drew the black blade and stabbed it into its neck as the angel screamed and fire filled the room.

CHAPTER NINE

S
ARI
watched the ships bob in the harbor in Kirkwall as Ingrid and her mate loaded the bags of grain. They wouldn’t need wheat by next year. The fields were already bursting with crops, though the season was early. She’d worked tirelessly all winter to prepare the ground, working two seasons of magic into one mild winter because she was desperate to keep her mind occupied and her body exhausted.

There had been no word from Damien in months, though Sari rode into Kirkwall with Ingrid every time she met the ship from Aberdeen. No word except that he and his brothers were hunting an angel in the Highlands and he would not be back before spring at the earliest.

It had been eight months since their night together. She cursed his memory. Searched for him in dreams. She missed him. She loved him. She was furious.

This is what I do. Do you understand? This is
always
what I will do.

Curse him.

Of course it was what he did. From the moment she’d seen him, she’d known Damien was a warrior. Known he was simply biding his time on the small island in the North Sea. Had that stopped her from falling in love with him? Of course not.

But she’d be damned if he left her behind again.

“We’re finished,” Ingrid said, climbing onto the front of the wagon. “Did you want to drive home?”

This is not my home.

“Unless you or Matthew wants to drive.”

“No.” Ingrid waved a hand as the wagon lurched and her large mate, Matthew, climbed in back. “Go ahead.”

With a quick flick of the reins, Sari nudged the team into motion, ignoring the stares of the humans at the docks. The Irina were still the subject of suspicion, and more and more they avoided going into the human villages without an Irin escort. It was starting to drive Sari mad. She felt like a child, but Einar was insisting. There had been no more incidents since Kirsten’s attack, but more than one singer felt uncomfortable around the humans. Sari couldn’t blame her sisters, but it was frustrating to feel as if other’s fear was hemming her in.

They drove back to the village and unloaded the grain. Sari decided to spend the day tending her own household garden. Weeding was a constant challenge. Earth magic was an equal opportunity fertilizer, which meant though her garden was lush and fruitful, the weeds were also attracted to her magic and grew quick and eager alongside her vegetables.

She took her evening meal in the longhouse with Henry. The friendly scribe was the only one who seemed to be able to put up with her sullen moods most nights.

Nights were the worst.

He chatted and told stories, even sang a few songs by the fire after they’d finished their meal. Henry poured her a mug of ale and sat at her side, throwing a brotherly arm around her shoulders and soothing her with his easy affection. The anxious energy that had been building since she’d met the ship in Kirkwall eased a little.

“Thank you, Henry.” She squeezed his hand and stared into the fire.

“I know it’s not the same,” Henry said. “But sister, come to me any time you have need.”

“It’s been eight months.”

“Little goes according to plan in battle,” Henry said. “Damien knows this better than anyone.”

“Which is why he said six to eight months when he left. He was being conservative. He would have tried to hunt this fallen before winter set in. Something is wrong.”

“If he had been injured, the watcher of Edinburgh would have written.”

“Unless he doesn’t know they are injured. The last letter I received said they were going into the Highlands.”

“A slow hunt in winter.” Henry rubbed her shoulder and let his magic flow out, soothing her. “Damien is a very skilled warrior, Sari.”

“I know.”

“You realize that if he kills this angel, it is likely the council will call him back into service.”

She blinked. “You mean this is a… trial? A test of some sort?”

“There are scribes in London who carry heaven-forged blades. They could have sent another. I suspect the council wanted to test Damien’s skills to see if his years of seclusion had dampened his strength in battle. They’re ready to call him back.”

Sari’s eyes hardened. Bastards. What if he wasn’t ready? What if sending him into battle
against an angel
as a test killed him?

“Sister.” Henry shook her. “You have no need to worry. Do you truly think anything could soften Damien?”

She shook her head. It might have been more out of hope than assurance.

“Even loving you has only made him fiercer, sister.”

Gabriel’s fist, she hoped so.

“‘Iron sharpeneth iron,’” Henry continued. “‘So a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.’ You sharpen him, Sari. Give him direction and purpose.”

She closed her eyes. “He needs to come back to me, Henry. He needs to come home.”

※

Sari heard whispers in her sleep. An urgent voice whispered in her mind. Hoofbeats and driving rain. Shouts and—

She jerked awake at the pounding at her door.

“Sari!”

She yanked open the bolt and threw herself into the arms of the muddy, rain-soaked scribe at her door. She couldn’t speak. She clung to him as he stumbled inside and slammed the door shut. Damien locked his arms around her and lifted her off her feet. Sari wrapped her arms around his neck and brought his mouth to hers. Their kiss was desperate and hungry. Hard lips and sharp teeth. He bit her lower lip when she tried to pull away. Sari gripped his hair and forced his head back.

“You will never”—she choked on her tears—“
never
leave me behind again! Never, Damien.”

“I promise.” He kissed her over and over. “I promise.”

“Never again.”

“I love you.”

Sari burst into tears of relief, and he buried his face in her neck. “I’m so angry with you.”

“I know.” He turned and set her on the edge of the bed, kneeling between her legs. “I love you.”

“I love you so much,” she whispered. “And I’m still angry with you.”

He pulled away and looked at her in wonder. His thick hair hung in wet ropes around his face. His beard was wild, but his eagle eyes glowed with fierce joy. “You love me.”

“Reshon,” she whispered, drawing his mouth back to hers. Her face would be rubbed raw by his whiskers, but she didn’t care. “You are my reshon, Damien. I love you. I choose you. I have decided.”

“
Reshon
.” He let out a hard breath and pulled her closer. “
Milá
, you are my own.”

She began to peel off his mud-caked cloak, but he stilled her hand with trembling fingers.

“A bath,” he whispered. “I have been in battle, Sari, and it was… Take me to the ritual bath that I may cleanse myself.”

Sari nodded, recognizing the soul-deep weariness in his voice. She threw a few more bricks of peat on the coals to heat her cottage, then stood and took Damien’s hand.

※

He sat in the round pool heated from the fire Sari continued to stoke. She had poured buckets of cold water over him to cleanse his body of the mud he’d collected on the hard ride from Kirkwall. Damien told her he’d missed the Irin merchant ship and been forced to sail with humans to get to her. The boat had arrived just before dark, but he couldn’t stand to wait. The moon was full, so he’d ridden through the night despite the summer storm that had swept in from the sea.

Sari stripped down and wrapped herself in her ritual linen robe before she scrubbed him with a soapy rag. She ignored his body’s reaction to her and bathed him head to foot, scrubbing the months of dirt and grime from his hair and neck. She silently trimmed his beard as he watched her with tired eyes. When his body was clean, she led him to the warm pool, sitting behind him as she took oils and anointed his back and hair. With strong hands, she massaged his shoulders and felt the magic rise on his skin as if reaching for her.

When his shoulders began to unknot and his arms fell around her knees, she spoke. “Tell me.”

“It was a long hunt.”

He told her of his months in the wilderness and the humans who had been lost. About his brothers’ determination and strength in battle. Though he didn’t say it, Sari heard the pride in his voice when he spoke of the men he’d led. Heard his appreciation and respect for Monroe, the Scottish scribe who’d sacrificed months of time with his pregnant mate to accompany Damien on his hunt. His sorrow for Faraz, who was healing from grievous injuries.

When his story reached the dead human village, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed her cheek to his back. Whole families had been killed by the Grigori. Young women and girls enthralled by the Fallen.

“There were pregnant women there,” he said quietly. “Girls carrying Grigori babies.”

Sari tensed. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.” He paused. “Monroe tried to get them to return to Stirling. He thought one of the healers might be able to rid them of the Fallen’s offspring and save their lives. They wouldn’t go. They were distraught when we killed the angel.”

“Their minds had been turned by magic, Damien.”

“There was some food there. We left them with what supplies we could, but…”

Sari knew that the women were probably already dead. Even if they survived the birth of their Grigori children, they would die in isolation. And the Grigori babes would as well. It was evil, but an evil caused by the Fallen, not by her reshon, though Sari knew he still carried the weight of it.

“We are supposed to kill human women carrying Grigori,” he said. “They will die anyway after their children are born. It is considered a mercy to kill them swiftly instead of letting them starve and fade.”

“But you didn’t.”

His voice was barely audible. “I could not.”

“Damien—”

“I have…,” he said. “I have killed an angel before. That is how I obtained the heaven-forged blade. It was the only other time when I saw surviving humans carrying Grigori children. Usually we would only find bodies. But when I was young, I followed orders. We let them fall into a deep sleep with our touch and then one brother killed them quickly.”

Her arms were tight around him. “They would have died anyway.”

“
My eyes have seen too much to ever look on that which is lovely again
,” Damien whispered. “Otto followed my orders. I believe that is why he wanted to die.”

“
Slemaa, reshon
.” Sari murmured a spell to give him peace. “We did not start this war. We can only fight it with as much honor as we own. You have fought hundreds, Damien. Protected thousands. Do not let guilt eat our joy.”

He clutched her hands over his heart. “You choose me?”

“I do.”

“Then be my mate, Sari. Take my mark. Walk my dark nights with me and call me your own.”

“I will.”

※

He warmed the ink by the fire, and when the sable brushed over Sari’s skin, it was as if the brush was an extension of her lover’s own body. Warm lips kissed her shoulders as Damien painted the mating marks on her shoulders and down the center of her back. She could see the glow of gold in the dark cottage where they had returned after the cleansing bath. Felt his hand tremble even as he wrote ancient spells and vows over her body, tying them together.

When he finished one portion, she sang softly to him. Old songs of joy and binding and love. Songs given to her mothers by the Forgiven and passed down in joyful whispers from grandmother to mother to daughter. Sari felt the old magic rise in her heart, suspending her joy as Damien wrote again. She felt his tears against her shoulder, but he kissed them away and returned to writing.

When he finally turned her to write his mating vow over her heart, the heat and desire for him took her breath away.

“Soon,” he whispered, his lips flushed and swollen. His eyes locked on her breast as he wrote his vow over her heart, speaking it so Sari would know the words he had written just for her.