Free The Scribe by Elizabeth Hunter

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.
    Spells of protection on his forearm.
    Long life over his wrist.
    Strength.
    Speed.
    Keener vision. Steadier reflexes. Immunity to poisons and drugs. An Irin scribe as old as Malachi was practically immortal in battle unless he willingly gave his magic to another. But as Malachi had no mate…
    His eyes flickered to the marks below Damien’s left shoulder, directly over his heart. The scribe was rising from his knees, finished with his morning prayers, and collecting the ash from the brazier to make more ink.
    Malachi asked, “Have you heard from Sari lately?”
    Damien shot him a dark look. “Why?”
    “Just curious.”
    “None of your business.”
    Silence. Malachi should have known better, but the urge to rankle his superior and the flush of magic made him brave.
    Finally, Damien muttered, “No.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    The watcher shrugged. “I know she’s safe. That’s the most important thing. I can see her in our dream-walks; she just chooses to ignore me.”
    The light-headed feeling of new magic finally passed, so Malachi rose to his feet and dropped the tattoo needle in a basin to clean it. Then he gathered the linen cloths marked with ink and blood and tossed them in the fire. He stood, watching the pieces burn as Damien swept up the remains of the ash.
    “I am drawn to her,” Malachi confessed in a low voice.
    “Since I’m going to assume you haven’t lost your mind and aren’t referring to my mate, I must assume you