Page 22 of The Silent
Some were cleaning. Some tended plants. Some sat in quiet conversation. All of them bore the same intricate tattoosNirandid.
“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 canothers.”
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 helpthemtoo.”
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 questionslater.
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 aswedo.”
“Iunderstand.”
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 receiveSakYant.
“Sit with me,” Niran said. “Make sure the soles of your feet are notexposed.”
Kyra sat cross-legged, her palms resting on her knees as she watched the young monk and theGrigori.
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 itinink.
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 theother.
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 altarbesidehim.
He said a few more words over the man, then the Grigori rose, nodded to Niran and Kyra, and walked silently outthedoor.
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 thetemple.
Niran smiled. “Hello.”
Kyra pulled her hand away and felt the heat on her cheeks. “Hi. Iapologize.”
“There isnoneed.”
“That was…” Extraordinary. Unearthly. “Magical.”
“Yes.” Niran pulled his knees up and rose, holding his hand out to her. “It is verymagical.”
She took it and rose to her feet as the young monk who had performed the tattoo rosewiththem.
“Kyra,” Niran said, motioning to the monk. “I’d like you to meet my olderbrother,Sura.”
* * *
Sura walkedwith 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 walkedbesidethem.
“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 itatall.”
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 touristsmingled.
“How are you doing?” Kyra askedIntira.
The girl’s dimples told the story. “Good. Thisisfun.”
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 nightmarket.
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 newtoyou.”
“I understand,” Intira said. “When we passed the music I had trouble. Then once it quieted down, I rememberedtosing.”
