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The Storm

Scarred by loss, Irina warrior Renata has held the world at a distance. Fighting the Grigori and protecting humanity are her goals, but her heart remains frozen to the bonds of family and love. Only one scribe, Maxim of Riga, has managed to see through Renata’s armor.

On the darkest night of winter, in the halls of her ancestral home, Renata is forced to face her past. Can a fierce storm and a stubborn scribe coax her back to life, or will she retreat into duty forever?

Prologue

There was no road to the old house that sat on the edge of a mountain. An old and overgrown trail was the only path. It would take over an hour to hike in the heavy winter snow of the Dolomite Mountains. Even with the superior strength and stamina granted by his angelic blood, Maxim knew he’d be exhausted by the time he found her.

He’d parked his four-wheel drive in the closest town, cautiously following the directions of an old librarian a few villages farther south. Chasing rabbit trails to dead ends was commonplace at this point in his search, but Max knew he only needed one more piece of the puzzle.

He’d finally found a name for her hiding place.Ciasa Fatima.

It had taken him eighteen years to find that name. Eighteen years of lies and misdirection. Eighteen years of frustration. At this point, he didn’t know if he wanted to find her from longing or sheer spite.

The librarian who gave him the name of the house was an ancient Ladin man who’d lived his entire life in Southern Tyrol and claimed to know the house Max was looking for. Once it had been the house of a great family, he claimed. They had a library to rival the duke’s! Strange people would come and go. Soldiers and noblemen. Beautiful women and visitors from foreign lands. There were stories and legends galore.

Then two hundred years ago, everything went quiet. There were no more visitors. No caravans or dignitaries. One hundred years passed before signs of life emerged.

These days, the house was rented out to discreet and very private travelers in the summer. No one knew how it was listed, and it couldn’t be an easy place to stay. There was no electricity running up the mountain and probably no running water. But the meadows that surrounded it were worth the hike. The view, the old man remembered, was breathtaking.

In the winter, of course, it was vacant. No one wanted to brave the snow and ice of the cold Tyrolean winter on their own, especially not on a mountain slope like the one around Ciasa Fatima.

Except during the winter solstice.

For a few weeks in the middle of winter, villagers claimed that smoke came from the chimneys and lights glittered on the mountain. Whoever stayed at Ciasa Fatima didn’t come down into the village.

This did not surprise Max.

There was no one better at hiding than Renata.

* * *

Max crestedthe last hill and stopped to breathe, making a note that high-altitude training was an area of his fitness that could be improved. He’d become accustomed to the lazy heat and balmy sea air of Istanbul.

Perhaps there was a spell he could conjure for increased lung capacity. Maxim of Riga was an Irin scribe, and though most of his duties consisted of gathering strategic information for his watcher and other allies across the globe, he was still an accomplished practitioner of magic. All scribes had to be in order to wield the power granted to them by their angelic forefathers. Male Irin harnessed their magic by writing. Female Irina used their voices.

For scribes, the most permanent spells—those for increased strength, stamina, eyesight, speed, and long life—were tattooed on their skin in intricatetalesmunique to each warrior. Max had tattooed more than most, caught for years in a friendly rivalry with his cousin Leo. Both of them were young for their race at a little over two hundred years old, but they were massive men with intense focus who had spent the majority of their lives surrounded only by warriors. With a single brush of his thumb, Max could activate a dense web of magic on his skin, giving him a coat of living armor.

But none of that armor helped when it came to tracking down one elusive Irina.

The hike had taken twice as long as he’d anticipated, and darkness had already descended on the mountain. It didn’t interrupt the grandeur of the view.

The house beyond the snow-covered meadow was just as the old man had described. A typical Ladin house, almost a perfect square of solid architecture that could withstand the fiercest storm. It was backed up to the mountain slope, possibly built into it. The bottom story was stone and plaster, the top was weather-aged wood. It was in good repair from the steep-sloped roof to the large porch that wrapped around the second story. Two outbuildings stood to the side—a low stone cottage and a larger barn that looked like it had once been a dairy.

Max started toward the house, breaking a path through two feet of solid snow. He could see lights in the distance; it was dark, and he was freezing cold. The chimney smoked, promising warmth if he could just make the last frozen yards.

A storm was coming in, and Max couldn’t stop his smile. He couldn’t have timed it better if he’d tried.

* * *

He beat on the door,but no one answered. “Renata!”

Nothing but silence, though he could hear someone inside.

“I know you’re in there, and it’s freezing out here. If you want me to keep the ass you seem so fond of, then you’d better let me in.”

Still nothing.