Page 6 of The Storm
Rome
Midwinter
Renata watchedher mother light the candles with dead eyes. The songs that should have filled the house during the longest night of the year were absent. They hadn’t baked the honeyed bread that filled the house with warmth. They’d bought plain bread from the human bakers and hid in the small house on the outskirts of Rome.
Balien had kept them alive through the Rending, but it had not been easy. They’d fled Ciasa Fatima the same night they found the remnants of their community. They’d hidden in caves in the mountains for weeks, only coming down when runners from Vienna reached the library.
It wasn’t only their library. Irin communities around the world—even those across the ocean—had been destroyed by a burst of Grigori violence that had sprung up in the warm summer months. Northern warriors were desperately trying to reach Irin communities in the south, hoping to fortify their numbers before winter broke and Grigori attacked there too.
They’d had no word from Balien’s family. Rumors were rampant that Irina centers of learning had been hit first and fiercest. Thousands had been killed. Children were slaughtered. The girls, in particular, were hunted like animals.
“What are we celebrating?” Renata asked quietly.
“The longest night.” Her father put an arm around her mother and kissed the top of Heidi’s head. “The nights will grow shorter from this one. Light will come again. The sun will shine, and our people will recover.”
Balien didn’t speak. He rarely spoke anymore. Though he still shared Renata’s bed, they took little comfort from each other in their grief and uncertainty. Renata wished Balien was willing to go forward with their mating, but he refused until the situation had stabilized.
“It’s not safe. Mating involves a transfer of power. We will both be weaker for a time. We need to be safe before we perform the ritual.”
“It may never be safe,” she said. “Will we never be mated?”
He said nothing.
“I know you fear—”
“You don’t know what I fear,” he said. “You’ve never been in war. You don’t know the depravity the Grigori are capable of.”
“Don’t I?”
There were times when she felt him on the edge of her dreams, reaching out for her. It was the only thing that gave her hope. Though he’d marked her with his magic, they’d never claimed each other. Until they did, his walls could not be breached by her magic.
Renata reached out and took Balien’s hand, linking their fingers together. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he kissed her forehead. The simple movement brought her to tears.
Her mother sang the songs quietly. Her father read from the scrolls he’d saved from the library. But when Balien and Renata took to bed that night in the small room at the top of the narrow house, joy was a stranger to her.
“Will we ever feel happy again?” she asked. “I can’t imagine ever wanting to sing. Maybe it’s better that we don’t mate. If we mated, I might want children.” Her throat closed with emotion. “And we should not bring children into this world. Not like this.”
Balien turned to her and enclosed her in his embrace as she cried. “Your father is right,” he said, clutching her tightly. “We will smile again. We will sing again. We will recover from this, Renata.”
She had no words. His reassurances rang hollow.
“I’m sorry I have been distant.”
“You had no idea there was a threat,” she said. “You carry no guilt for their deaths, Balien. You couldn’t protect them if you didn’t know.”
Balien hugged her tighter. “How well you know me.” He cleared his throat. “If I were there—”
“Then we might all be dead,” she said. “We don’t know how many there were. They might have known you were there. They might have sent a legion of Grigori. They might have overwhelmed you, and then Mother and Father and I would all be dead.”
She felt the tension in his shoulders ease a little.
“You didn’t know, Balien. No one knew.”
“You are wise, my little librarian.”
She pinched his arm, and it was the first time in months she’d felt like smiling. “I am not little.”
“You are my delicate bird,” he said gruffly. “Flying across the hills like… You know, maybe you are not a bird. Maybe you’re my delicate goat.”
