“Yes, that’s her. That’s exactly who she is,” I agreed, then hesitated. “I never liked my name.”
“Stop complaining. Tell me your name, and you can begin the process of purification.” His next words were almost too quiet to hear. “And I can discover what happened when you were made. What failed in your creation.”
Failed in your creation.I had lived long enough not to react to casual insults, but those words cut deeper than any I’d heard on Earth.
Suddenly my limbs were freed, so I lifted a hand to cover my face. “My first memories are of when I was orphaned, and sent to work in a small abbey. The nuns spoke—when they spoke at all—in Latin.” My jaw tightened, like it didn’t want to let the word out. Not here, in this golden place. Not in front of this gorgeous, grumpy basshole who already thought I was filthy. Once he knew who I was deep down, I had a feeling I’d be unmade sooner rather than later.
“I went by Tili.” I fought back the memories of the one who had given me that nickname, my sister in that life. The brutal memories of the night when I’d tried to save Dina’s life and ended up losing not only her, but my own innocence. When I’d found the shadow voice that taught me about keeping the balance.
I stared down at my limbs. On Earth, I’d always looked innocent. After each birth, I’d grown into a girl or a young woman before I died again. Always smaller than those around me, and usually weaker. It was ironic that after all those years of my outsides not matching the festering shame and guilt I held, in Sanctuary I’d ended up showing exactly who I was to everyone.
“Some called me Tili.” A burning tear rolled down my cheek and splashed on the table, but I shook away the strange pain and continued, “But my first name… was Inutilia.”
Useless.
With that word, the small bell in Mikhail’s hand chimed a loud, sour note, like it too was ashamed of who I was deep down, at my core.
By what I’d been named by the one who had created me. Whoever that basshole might be.
CHAPTER5
Mikhail
With one word, one sound, my world shifted, the edges of what I knew to be true crumbling. To be fair, the devastation had begun moments before. When the Novice had entered my workshop, I’d felt a tremor in the walls themselves, one that seemed to ripple from somewhere outside and extend to where she stood near Arabella’s dais. More than just the all-too-common trembling from the failing gate, this felt like a portent.
Who was this muddy urchin, to fill my workshop with such a sense of unease? To steal away my usual composure? When she’d read Arabella’s name, I’d almost struck her for speaking aloud the name of my lost, broken masterpiece.
Embarrassment and grief had been constant companions ever since my great failure. But this Novice—who blithely insulted her superiors with nicknames, knew less than nothing about her calling, and was marked by more shadows than any soul I’d ever seen—had inspired anger, and something far more unusual. She’d roused my curiosity.
She’d nearly made me laugh.
How long had it been since I’d felt anything other than numb despair? A sense of vague emptiness and sorrow, as if a part of me had been carved out and was lost to me forever, though the wound had healed over long ago. In the hours since I’d met this Novice, I’d felt anger, confusion, amusement, a strange pride at her ability to speak up for herself, and a hint of curiosity at the heat in her gaze when she looked at me.
Now all of that had been displaced by shock. And a fresh wave of shame.
Names had weight, meaning. They were more than syllables; they were thought made purpose with breath. Before their first mission, I made certain each Novice was given a significant, individual name to help them with their purpose, to allow them to shine as brightly as possible and restore as much balance as they could in the time allotted.
I cared about names more than anyone else in Sanctuary, since I’d either named every Protector created in the last millennia myself, or approved of the ones my Apprentice had chosen. In fact, every important trait they possessed was one I had pressed into their soul’s core along with their naming mark, even if their physical forms were created out of my sight on Earth, when they were born as human.
I named her Inutilia. I named her Useless.
“Useless.” I breathed the word, and the small bell chimed again, in agreement. In approbation. I set it down quickly. Suddenly, the soul smut on her repulsed me even more. Because it was my responsibility.
Somehow, I’d sent a Novice to Earth with a name so unsuited that any tiny misstep would have resulted in her soul being tarnished. I’d sent her unarmed into battle. Worse, I’d burdened her with a name that predicted failure.
The mistakes she had made were mine to bear. Even if there was no way for me to take the consequences onto my own skin.
Before that moment, I would have claimed only one gross error of craftsmanship in my long lifetime, although that one was more than enough. The loss of Arabella had destroyed my best friend’s future and happiness. This new, flawed creation shook me to my core.
“So can you see why I’d actually prefer Feather?” The sharp, sweet voice tore me from my stunned horror.
“Feather?” What was she saying?
“Um, yeah, Growly Bear. My nickname. I’d like to keep it. I get the thing about names, but mine really stinks.” She sniffed at her arm. “Possibly as much as I do.”
“Nothing could stink that much,” I said absently, then felt something sting my side. A slap. I glanced at my robe. A smear of gray marked it. “Did you… Did you strike me?” I reared back. “You dared?”
Did she not understand who I was? Who she was? Gavriel had mentioned the Guides and Protectors were beginning to test their limits, bordering on disrespect when he met with the leaders, but this was unbelievable.
