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"I didn’t say I intended to touch it." His gaze slid to her. "You misunderstand why I'm here."

"Then quit being cryptic about it." Izzy circled wide to flank him. Her sgian dubh was in her hand, and she was ready to fight. "You said something's been calling. Calling who? You?"

"Not me alone." His attention stayed on Sarah as he answered the vampire princess. "It has been calling for a new Scribe for a long time. I felt the moment you answered. I imagine I was not the only one who did."

Abraxos’s wings bristled behind his back, knocking one of the bookshelves into the wall. "You felt it? From where?"

"Far enough that it took me most of a day to reach you." The stranger's mouth pulled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Which should tell you how loud it was, warrior. If you're wondering."

Sarah's stomach dropped. Touching that relic had been a very bad idea. Why the hell had she ignored Nana’s edicts and done it? "Who are you," she began, "and what do you want with my books?"

"My name is Ithuriel." The gold lines under his skin dimmed, and his shoulders dropped a fraction. It was almost as if speaking his name had cost him energy he didn't have.

"What are you?" Izzy blurted before Sarah could ask. She was grateful for the vampire princess’s direct nature. "You're not a demon or an angel. You have no wings. What does it say on your birth certificate?"

"I was born of ink, blood, and old magic strong enough to bind all three into something that could think, breathe, and bleed. The first Scribes aren't like your kind, Sarah Morgan. We were called into being to do a job that no angel or demon could be trusted to finish honestly. I am not alive the way your warrior is alive. I haven't been for a very long time. What's left of me exists because I have a job to finish."

"What does that mean?" Sarah asked. "What job? And what do you mean by the ones who answered?"

"I am the first Scribe," Ithuriel told her. "I was created by the magic of your ancestor as the ink in that book finished drying the first time. I was given a job to do to ensure your bloodline is able to take over this position safely and effectively."

"Bull." Donovan barked from next to Izzy as he took a step forward. "Amelia told Elsie the First Scribe was Sarah's ancestor. A woman who wrote half that book in her own blood before it killed her. That's not you."

Something moved across Ithuriel's face. It was close to a wince, if a face made of parchment could manage one. "The woman to whom your friend was referring created me. She earned that title because she was protecting me. She created several more to hold the position and live long enough to pass it down her bloodline rather than the power being lost outright. There were a dozen of us once."

"So, there was a whole club, and you’re not out to get her." Izzy waved her blade as she spoke. "Sarah's supposed to just take your word for what you are, Grandpa Scribe?"

"I am the reason there was a title left for anyone to inherit." For the first time, something sharp cut through his voice. It was old grief worn down into something closer to anger. "I gave three fingers and half my sight to the first seal we ever raised."

Sarah's mouth had gone dry somewhere in the last ten seconds. "Okay. It's clear you're not lying about being connected to this. But you are lying about being the guy." She crossed her arms. "It also doesn't tell me why you're standing in my shop like you had the address memorized."

"I am bound to respond to the call." His gold eyes dropped to her palm, to the black mark that sat there like a beacon. "It also came with a warning. I came to see the reason for both. To see what happens."

"What do you expect to happen?" Abraxos asked in a low voice that made her hair stand on end.

"I had no preconceived expectation. When warnings were issued before, we died," Ithuriel said. "Every seal strong enough to hold what sleeps under this city took a piece of whoever wrote it. There were a dozen of us when the first prison went up. And three of us by the time it was finished. Your ancestor was able to transfer the power to her bloodline with the energy created during the chaos. That's the only reason you exist to be angry at me right now."

"See, that's the part I want to argue with." Izzy closed the distance instead of backing off. Angling her blade down but not away. "Because if that's true, why isn't it anywhere in the passages? We’ve been reading through them all night and haven’t found them."

"Because she isn’t able to read it yet." Ithuriel waved a hand that she noticed was indeed missing several fingers. "It waits in ink that only answers to a hand carrying the full mark. Hers is a day old. It hasn't shown her anything yet."

Sarah crossed her arms, watching the gold lines under his skin. "Nobody's told me what being a Scribe actually means. What does the job involve? I thought I was the new Guardian. Then I started hearing I was a Scribe. Are they interchangeable? I need to understand so I know how to keep this power safe."

"A Guardian watches the seals. Protects the book. Keeps the prison's foundations from cracking." Ithuriel's attention dropped back to the brand on her palm. "A Scribe creates them, then writes them down. You can open and close them. If you're strong enough and willing to pay the price of the power.

“Your ancestors called themselves Guardians because it was safer to raise daughters who thought they were only watching a door,” he continued, “rather than daughters who knew they were the only ones who could unlock it."

Donovan's jaw tightened, something clicking into place behind his eyes. "That's the key Zander's people warned us about. Lucifer's not hunting a weapon. He's hunting a lock that can be turned."

"Yes." Ithuriel dipped his chin as his gaze shifted to the young warrior. "And I did not come here to explain that to you, though it seems no one else can. As I said, I came because I still have a task of my own to finish. It does not end until I've placed this in the Scribe's hands."

He reached into the folds of whatever passed for a coat. Sarah struggled to wrap her mind around the fact that he was alive. He was a being made of ink and old magic. He shouldn’t be walking around, let alone be able to talk to them.

He drew out something small wrapped in cloth that had darkened with age. He set it on the pedestal beside the Codex instead of offering it to her directly. He understood they would not trust him enough to place it directly in her hand.

"What is it?" Sarah didn't move toward it yet. She was wary of touching shit she didn’t understand.

"It's a stylus." Ithuriel's gaze didn't leave the small bundle. "The one I used on the first seal. It will aid your efforts. But it will not stop what writing costs you. Nothing will. Though it will keep the cost from exceeding what the seal itself demands. If left unchecked, the seals will bleed you dry. I have carried it a very long time, waiting to find out if there would ever be a Scribe powerful enough to give it to."