“He’s found her doctor in Tel Aviv, but there’s no record of that man referring any patients to a Dr. Sadik in Turkey. Or any doctor in Turkey, for that matter.”
Damien grunted again. “You two trust your computers too much. You think just because it isn’t written in some electronic cloud, it cannot exist? Not everything is written, you know. Especially if this does have something to do with the Grigori. They would know better than to leave a record.”
“Her doctor is not Grigori. I’ve seen him. And all his staff are women.”
Damien nodded. Both men finished their tasks and walked out of the ritual room, which remained unlocked and open unless a scribe sealed it to mark talesm.
“I want you to patrol tonight,” the watcher said. “I’ll put Leo to watch the girl.”
“Leo?” Malachi instantly felt mutinous. “Leo is too young.”
“He’s over two hundred years old, brother.” Damien smirked. “How old do you think he needs to be to watch a tourist sleep in a hotel and go out to dinner? She won’t even see him; make sure you’re ready to fight tonight. I don’t like any of us to go too long without battle.”
Malachi wanted to object but knew it was useless. Damien ran the scribe house; his word was final when it came to matters of safety or strategy. Though he deferred to Malachi or Rhys on occasion because of their age, he didn’t have to.
“Fine.” He walked to his room, wishing he’d gotten better rest the night before.
Damien called out, “She’s human. How much trouble could she attract in one night?”
Malachi watched the edge of the water where the waves crashed up against the embankment as a giant freighter glided through the narrowest part of the Bosphorus. It was a normal sunny day along the water, so why was his mood so dark?
“What’s with you today?” Ava nudged her foot against his knee. She was relaxed again. The change in her temperament would last for a few days after each appointment before the agitation would start again. It was a curious cycle, but one he couldn’t question more without arousing suspicion. He caught the tip of her shoe in his hand, pinching her toe under the leather before he released it. Another curious thing. He found himself finding ways to touch her without contact with her skin. A brush of arms as they passed each other. A hand on the small of her back as they walked through a crowd. It was fleeting and probably unwise, but he couldn’t resist.
He didn’t really want to.
He frowned when he realized he’d never answered her question. “I’m fine.”
“You’re being all broody, Mal.”
He muttered, “I really wish you’d stop calling me that.”
Ava picked up her glass of tea and sipped before she answered. “It’s good to want things… Mal.”
He couldn’t help it; she made him smile. He shook his head, relieved that she hadn’t wanted to do anything more strenuous than stroll along the waterfront and shop a bit. She’d bought an embroidered purse for her mother, earrings and a scarf for herself. The earrings were so long they almost brushed her bare shoulders, and the scarf held her hair back, its colors vivid against her dark curls. He felt it again, the pull to put his hands on her. To stroke the skin where the jewelry touched. To pull the scarf from her hair.
They’d retired to a café, one of Malachi’s favorites, to drink tea and grab a quick bite to eat. Bread and cold salads covered the table, a mezze platter of eggplant and yogurt and the spicy tomato salad she loved. Black olives and oil-soaked cheese. Ava tore off a piece of bread and dipped it, still tapping her foot against his.
“Have you always fidgeted?” he asked.
“Yes. My mom says it’s the reason I’m so thin. Couldn’t keep still if my life depended on it.”
“Even though you eat constantly.”
“Hey, you burn through a lot of energy when you contain this much awesome.” She winked, but the smile on her lips held a trace of bitterness.
He fell silent again, thinking about going out on patrol that night. He wondered why Damien was insisting on it. The watcher hardly needed to worry about Malachi being battle-ready. He’d done almost nothing but fight for over two hundred years. First in Germany, where his parents had been killed, then in Rome for a time. Buenos Aires. Chicago. Johannesburg. Atlanta. He’d traveled the world, killing the Grigori who had slaughtered his family, then others—any others—he could find. He’d become known for his quick, brutal killing style and relentless drive. He was focused and disciplined in battle, though reckless regarding his own safety. Nothing and no one came between Malachi and his target once his sights were set.
Her foot just kept tapping…
Hot tea spilled on his pants.
“Oops!” Ava laughed. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine.” He picked up a napkin, dabbing at the tea as he watched her from the corner of his eye.
She was jiggling her foot, tapping it to the rhythm of the street musician playing on the corner. The woman burst with life, more than any human woman he’d ever met. When Malachi looked at her sometimes, he wondered how her skin could even contain her personality. Her eyes might have held pain and exhaustion at times, but her body was in constant motion.
For a moment, he reveled in the fantasy that she had enough energy even for his touch.
Fingers linked. Arms wrapping around her slight frame. Drawing her to his chest as his mouth descended to her skin. Laying his rough cheek to the satin of hers. Pressing his lips to her neck. The curve of her jaw. Her lips. Feeling the pulse of life seep into his skin. Her fingers digging into his neck. Gripping his hair at the nape. The touch of her mouth to his.
The touch…
He banished the rebellious thoughts, disgusted with himself. He was no better than a Grigori.
“Hey,” she whispered, her own cheeks flushed as if she shared his thoughts. “Malachi, where did you just go?”
He blinked and looked up. Nothing had distracted him in two hundred years.
Who was he kidding?
He swiped a quick hand over his face and shook his head to clear it. “Sorry. Didn’t sleep well last night.”
“And then I dragged you out.”
“It’s fine, Ava.” He grabbed an orange from a dish on the table, letting the bitter spray from the peel wake him. “I’m just a little tired.”
“We could head back,” she said. “And don’t you have some kind of backup? I mean, not that I don’t prefer your company, but surely you have someone who can… fill in for you, or something. If you’re sick?”
It was the perfect opportunity. Leo was scheduled to take over for him tonight. Damien was confident Ava wouldn’t even notice the younger scribe watching her, but Malachi wasn’t convinced. After all, the woman had spotted a Grigori stalking her through a crowded market; he doubted a six-foot behemoth with a mane of blond hair would be hard to pluck out of the crowd. “I… uh… I do have someone, as a matter of fact. His name is Leo. He’s very reliable. Maybe I’ll call him.”
She reached out to pat his hand, but Malachi tensed before she paused and drew back. “That’s a good idea. I’m wearing you out.”
“You’re fine, Ava. I don’t mind.”
“No, I do it to everyone.” Her face had fallen back into its polite mask. He could practically feel her withdrawing. “It’s… fine. You should call your friend. Take a break from me.”
He didn’t want to take a break from her. Leaving her with Leo seemed like an even worse idea than it had only a minute before. Her mask was an open wound to him. The confident, energetic woman was gone, replaced by a cool, carefully contained stranger.
“Ava.” He waited until she finally looked at him again. “I enjoy spending time with you. It’s no chore. You’re intelligent. Funny. I like that you’re so curious about everything. And it’s my privilege to show you around Istanbul.” He allowed himself to smile. “Besides, it makes my job easier when I can keep you within grabbing distance.”
Not that I could actually grab you w
ithout hurting you.
The sadness behind her eyes still didn’t flee, but her mouth turned up at the corner. “You, too. Well, not the grabbing-distance thing. You probably don’t want that.”
You have no idea.
He cleared his throat. “Better keep it professional, Ms. Matheson.”
She took another bite of bread. “Absolutely… Mal.”
The narrow street stunk of urine and rotten meat. Malachi and Rhys stalked the edges of the city where the Grigori preyed. Here, a missing girl would go unnoticed. Her family might worry, or they might not. But either way, these were the people the authorities ignored. Missing girls from this neighborhood were quickly forgotten. Girls who appeared mysteriously pregnant were hidden or sent away, even killed by family members convinced the girl had brought dishonor on herself. Foolish humans.
The Grigori didn’t care.
Damien had heard police reports of girls going missing in this neighborhood. It was possible the monsters had found a new hunting ground.
Malachi saw Rhys’s shoulders angle toward a dark alley.
“Hmm?” They spoke as little as possible on patrol.
A nod was his only answer. Malachi saw Rhys trace the characters along his wrist, calling on his magic. Malachi copied the action. Within seconds, he felt the power creep up his arm, crawl over his shoulders, then down his back. In the time it took him to draw a silver dagger, his vision sharpened; the black became grey. His arms flexed with new strength. His skin pulsed with a web of incantations that made him impervious to human weapons.
Malachi followed Rhys into the alley, alert to his surroundings as his brother focused on a point in the darkness. He heard the scribe utter a soft oath in the Old Language, then he ran and fell to his knees, pulling on gloves before he lifted the broken figure on the ground, making sure his skin didn’t brush hers for fear of further harm.
“Too late,” Rhys muttered as he stood and started walking. “It’s Grigori, and from her condition, he hasn’t been gone long. Do you sense anything?”
“No smell. Not even a hint.” A seductive smell of sandalwood usually followed Grigori attacks. Malachi followed the other scribe as he rushed back toward the street. “Is she alive?”
“Barely.”
As they approached the street lights, Malachi got a better look at the victim. She appeared to be no more than sixteen or seventeen. Her skin was pale and her breathing shallow. The young woman’s torn clothing was traditional but new. He saw Rhys’s gloved thumb brush her cheek.
“A child.” The raw fury bubbled under the surface of the quiet man’s voice. “She’s a little girl, Malachi.”
“They don’t care.”
Grigori soldiers seduced mercilessly, using their otherworldly charm and beauty to convince a human woman to give them the soul-energy they craved. The women went willingly, joyfully, never aware of the magic that drew them. And when the monsters were finished, they left, the female but a forgotten moment of sexual gratification in their centuries-long lives.
Dead. Unconscious. Drained of their most vital energy, most humans didn’t survive an encounter with a Grigori. The rare one who did was often impregnated by the monster. If the survivor was lucky, she would live to bear a very gifted child, one who bore an echo of his or her otherworldly parentage. It was a cruel twist that had resulted in some of history’s geniuses. Diluted Grigori blood was laced through the human population, like a black thread through a colorful tapestry.
“Call Maxim,” Rhys said. “See if his friend’s clinic is open tonight.”
Malachi pulled out his phone as Rhys walked back toward the Range Rover they’d parked under the brightest light on the main road. A few curtains flickered, but at two in the morning, not even the nosiest Turk would ask what the two imposing men were doing with the woman they carried. Malachi opened the back door and Rhys slid the unconscious girl inside.
They couldn’t take her to a hospital. The human doctors would have no idea how to help her, and her family might be contacted. There wasn’t much that could be done except rest, fluids, and oxygen. If the young woman survived, she wouldn’t even realize she’d been attacked. Most Grigori survivors went searching for their attackers, convinced they had experienced an act of the purest love imaginable. Often, they became obsessed.
The phone kept ringing with no answer. Eventually, Maxim’s voicemail picked up.
“Max, we have a girl here,” he said softly. “Grigori attack. She’s alive. Young. Call us. We need to take her to your friend’s clinic.”
Only a few humans in Istanbul knew of the existence of the scribes. Maxim’s doctor friend was one. He was discreet, and he and his wife did their best to help any girls who survived Grigori attacks. As they crept slowly through the neighborhood, Malachi rolled his window down. The summer night was cooler, and a breeze blew off the water. Turning a corner, he caught a whiff of the telltale incense.
“Rhys!”
“I smell it.” He slowed the car at the corner, glancing between Malachi and the girl in the back. “We’ve got to get her to the hospital. She’s dehydrated. Her breathing is shallow, and—”
“You go.” Malachi wrenched the door open. “I’ll go after the bastard.”
“Be careful,” Rhys yelled, but he didn’t try to stop him. It would take more than a single Grigori to worry any of their kind. Even a small group of them was considered no more than an annoyance. Their greater numbers were all that made them a threat. Still, Malachi was careful. It was miscalculation of Grigori strength and cunning that had led to the horror of the Rending.
He paused on a deserted corner, closing his eyes to take a breath and trace a few more temporary spells on his forearm. Magic not inscribed on the body would fade in time, but it was enough to give him a quick burst of strength. Just as he finished one set, he caught the scent again, but stronger. The Grigori was coming toward him.
Malachi grinned and ducked behind the corner of the building, a small café that was struggling to remain respectable in the crumbling neighborhood. He could see the graffiti that had been painted over, layers of it, rising to his eyes as the magic flowed through him.
Curses and political slogans. There was an advertisement for Coca-Cola that had been painted over many, many times. Still, the words drifted up, as if reaching for him through the years. In a city like Istanbul, every building held ghostly writing only an Irin scribe would see. Words through the ages, ever and always visible to his kind.
Their gift. Their curse.
The smell of sandalwood and a seductive laugh.
“I will get in trouble,” the girl protested weakly. “I don’t… No, it’s fine. I…I don’t care.”
“Of course you don’t.” The monster had his arm thrown around the young woman, who looked up at the handsome man adoringly. He was European; sandy-blond hair gleamed under the streetlights. His accent sounded German.
“Your voice,” the woman whispered. “It’s so beautiful.”
“I know.” He gave her a wicked smile. “Do you love me?”
“Yes,” she breathed out. “Say my name.”
“I don’t know your name,” Malachi heard the man say as he led her to an alley just as filthy as the one they’d rescued the last girl from. He watched them, waiting to see if the Grigori was alone. Often, they would hunt in pairs or even small packs. This one appeared to be alone.
“Is this all right?”
“Yes. Touch me. Please… kiss me again.”
Unwilling to wait another moment, Malachi sprang from behind the building, his dagger ready. He rushed into the alley and grabbed the man’s shoulder. Spun him around, only to be met with a silver dagger gleaming in the grey light.
With a grunt, the scribe fell back.
It was a trap.
“You must be the one they call Malachi,” the Grigori said with a leer. “We haven’t met.”
“No need to introduce yourself,” Malachi said softly as the two men began to circle each other. “I�
�ll be killing you soon.” If the Grigori had been carrying an ordinary weapon, Malachi wouldn’t have hesitated. His talesm were a living, pulsing armor around his body. But something told him that the Grigori’s blade wasn’t an average dagger. It shone with a dark metallic gleam.
“I’m sure that would usually be true,” the other man said. “I could barely sense you. Your concealment charms must be older than me.”
The Grigori was old. Malachi hadn’t examined the man when he’d been walking down the street, but on closer inspection, Malachi sensed his opponent’s age. His scent was deep, not like the lighter scent of a young soldier. His green eyes were calculating. And now that he had drawn Malachi in, he had no interest in the woman, even kicking her away when she tried to cling to the man’s legs, desperate for his touch.
“Please,” she begged. “I beg—” She cried out when the Grigori flung her into the wall.
He was stronger than the young ones. If Malachi had to guess, he’d say the Grigori was almost as old as Rhys.
Which meant he had taken part in the Rending.
Malachi snarled, curling his lip as the realization struck. As if reading his mind, the other man grinned, watching Malachi with taunting eyes.
“I have killed your kind, Scribe. But please feel free to underestimate me for a while longer. That will suit my plans perfectly.”
He was speaking in puzzles. Malachi lunged to the right, taking the man off-balance as he tossed the dagger to his left hand and reached around, trying to pierce the base of the Grigori’s skull.
His opponent ducked and countered. The blade slashed along Malachi’s stomach, sizzling as it hit the protective spells. Malachi’s skin held… then split open with a hiss.
It was no ordinary blade. The Grigori carried an angelic weapon.
His mocking laugh echoed off the walls. “I do love that look of surprise! When was the last time you saw one of these out of Irin hands?”
Malachi grunted as he sucked in the pain, weaving it into the fabric of his armor as he shifted and hooked his ankle around the other man’s knee, sweeping his foot out from under him and causing the man to stumble back. The blade clattered away.
The Scribe Page 7