The Secret

by Elizabeth Hunter

  Kostas said, “Can I speak now?”

  “Yes. And to answer what you’re probably wondering, no, there are no guards in this section. They would be redundant. Magic protects each of these doors. This corridor”—he spread his arms out—“leads to Mikhael’s armory. The armory holds all the heaven-forged weapons the Irin have collected over the years. It has seven doors that correspond to the seven cardinal archangels. Malachi and I would go through Mikhael’s door, except it is guarded against any Irin who does not have the password.”

  “What happens if you just try to break it down?” Kostas asked. “Could we get out fast enough?”

  “It wouldn’t matter if we flew. If we attempt to breach it without the password, these blood-spells would turn my own magic against me. The more powerful the scribe, the more dangerous the attempt. For someone my age, it would probably be deadly. For someone of Malachi’s power, it would be debilitating. Even a child with his mother’s magic would be harmed.”

  Malachi looked at Kostas and suddenly realized Damien’s plan. It was ingenious. Or insane.

  Kostas said, “I have no written magic. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

  “You have natural magic, so it’s not going to be painless,” Damien said. “But it shouldn’t kill you. The trick is finding out which door to enter. These spells were written specific to the Forgiven. Though our blood is mixed after so many generations, we all draw our magic from one cardinal in our background.”

  Malachi frowned. “And those with no cardinal in their blood?”

  “It’s rare, but if you found an Irin with no cardinal blood, he wouldn’t be able to open a door.”

  “So it might just kick Kostas out?”

  “Possibly. Or… kill him. I’m honestly not sure what will happen.” Damien gave him a helpless shrug. “There is no way to break the magic. We can only hope to step around it somehow.”

  “And if I don’t try it?” Kostas asked.

  “Then we don’t have any heaven-forged weapons. We will never kill an angel without a heaven-forged blade.”

  “Fine,” Kostas said. “I will try this on two conditions. I claim one of these weapons for myself.”

  “Fine.”

  “And I will hear your vow—either of you, I don’t care—that you will kill my father.”

  Damien and Malachi were both silent.

  “Why?” Malachi finally asked. “Your father appears to be acting with us. As an ally.”

  “I don’t care,” Kostas said. “I cannot kill him. And until he is dead, I will not be free. Nor will my sister.”

  “But Kostas—”

  “You have never lived as another’s slave,” the Grigori said with terror and rage battling in his eyes. “You do not know. I will have Kyra free of him, or I will walk out of here, find my sister, and you will never see us again.”

  “Done,” Damien said. “Though I will pick the time. We cannot afford to lose an ally before we win the battle.”

  Kostas paused. “Fine. But I am not willing to wait years.”

  “You will not have to.”

  “Damien!”

  “It is done, brother.” Damien put his hand on Malachi’s shoulder. “I will kill Barak, or I will die in the effort. Would you do less to kill Volund and free your woman from his power?”

  No. Malachi knew that while Jaron might leave Ava alone for sentimental reasons he could not fathom, Volund would only use her.

  “So,” Malachi said. “We don’t have three angels to kill, we have five. Lovely.”

  AVA’S eyes were starting to cross from the tangle of voices on the floor. Debates were already happening as elders fought over the issue of compulsion. It was the only thing anyone wanted to talk about, even though Rafael, the elder from South America, had tried to bring up the growing violence in Vienna and the rest of Europe.

  “I cannot condone this council’s disregard for the evidence of violence growing daily against humans in our own city,” he finally shouted, rising to his feet. “I had hoped—”

  “You had hoped the elder singers would rush to support your concern for the humans,” Konrad said, “though they have as little interest in it as the rest of us.”

  “Humans have always been violent toward each other,” Edmund, the elder from England, said. “We protect them from the Grigori, but that is the extent of our mandate. It is not our job to hunt human predators.”

  “These are Grigori attacks,” Rafael said.

  Anurak, the Asian elder, said, “The evidence from the watcher in Oslo and Barcelona is compelling. But I see no evidence of Grigori here. There has been no Grigori attack in Vienna for a hundred years at least.”

  Ava leaned over to Sari. “How much longer do we keep our mouths shut?”

  “Wait.”

  Abigail spoke up. “I have seen evidence of Grigori attacks. Even in Vienna, I have seen this. Those of you living too long in the city forget how devious our enemies can be. Do you think the sons of the Fallen will be so obvious?”

  “Do not look to the headlines,” Daina said. “Look to the stories the humans do not tell. It is the humans no newspaper will note that the Grigori target. And those people are missing in our city.”

  Silence fell over the Library. No one could discount an Irina elder of Daina’s age and experience, and no one wanted to disagree with Abigail, either.

  “If this is true,” Jerome said carefully, “these attacks are even more evidence that the best place to protect our families is within guarded retreats.”

  The Library floor erupted in groans.

  “This is not about compulsion,” Abigail shouted. “You force your agenda—”

  “We no longer have the luxury of debate,” Rasesh said. “If the Grigori are upon us, we must take action to protect our most vulnerable.”

  “Who is vulnerable?” Gita, the central Asian singer, asked. “Me? Because it has been the singers of my region who stabilized the human population there after the Grigori erupted in violence over the death of their sire. The singers, not the scribes.”

  Rasesh stood. “You speak of an isolated incident—”

  “The singers in Africa have been active for at least fifty years,” Kanti said with a shrug. “The Grigori are on the decline because of it.”

  “Exactly.” Konrad sounded bored. “Where are they? I see no Grigori. No Fallen. Our city is safe.”

  Ava frowned when the cacophony started to die.

  Konrad stood up, emboldened by the sudden quiet. “With the return of the Irina Council, our enemies must know we are stronger than ever. We draw from the power of both halves of our race now. We can begin to rebuild our society. Why would the Grigori…”

  He died off when he heard a low clapping sound.

  Ava looked up to see where everyone’s heads were pointing.

  Vasu.

  The angel was sitting on the railing of the balcony just below the organ pipes, slowly clapping with a wide grin on his face.

  When he saw everyone’s attention on him, he spread his hands. “Why do you stop? This is very entertaining.”

  DAMIEN, Kostas, and Malachi stared at the row of blood-stained doors.

  “The Fallen have cardinals too,” Kostas said. “Though only six were believed to be living, we know that’s not true now. My father is one of them. Jaron and Volund are as well. Many of them have the same gifts as the Forgiven, and I am of Barak’s blood.”

  Malachi nodded. “His purpose in heaven?”

  “Barak was a guardian of the realm before he fell. He listened for unspoken threats. His gift is hearing.”

  Damien’s eyes were sharp. “And you hear as he does?”

  “Some.” Kostas shrugged. “In bits and pieces. I have no control over the ability, but the magic is there.”

  “Hearing…,” Damien murmured. “Malachi?”

  “I say Gabriel’s door,” he said. “Irin in Gabriel’s line have unusual skill in reading, but Irina of Gabriel’s line can hear beyond the
normal range. I’d guess Barak’s magic is most closely associated with Gabriel.”

  “I’d guess the same.”

  Kostas said, “And I dislike the word guess. But I suppose it’s worth a shot. Which door is Gabriel’s?”

  Malachi pointed to the second closest to the main passageway. The spellwork was complex. Layer upon layer of it, written in the black-red that marked them as blood-spells. For the Irin, blood mixed with ash from a sacred fire produced an ink of unmatched power. Indeed, it was the mix of blood and ash in their talesm that made the spells written on their body most potent. For written spellwork, you couldn’t get more dangerous than a blood-spell.

  And this blood-spell would turn a scribe’s own magic against him. The more powerful, the more deadly.

  Kostas stood in front of the door and took a deep breath. “What do I do?”

  “Open it,” Damien said quietly. “Just turn the knob.”

  The brass doorknob sparked when Kostas put his linen-covered hand on it. Malachi could almost see the slither of magic crawl up his arm, twining and testing the creature who dared touch it. Kostas’s jaw tensed, but he did not break contact or cry out.

  “It feels like a snake tearing through my innards,” he forced out the words through gritted teeth. “How long?”

  “I don’t know,” Damien said, carefully keeping his distance from the Grigori.

  “What is it doing?” Kostas cast them a sidelong glance.

  “It’s testing you. I think. Trying to find where you belong.”

  “Good luck then,” the man groaned out. “I don’t belong anywhere.”

  He wasn’t sure if the other man heard when Damien whispered, “I’m counting on it.”

  Malachi saw Kostas’s knees buckle, so he stepped forward, only to have his watcher’s arm throw him back.

  “Don’t touch him.”

  “He’s falling.”

  “But he’s not letting go.”

  It was true. Though Kostas was on his knees, his hand had not dropped from the doorknob. The brass glowed red-hot, and the spells on the doorway slithered over each other, ancient blood rising to life to take its turn testing the strange creature attempting to breach the passageway. The spells moved like living creatures, sliding closer to the doorknob and then slipping away after Kostas’s body gave another jerk. Over and over, hundreds of years of blood-spells attacked the foreign intruder.

  After more minutes than Malachi wanted to count, the crawling spells slowed. Kostas’s body was still jerking, but he hadn’t let go. His eyes were glazed over, and sweat soaked through his linen wrappings.

  “How much longer?” he whispered.

  Damien knelt down next to him. “Hold on, brother. When I tell you, you will give the command to open.”

  “Command…?”

  “Luoh,” Damian said quietly. “Say it now, Kostas. Luoh.”

  “Luoh,” Malachi whispered along as Kostas groaned the old command.

  With a heavy sigh, the reluctant door to the armory swung open.

  THE whole Library stared at Vasu for silent seconds before the guards stationed at the foot of the stairs cried out and threw silver daggers at the angel.

  Vasu simply disappeared and reappeared, now hanging on the tallest organ pipe. “That’s not going to work,” he said. “But do keep trying if you like.”

  Scribes across the gallery began leaping to the ground, some rushing toward the balcony, others running toward the singers’ gallery where Irina had begun to chant over Vasu’s laughter. Ava felt the terror in the air.

  “What do we do?” she shouted at Sari while trying to shield Kyra from the wave of panic taking over the room.

  “I don’t know!” Sari looked across the Library, probably searching for Damien, but Ava had just looked and neither Malachi nor Damien were anywhere to be found.

  “I think we need to—”

  “Stop.”

  A single word froze the crowd, the room, and everything in it. Knives hung suspended in the afternoon sun. Papers rested in midair. Two scribes froze, their leap from the gallery halted by a single command from the one being Ava had never expected to see in the heart of the Irin Council chambers.

  Jaron stood before the crowd, not hovering over them as Vasu did, but standing among them, a creature of such frightening glory that Ava heard some begin to weep. He made no attempt to veil himself. He had become giant. A creature of majesty and power, terrifying and beautiful at the same time.

  “I am Jaron,” he said, and though his voice was quiet, it filled every corner of the Library. “You will cease.”

  Silver daggers frozen in the air dropped to the ground. Papers fell, as did the scribes. But though Ava saw them moving, the violence had halted.

  In the space of a heartbeat, another angel appeared. If Jaron’s harsh features reminded Ava of a bird of prey, this being was a wolf. Silver-black hair hung thick around his face, and though his eyes were a glowing gold, his face reminded Ava of a winter lake. Calm and frozen.

  Kyra let out a breath. “Father.”

  So this was Barak. He angled his head up to the singers’ gallery. Kyra stepped forward, and Barak held up his hand.

  But it wasn’t only Barak who spoke.

  With one voice, the two angels said, “Daughter, come.”

  It wasn’t even a question. Jaron spoke, and Ava moved toward him. She and Kyra walked toward the top of the stairs, as the Irina around them whispered furiously and parted the crowd.

  “No!” Sari shouted, trying to grab both of their arms.

  “He lied,” Ava whispered. Jaron had told her he couldn’t command her, but she couldn’t stop. She kept walking while Kyra wept, and Ava realized for the first time what the compulsion of the Grigori felt like.

  Such exquisite torture.

  Because nothing in this world, not the love of her mate or the strength of her will, could stop Ava from following Kyra down the stairs. Part of her didn’t want to, but the other part wanted nothing else. Her eyes locked with Jaron’s, and he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She would do anything for him.

  “No,” Jaron said. “You will not.”

  She couldn’t turn her head to look at Kyra, but she could hear the kareshta weeping, even as Barak made soothing noises to his child.

  “I’m sorry,” Kyra kept saying. “Forgive me, Father. I’m sorry.”

  “I do not want your sorrow,” a tired voice came. “I never did, child.”

  When Ava reached Jaron, he turned her to face the crowd.

  “This,” he began, his solemn voice filling the room, “is the daughter of my blood.” He put his hands on Ava’s shoulders, and her mating marks lit under his power. “Wholly mated to a son of the Forgiven.”

  Ava felt every eye in the Library focus on her. She wanted to shrink, but there was nowhere to go. She wanted to hide, but Jaron would never let her. Whatever his purpose had been in keeping her safe, she knew it was for this moment.

  “For thousands of years, we have hidden them,” Barak said. “But no more. Your enemies gather while you argue over petty human concerns.”

  Jaron said, “Our sons took your daughters, so this day, we give you ours.”

  Ava saw the singers around the room flinch.

  “Thousands of years they have lingered in hiding. Some killed by the hands of their brothers or fathers. Some mad with the voices you have managed to conquer.” Jaron spoke to the gathered elder singers. “Find them and protect them. Add the strength of their blood to the wisdom of yours. Do this, and we will enact vengeance for the crimes against you.”

  Daina bravely took a step forward. “Why?”

  “Volund approaches. He has made allies, even within your own ranks. If you are to wipe this enemy from the earth, you must stop fighting. You have been given the wisdom of the Forgiven. Use it for more than your own interests. Protect these vulnerable, and you will be our allies.”

  Jerome said, “We want no help from the Fallen.”

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nbsp; Anurak stood. “Do not speak for those who have been silent, brother. What do you propose, Angel?”

  “An alliance for now. Volund’s sons linger at your gates. Grimold’s get already walk among you. Walk outside and see what your city has become.”

  Ava looked at Sari, who rushed from the gallery along with several of the scribes from the opposite sides of the room.

  Muttering and whispers filled the Library as Ava felt the eyes of the Irin fix on her and Kyra. She reached out for the other woman’s hand, feeling her panic.

  “Ava,” Jaron said, leaning down till his mouth was at her ear. “It is time to show them.”

  “Show them what?”

  “I show you what was has been, what will be, and what could be. Do not fear the darkness. Sing.”

  The vision rushed into her mind so quickly Ava knew she was only a conduit between the angel and the audience. Her mouth opened and song poured out. It was not the deliberate poetry she had studied, but a raw rush of tone and emotion. She didn’t even recognize the words she spoke. In an instant, she saw the whole of Jaron’s vision, and the scales fell from her eyes.

  Two dark-haired children with golden eyes. A girl, laughing as butterflies swirled around her. A boy staring back at her with his father’s petulance. An ink-black jaguar curled around the children protectively as a wolf and a tiger paced behind. The tiger bent to the girl, opening his mouth. The great beast closed his jaw around her nape as she continued to smile and pet its cheek.

  Behind the delicate tableau, a great circle rose in the sky. A sun twisted with gold and silver. Higher and higher it rose until the moon covered its brilliance. In the sudden flash of darkness, a million scattered points of light became visible in the heavens, dancing tremulously in concert to a gathering song.

  A bird of prey called as the darkness passed, its scream shattering the song of the stars. The jaguar leapt. It reached into the sky until its arms became the wings of an eagle that crashed into the attacking bird in the light of a blood-red eclipse. They battled, tearing each other’s flesh as ash and blood rained down on a city of stones. Turning and twisting, the two battled higher as the wolf below howled and the tiger leapt on the jackals that were laughing in the barren streets.