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.