Old wood with intricate spellwork written in blood-ink. These were dangerous rooms.
“Here’s where things get complicated,” Damien said, turning left down one empty corridor and huffing out a frozen breath. “I have a theory. It will either work or bring down the whole of the Library Guard on us.”
“That sounds promising.”
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.”