The Scribe (2 page)

“Excellent.”

“I might not go, though.” She shrugged. “Carl and Mom get pushy about once a year, but mostly, they leave me alone. Especially now that I have Jasper’s money.”

“Jasper is your father?”

“Yeah.” A hint of a smile crept across her face. “I guess you could call him that.”

“I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I know we’ve gone over the hour—no charge, of course—but…” Asner scribbled down a name and telephone number from memory. “I do hope you’ll see my colleague. He’s in Istanbul. Have you been before?”

Ava’s eyebrows furrowed together. “No, but I’ve been told it’s beautiful, even though it’s crowded.”

“And you don’t like crowds because of the voices?”

“That and the lack of deodorant on hot days. I might check it out.” She shrugged. “Like I said, no guarantees. If I happen to be in Istanbul, I’ll look him up.”

He smiled politely and rose to his feet as she stood to gather her things: a large messenger bag, a battered camera case, a light scarf thrown around her neck to keep the dust of the city away. She grabbed the paper from Doctor Asner’s hand and had started toward the door before he spoke.

“May I ask…?”

The young woman turned, tucking a curl behind her ear before she put her sunglasses on. “You can ask whatever you want. If I don’t want to answer, I won’t.”

He frowned. “Your name—Ava—means ‘voice’ in Persian. Did you know that?”

The sunglasses hid her eyes. “Yes.”

“Who gave you your name?”

She paused. “My father did. It was the one thing he asked for. To name me Ava.”

“Do you know why?”

“No.”

“And you never asked?”

She shrugged. “Does it matter? It’s a nice name. Maybe he just liked the actress, you know?”

“Names are important.”

She smiled a little. “Good-bye, Doctor Asner. Fun chatting with you. I probably won’t see you around.”

Mikhail Asner watched her through the window as she wound through the narrow streets of Neve Tzedek and wandered north toward the city center. The slight woman with curly black hair melded into the city landscape effortlessly, a seasoned traveler accustomed to blending with her surroundings. He watched for a few more minutes, then picked up the phone, dialing a number from memory.

“You haven’t called me in some time,” said the voice on the other end.

“I found someone of interest.”

“Did you give her my number?”

“Yes.”

“Her name?”

“Ava Matheson. American.”

A notable pause followed Asner’s declaration.

The voice asked, “Will she come?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Did you tell her I could help her?”

“Of course.”

“Then she’ll come.”

Chapter One

Istanbul, Turkey

Malachi spotted the Grigori foot soldier at the edge of the bazaar. The man walked slowly through the spice market, stopping occasionally to examine wares he wouldn’t buy, scanning the crowd for…

Her.

Dark curling hair shielded her face, but her figure was slight and quick. The human woman radiated energy, even as she strolled through the cacophony of sounds, sights, and smells that careened through the market in the heart of Old Istanbul. Vendors yelled out their wares as tourists sampled the variety of spices, dried fruits, and nuts the market held, and deft boys dodged the traffic, delivering trays of dark tea.

The woman seemed to exist in her own space, blending into the colorful mosaic of the bazaar, though she spoke to no one.

Malachi’s gaze drifted away from her, back to the Grigori soldier. In his mind’s eye, he approached the man quietly, stalking him to a deserted corner before he grabbed him silently and stabbed a sharp blade into the base of his skull, killing the murderous creature and releasing its soul to face judgment. Then he melted into the crowd, another passing traveler at the crossroads of the world.

You’re reckless. Looking for trouble instead of using your head.

The voice of his last watcher mocked him, so Malachi did none of those things that morning. Instead, he fought back the instinctual rage and watched the man carefully.

The Grigori was hunting.

Casually adjusting the silver knives he wore under his shirt, Malachi tossed a few lire toward a vendor, then grabbed a small bag of roasted almonds, just another nameless tourist in the market that morning. Though he was one of the taller men in the crowd, hundreds of years had taught Malachi the art of blending into his surroundings. He followed the Grigori as the creature
followed the woman. Hunting him, hunting her. The soldier kept his distance but never let the woman stray too far ahead. There was no sense of urgency as was usually seen when a Grigori was tracking his prey. The man almost looked relaxed if one didn’t notice the dark eyes that never left the figure as she wound her way toward the courtyard that separated the bazaar from the mosque.

The man was nondescript, as the best soldiers were. Local, if he had to guess, though he’d never seen him before. But Malachi had returned to the country of his birth after hundreds of years away. It was possible one of his brothers was familiar with the soldier who was tracking the woman with such restraint.

Who was she?

Her face still obscured by her thick hair, she could have been Turkish or foreign, local or tourist. Her clothes were unremarkable, a loose pair of linen pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Modest, but not religious. The only feature that struck him as notable was the messenger bag she carried. It was expensive. Worn. A man’s bag. Once belonging to a father? A brother? It was a decidedly masculine accessory for the delicate female.

She stopped at the exit of the L-shaped building, turning back to take a picture with a small black camera, just another tourist taking in the sights. As her face lifted to the sun, he saw her features. European… with a distinct hint of something else. A common enough look in a city like Istanbul. The breeze lifted her curling hair as she raised the device and held it away from her body as she framed the entrance to the building. The Grigori stopped near a small mountain of hazelnuts and tried to ignore the eager vendor who shouted at him about a sale.

The woman paused, and with his shoulder turned away, the Grigori missed the quick glance she gave him as well as the slight shift in angle as the woman captured his image with her camera. Malachi had to smile. The clever female had spotted the tail, and she’d captured her pursuer before he could duck away. But she didn’t give Malachi notice before she turned and sped out into the sunlight just as the call to prayer began to echo through the heavy summer air.

Who was she?

The Grigori finally shook off the hazelnut vendor and turned, picking up his pursuit. Malachi continued to follow at a distance, watching him, watching her. The woman ignored the müezzin who called the faithful, stepping lightly along the crowded streets as she made her way back toward the train station. She turned right near Gülhane Park and followed the tram line up the hill, walking a few blocks before she stopped near the lobby of one of the larger hotels.

Then she stepped into the glass-fronted building and out of sight. The Grigori stopped a block away, watching for a few moments before he pulled out a mobile phone, called a number, and spoke animatedly to whoever was on the other end. After a quick conversation, the man took one last look at the hotel, then walked away, back toward the train station.

But Malachi waited. The Grigori didn’t know he had been spotted, but Malachi had seen the quick recognition on the woman’s face. She hadn’t recognized the man, but she’d known she was being watched. Perhaps, like him, she could sense it. She was more perceptive than the average human; Malachi would have to be careful. He sat down at an outdoor café to wait, ordering a tea and continuing to munch on the roasted almonds as he scanned the streets from behind black-shaded glasses and pretended to read a newspaper someone had left on the table.

A full forty-five minutes later, the woman emerged. She lingered at the entrance for a few minutes, holding a map in front of her as she scanned the streets from behind her glasses. Satisfied her follower had left, she started back up the hill.

She crossed the street, heading toward the hippodrome. The hairs on Malachi’s neck rose as he walked. The walls whispered, centuries of secrets held in the cobbled brick and marble of Byzantium. As he strolled, ancient graffiti flickered black and grey in the corner of his eye. He saw the woman pause and take a picture of an old graveyard before she kept moving. As Malachi passed, he saw a lazy cat stretching in the sun.

Who was she? And why had she attracted the attention of the Grigori that morning? More, why had the soldier not hunted her in the common way? Grigori didn’t show restraint when seducing a target. Their wicked charm was relentless. If the woman survived the encounter, she was discarded. To follow a woman so discreetly indicated some other, more enigmatic, motivation.

She walked the length of the hippodrome, past the obvious tourist traps, then turned right near a small café. Climbing up a side street, she dodged a car coming out of a parking lot as she put her map away. It looked as if she was walking into a dead-end street before she took a sudden left and disappeared. Malachi followed cautiously, hoping to not appear too conspicuous as he approached a building tented for renovation. He stopped to read a sign detailing the improvements to the structure, which housed a museum. Then he watched from the corner of his eye as the woman approached what looked like an old Ottoman house but was probably one of the many boutique hotels that had sprung up in the last few years. A discreet doorman stepped outside, opened the door, and spotted him. Without a pause, Malachi walked away.

He turned back to the hippodrome, pausing to take note of the glowing red lanterns in front of the Chinese restaurant near her hotel before he began the trek back to Galata. The woman, whoever she was, was staying at the small hotel. He’d find her again if he wanted to. As for the Grigori’s odd behavior…

He’d have to ask Damien if he’d seen anything like it before. His watcher had centuries more experience than Malachi. He might be prone to recklessness, but he knew how to use the resources he was given.

Stuffing the almonds back in his pocket, Malachi’s thoughts turned to decidedly more practical matters. With the heat of the day rising and too many salted almonds in his belly, he needed a drink. Throwing one last glance toward the wood-fronted house, he started back toward home.

He slammed the door shut on the small refrigerator.

“Doesn’t anyone buy beer besides me?” he yelled to the empty kitchen. “If you don’t buy it, you shouldn’t drink it!”

From upstairs, a faint voice came. “You spent too much time in Hamburg. You’re back in Istanbul, Mal; we drink raki.” It was Maxim, no doubt lying in bed, waiting for the city to cool before he emerged.

“Or tea,” another voice added in the same thick Russian accent. If Maxim was upstairs, so was his cousin, Leo. “Gallons of tea.”

“Oceans of it.”

“If only the Bosphorus flowed with vodka.”

“We should get the brothers in Odessa working on that…”

Damien walked into the kitchen, glancing upward as the cousins continued to rib each other. “Drink water. You’re not used to the heat yet.”

Malachi grimaced. “I’ll be fine. I was born here.”

The watcher pulled a bottle of water from a cupboard and threw it toward him, the tattoos on his bare arms rippling as he threw the plastic bottle. “But you haven’t lived here for hundreds of years. The city has grown, and that makes it hotter.”

“Anthropogenic heat,” said Rhys, walking into the kitchen from the library and holding his hand out to Damien for another bottle of water. The pale man had been sweating nonstop for three days—not surprising considering the air
conditioner had broken around that time. His dark brown hair was plastered to his forehead, and his normally pale skin was flushed. “Human activity produces heat. More humans. More heat. Not to mention climate change. Bloody humans and their automobiles will kill us all.”

Damien and Malachi exchanged amused glances. The cranky British scholar was constantly nostalgic for preindustrial times.

“Heat can’t kill us, Rhys!” Leo called from above.

“But your whining is doing a fairly good job of torture,” Maxim added. “Is whining a violation of the Geneva Convention?”

“Does the Geneva Convention apply to us?”

“Ask Rhys. He knows everything.”

The scholar’s face only grew redder. “Maybe if I wasn’t the only one working—”

“Stop.” One quiet word from Damien was all it took. The three men fell silent, even the ones on the second floor, who could hear their watcher’s voice from a distance.

Damien was of average height and weight. His face could make humans stop and stare, or he could blend into a crowd, based solely on his demeanor. The only remarkable thing about him was the intricate tattoos he had inked all over his arms. Malachi knew the work covered most of the man’s legs as well, though he kept them carefully covered. Malachi glanced down at his own markings. Four hundred years of scribing himself still hadn’t left him half as covered as Damien. Who knew how old the man was?