The Scribe (9 page)

Spells of protection on his forearm.

Long life over his wrist.

Strength.

Speed.

Keener vision. Steadier reflexes. Immunity to poisons and drugs. An Irin scribe as old as Malachi was practically immortal in battle unless he willingly gave his magic to another. But as Malachi had no mate…

His eyes flickered to the marks below Damien’s left shoulder, directly over his heart. The scribe was rising from his knees, finished with his morning prayers, and collecting the ash from the brazier to make more ink.

Malachi asked, “Have you heard from Sari lately?”

Damien shot him a dark look. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“None of your business.”

Silence. Malachi should have known better, but the urge to rankle his superior and the flush of magic made him brave.

Finally, Damien muttered, “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

The watcher shrugged. “I know she’s safe. That’s the most important thing. I can see her in our dream-walks; she just chooses to ignore me.”

The light-headed feeling of new magic finally passed, so Malachi rose to his feet and dropped the tattoo needle in a basin to clean it. Then he gathered the linen cloths marked with ink and blood and tossed them in the fire. He stood, watching the pieces burn as Damien swept up the remains of the ash.

“I am drawn to her,” Malachi confessed in a low voice.

“Since I’m going to assume you haven’t lost your mind and aren’t referring to my mate, I must assume you mean the human woman.”

“Ava.”

“Ava,” Damien said thoughtfully. “It is a good name.”

It was an Irina name. Malachi had wondered, but he knew humans used it too. It meant nothing.

“I touched her.”

The brush clattered to the table and Damien grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him around. The watcher’s eyes were frigid pools of blue.

Malachi was quick to continue. “It was only a second. An accident caused by an unruly child in the crowd.”

“She was not harmed?”

“No. It was only a few moments. No.”

The grip on his shoulder relaxed slightly. “You’re sure?”

Malachi lifted his hands. “She was tired afterward and asked to go back to her hotel, but I sensed it was the crowd bothering her more than anything. It had become busy at the cistern, and her head was aching again.” And he’d reached out to relieve her as if she’d been Irina, Malachi realized later. Luckily, he’d drawn his hand back before their skin could connect. “She had a doctor’s appointment the next day. She seemed completely healthy.”

“Good.” Damien took a deep breath and turned back to his tasks. “Has Rhys made any progress finding information about this doctor?”

“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 without 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.