The Secret (41 page)

“Can the elder scribes really do anything now? The Irina Council is back.” Ava smiled. “I mean… game over for them, right?”

“They can still force compulsion if they want to be nasty. They still run the scribe houses. If they invoke censure for noncompliance…” Sari shook her head. “It would be bad.” She looked across the gallery. “They’re gone. And now we wait.”

MALACHI followed Damien down the hall, his heart racing even if his body could not.

“Do you know where we’re going?” he murmured.

“Yes.”

Farther and farther they traveled into the labyrinth of the Irin headquarters. They passed quiet study rooms and meditation chambers. Offices and guard rooms. Most people didn’t seem to take any notice of two scribes and a Rafaene wandering around the hallways. If a guard did catch Damien’s eye, all they did was offer him a respectful nod.

Malachi wondered just how much more there was to know about his watcher. “Were you really a Templar Knight?”

Kostas’s head came up. “Really?”

“That was a long time ago,” Damien said. “We need to go down these stairs. Kostas, shut up.”

The look the man gave Damien was priceless. Malachi wondered when the last time was that anyone had told the Grigori commander to shut up.

“That wasn’t a ‘no,’” Malachi said.

“You really do have a death wish,” the watcher said.

“My mate would say, ‘Been there. Done that.’” He couldn’t stop the grin. He’d forgotten how fun it was to irritate the man.

They climbed down wood-paneled stairwells and into the belly of the Library. The hallways became narrower and the wood paneling ceased. What was left was stone and plaster chilled from the winter temperatures. One long hallway speared into the darkness, smaller passages running off either side. Every single passage looked identical, and every single door looked the same.

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.”

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.