Whoever she was, her magic was strong. She was unquestionably Irina.
“Who are you?” Renata croaked out. It was the first time she’d used her voice in weeks.
The woman held up a finger and reached into a leather bag. She reached inside and brought out a leather roll. She unrolled the makeshift scroll, and a rag and chalk fell into her hand.
She carefully wrote in Latin: I can’t speak. My name is Mala. The Grigori took my voice.
The woman unwound the cloth from around her throat, showing Renata the raw edges of a wound that looked like it had taken out most of her throat. The wound looked like it had been made by an animal’s teeth. It was ragged, red, and swollen.
Renata reached for the chalk in the woman’s hand, but the woman wrote again, I can hear.
“It’s infected. Your wound is infected.”
Mala shrugged.
“I can heal it for you.”
Mala cocked her head as if to say, Really?
Renata realized too late what she had offered. She hadn’t sung a song since Balien had died. She hadn’t wanted to. But the woman was an Irina. She’d been wounded. Renata had a duty to help her.
Are you a healer? the Irina wrote on the leather, wiping out the words after Renata read them.
“No, I’m an archivist.”
The woman’s eyes gleamed with respect. An Irina archivist was like a walking magical library.
“I know the song, but it might not work as well as if a true healer sang it,” Renata said. “What about you? Why are you here? Is your mate in Rome?”
Mala’s eyes went cold. They killed him while he was defending our scribe house. I came to this country to tell his mother, but she is dead too.
“My whole family is dead, and my mate.” Grief sat like icy air in her lungs, making it hard to breathe. “We weren’t mated yet, but he was my reshon.”
The woman clasped both Renata’s hands between her own, and Renata knew from the silent grief crying in her mind that Mala had also lost her soul mate.
“What do we do now?” Renata said. “Nowhere is safe. We traveled to Rome to escape, but they still found us. Most nights I just want death to find me, sister.”
The woman’s eyes turned fierce. She shook her head vehemently and wrote: Not until we kill as many of them as they have killed. She drew back her cloak, revealing the wicked curved blade at her waist. Renata had never seen a blade like that, but then she’d never seen an Irina like this woman.
“I don’t know how to fight,” Renata said. “I’m an archivist.”
So? the woman wrote.
“No one ever taught me.”
My mate taught me. He was a warrior. Many of the Irina in my clan are warriors.
Why hadn’t Balien taught her to use a sword or fight? Why didn’t she know any Irina warriors? Among her peers, they were only the subject of legends. Irina fought centuries ago, not in the more civilized modern age. Scribes were the ones who handled the dirty business of fighting off Grigori.
“And look where we are now,” Renata murmured.
The woman tapped her knee. What is your name?
“Renata.”
She eyed the fierce woman with the curved blade. She had calluses and scars on her hands, just like Balien and her father.
“Can you teach me?” Renata asked. “Can you teach me to be a warrior?”
The woman smiled a little. Can you heal my wound?
Renata held out her hand and Mala grasped it. “Deal.”
Chapter Two
Prague, 1999
Maxim lifted the beer and drank half of it before his companion sat down.
“You like the beer in Prague?” the scribe named Vilem said. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
“Best in Europe,” Max said.
“And cheap.” Vilem looked around the club in the basement off Old Town Square. Young people were everywhere and the music was pounding.
Max wasn’t worried about paying for beer. The watcher who’d sent him on this intelligence-gathering mission had given him plenty of funds. Though he was technically assigned to the scribe house in Istanbul, Maxim traveled all over eastern Europe, trading favors, listening to rumors, and sharing beers with scribes like Vilem.
Vilem was technically a rogue, but he was a harmless one. Max could sympathize with not wanting to bow to a power structure. Once, it would have been nothing for an Irin scribe to make his own way in the world. As long as they didn’t harm anyone, the Elder Council would leave scribes and singers to live their lives.
That was life before the Rending. Life after the Rending meant the Irin population was cut in half. Three out of every four Irina were gone, along with hundreds of scribes who had died trying to protect them. Their people, already scarce, were struggling to survive. The Irina who’d survived the Rending hid in havens around the world. Some scribes had never even seen a female of their own race.
The few scribes whose mates survived the Rending went with them into hiding, choosing to defy an increasingly controlling power structure in Vienna that had become paranoid and protective. Some of those families produced children like Vilem. Young. Mostly untrained. Powerful offspring of their half-angelic blood with none of the discipline the scribe houses wrought.
“Where are you from?” Max asked Vilem.
Vilem was silent.
“I’m not interested in turning you in to a watcher or exposing your family,” Max said. “I’m simply trying to understand how you came across this information and why you’re choosing to share it.”
“Because it’s not right,” Vilem said. “It’s just not right.”
“What’s not right?”
Vilem drank his beer in silence for a few more minutes, letting the dance music assault Max’s ears until a headache threatened.
“I’m from Dresden.”
Max nodded but didn’t speak. Dresden fell in a territorial grey area. After the Forgiven angels had returned to the heavens, leaving their Irin children behind with their magic, the Fallen were the only true angels on earth. The problem was they were far from the peaceful creatures the humans imagined. The Fallen fought among themselves, breeding with human women to produce half-blood offspring called Grigori.
But though the Irin and Grigori shared angelic blood, they shared little else.
“What’s the situation in Dresden?” Max asked. “The nearest scribe house is Berlin, is it not?”
“We live well,” Vilem said. “It’s not as bad as you might think.”
“With no Irin guardians there in an official capacity?” Max asked. “No Grigori patrols? I would assume—”
“Don’t assume.” Vilem ran his hands through his hair, looking around the club nervously. “That’s the problem. Everyone assumes because of the past. And I understand why, but it’s not… It’s just not what you think.”
“Boy, what are you talking about?” Though Max wasn’t quite two hundred years old, he was far more worldly than this young scribe whose talesm didn’t even reach his collar.
“We don’t need Irin protection,” Vilem said.
“The whole world needs Irin protection,” Max said. “Whether they know it or not.”
Grigori seduced and fed from the souls of humanity, often leaving nothing in their wake but a shell of a person. Most often, they left a corpse. They had a particular liking for young female travelers. It was one of the reasons there were so many scribes in Prague.
And the Fallen? They reveled in the destruction their offspring wrought. Human were nothing to them. They staked out territory to play games and control riches; archangels were the worst of all.
Max finished his beer and caught the waitress’s eye to ask for another. Vilem was nervous, tapping his finger on the table and glancing over his shoulder.
From what Max knew, two archangels, Svarog and Volund, were influential in Dresden, but neither truly held it. Because of that, numerous minor angels struggled for control, often killing each other in the process.
The most recently deceased angel—and his offspring—were the subject of Max’s inquiries.
“You have to understand,” Vilem said, “Cassius wasn’t controlling. He let his children live their lives. He wasn’t ambitious, so his sons… They have no reason to be aggressive. Do you understand?”
“They are Grigori.”
“But they don’t have to be violent.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know this?”
The young man went pale, but he didn’t look away. “I have a friend.”
“What kind of friend?”
“A Grigori friend.”
Max’s arm shot across the booth as he grabbed Vilem by the throat. The waitress who was returning with his beer gasped and dropped the glass before she ran away.
“Please,” Vilem choked out. “Please listen.”
“We are not friends with Grigori,” Maxim hissed. “They are demons. Monsters who raped and murdered our women. Who turned our children to dust. We are not friends with them. We hunt them like the animals they are.”
Vilem tried to pry Maxim’s hand loose. “Not… all…”
“The Grigori who participated in the Rending are mostly gone,” said a smooth voice to Max’s left.
Max let Vilem go and immediately reached for the silver dagger in the sheath at his shoulder.
The Grigori who’d spoken raised both hands. “I come in peace.”
Which was a good thing. Max had been so angered by Vilem’s words he’d completely lost awareness of his surroundings. If he’d been paying better attention, he would have noticed the telltale scent of sandalwood growing stronger. Max’s eyes swept the room, looking for more, but the Grigori appeared to be alone. They were sitting in a corner, hidden by shadows as pulsing lights swirled around the dance floor.
Max didn’t want to startle the humans, but he kept his hand on the handle of his dagger. “What is this?”
“Hopefully a conversation and not an execution,” the Grigori said.
Max’s eyes darted between a pale and frightened Vilem and the Grigori.
The man was, in all ways Max could see, exactly like others of his race. He was fine-featured and attractive. His scent was designed to be alluring to the humans around him. Grigori were perfect predators. Once they touched a human, the man or woman would do nearly anything the Grigori wanted. Often, their victims wept and fought against being rescued.
But Grigori also had a nearly manic energy, a crackling kind of magic that careened out of control. They had all the power of angelic blood with none of the control.
Except for this man.
“What are you?” Max said. “You’re not like the others.”
“There are more of us than you might think.” The man kept his hands in his pockets. “My name is Charles, and Cassius was my sire.”
“Cassius is dead.”
“He is,” Charles said. “Which means that for the first time in my life, my brothers and I are truly free.”
Max left the bar, following behind both Vilem and Charles, unwilling to let the Grigori out of his sight. He had to admit he was intrigued. Charles was unlike any Grigori Max had ever stalked. He exuded a concentrated focus. Max could see him resisting the advances of the human women who propositioned him. They were drawn to his scent and magic, intoxicated by it, but Charles ignored them. Max could see the effort, and it astonished him. It was the first time in his life he’d seen any Grigori exhibit control.
“You’ll see,” Vilem said. “You’ll see when you meet Josef and the others.”
“Others?” Max asked.
“I allowed Josef to bring two friends with him. None of them have been out of the compound before,” Charles said. “They’re very disciplined, but they need experience around humans if they’re ever going to live anything close to a normal life.”
“Is that your goal?” Max asked. “For them to live a normal life? What does that mean for Grigori?”
“For us?” Charles frowned. “It means not being monsters.”
According to Charles, Grigori whose fathers were dead had free will and could be taught—disciplined was the word the Grigori used—to live peacefully. It was a struggle against their nature, but it was possible.
“Those like Josef and his friends are our hope,” Charles said. “They were young when Cassius died. Young enough to have no memory of violence. Their identity has not yet been set. They were willing to live by my rules.”
“What about your brothers who don’t want to live by your rules?”
“They’ve fled Dresden,” Charles said. “Or I killed them.”
Charles and Vilem walked north toward the narrow streets of the Jewish Quarter. They passed a line of quiet restaurants in neat reconstructed buildings and turned right into a narrow residential complex that looked more empty than occupied. There was a small garden on the corner, and graffiti decorated a plywood fence propped against a broken wall. Prague was in a constant state of repair these days.
They entered the courtyard and headed for a set of heavy metal doors that looked like a holdover from the communist era. More graffiti. More plywood. Max went on alert the minute he ducked through the doorway.
Vilem was a lamb. Though Charles seemed legitimate in his manner, all this could be a trap. He brushed a thumb over his wrist, activating his talesm.
“I understand your caution,” Charles said quietly. “But please trust me. I want peace with your people. That’s all I’m looking for.”
“So you say.”
They climbed two flights of stairs, Max keeping them in his sights the whole way.
“You’ll see,” Charles said. “When you meet the young ones, you’ll see. They’re not like the others.”
Charles went right when they reached the second floor and walked halfway down the hall. Max looked around and listened, but he didn’t hear a sound. The complex appeared to be under construction. There were various tools parked in corners, and much of the ragged industrial carpet had been torn up. There were no human voices or scents at all. The whole building felt deserted.
The Grigori knocked twice on a door before he opened it. “Josef?”
There was no answer, and something cold slithered along the back of Max’s neck. An unfamiliar energy lingered in the narrow entryway. He turned and saw a flash of dark hair disappear at the far end of the hallway.
A woman?
Charles walked farther into the flat. “Xavier? Paul?”
Max followed them, grim suspicion making his feet heavy.
Charles and Vilem stood in the middle of the living room where the remnants of a meal sat cooling on the coffee table. Charles was staring at the old sofa along the wall.
“I don’t understand,” Vilem said. “What’s going on?”
Child.
Max knew what the crumbled clothes meant. He saw the remnants of dust on the sofa and the floor. There were no signs of struggle. Nothing appeared to be upended. That was the most disturbing part. The Grigori boys had been killed where they sat, not appearing to offer even token resistance to their deaths.
Charles lifted his eyes to Max. “How did you find them?”
Max shook his head. “I did not do this.”
Rage and grief colored the Grigori’s cheeks red. “Your people did this!”
Max glanced at Vilem and spoke calmly, trying to defuse the situation before the Irin boy was harmed. “This was not a sanctioned killing, Charles. Think. I knew nothing of this place. How would I tell anyone about it?”
“Your people tracked them. They tracked them and—”
“You know what our mandate is.”
“Kill Grigori!” Charles yelled. “Even if they’re trying to live in peace. Even if they—”
“We protect humans,” Max said. “Do we attack known sanctuaries? Only if humans are being kept inside. We only attack Grigori when they prey on humans. This was not sanctioned by any watcher, Charles. There aren’t any girls here.”
But the
re had been a woman.
Vilem said, “Wait. What are you saying?” He turned to the sofa and the empty clothes. “Are you saying—”
“Your friends are dead,” Max said calmly. “But this was not ordered by a watcher.”
“Says the scribe who’s a lapdog for the corrupt council in Vienna,” Vilem said, inching behind Charles.
“Vilem, come with me.” Max held out his hand, worried about the Grigori. Charles seemed calm, but would the loss of his brothers send him into a murderous rage? “Boy, come with me now.”
“No.” Vilem eyes shone, but his mouth was firm. “Charles is my friend. Josef was my friend. They helped my family when we couldn’t trust the scribes. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
At Vilem’s words, the Grigori’s rage crumbled. He knelt at the sofa, gathering the empty clothing of his brothers into his arms.
A mean, vengeful voice whispered inside Max’s head: now you know how it feels.
He was a baby during the Rending, but he’d heard the stories. Whole families—whole villages—wiped out. Women and children killed in their beds.
He spoke to Vilem again. “I can help your family.”
“We don’t need your help.” Tears were falling down Vilem’s cheeks. “Leave. Let us mourn in peace. Go hunt Grigori who are actual threats.”
Max debated for a few silent minutes, but it was clear where the boy’s loyalties lay.
“Fine,” he said. “You have my number. You may call me anytime.”
“I don’t need you.” The boy knelt by Charles. “We don’t need any of you.”
Max backed out of the room, listening for any movement in the hall. Someone had been here, and it hadn’t been a scribe. It hadn’t been anyone associated with a watcher. This looked nothing like an orderly hunt. This was a stealth attack that had rendered the boys immobile as they were being killed, and no scribe had magic like that.
He’d only taken three steps out of the building when he felt the point of a knife at his spine.
“Tell me,” a soft voice said, “what business a scribe has with monsters?”
It was the woman he’d seen. It had to be.
The Storm Page 3
