Текст книги "The Scribe"
Автор книги: Elizabeth Hunter
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The Scribe
Irin Chronicles 1
by
Elizabeth Hunter
To the Telerant-Faith clan
For making me feel so very much at home,
even thousands of miles away.
Prologue
Tel Aviv, Israel
“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“Are you?”
“No. Though I suppose most crazy people think they’re sane. So it doesn’t matter what I say.”
There was a pause as the doctor studied the young woman. The listless mouth and relaxed demeanor were belied by the fierce expression in her gold eyes. Barely suppressed anger and… resignation. An odd combination for one so young.
“Why do you assume I will think you’re mentally unstable? You’re a professional woman. Obviously intelligent based on our previous conversation. University educated. Successful in a highly competitive field—”
“They all think I’m crazy, Doctor Asner.” She shifted in her seat, letting her gaze drift out the window to the tree-lined street as a mother with two laughing children passed. A flicker of sadness in her eyes, then nothing again. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”
“You hear voices?”
“No question mark on the end.”
He blinked and looked up from his pad of paper. “Excuse me?”
The look she gave him was almost amused. The woman’s dark curls fell over her shoulder as she angled herself toward him and crossed her arms. “No question mark. I hear voices. Your intonation held a slight lift at the end of that statement, indicating you questioned what you were saying. There is no question. I hear voices. I told you before. I’ve heard them for as long as I can remember. You can believe me, or you can think I’m insane. But it’s not a question.”
“You’ve studied linguistics.”
“Linguistics. Phonetics. Ancient languages. Modern languages. I have a very generous stepfather who likes it when I’m not home. Getting several degrees seemed like a good way to pass the time.”
“But you became a photojournalist.”
“I’m a travel photographer. You don’t have to make it sound more important than it is.”
He shrugged. “Your work has appeared in major magazines. You make your living with what you do. Are you embarrassed by your work?”
“Not at all.”
“Then why qualify?”
“I don’t believe in putting on false fronts. Dishonesty irritates me. I am not a photojournalist. Remember the generous stepfather? He also gives me a very generous allowance in order to keep me out of his hair and out of the country. I can afford to travel lots of places that make for pretty pictures. Magazines like to buy them. I’m not saving the world or exposing the horrors of war. What I do is fun, not meaningful.”
“Would you like to do something more meaningful?”
A rueful laugh was her first reaction. “God, no.”
“Why not? The… voices?”
“There’s that unspoken question again. Yes, the voices.”
“Is that why you’ve never had a serious relationship?”
“So my mom called you before the session, huh?”
Asner smiled. “She’s concerned about you. That much was evident. Are you and your mother close?”
“I suppose so.” The young woman shrugged. “She’s the reason I’m not locked up, so I can’t really complain about her.”
Her eyes drifted to the window again.
“Miss Matheson?”
“Ava.”
“Excuse me?”
Ava blinked and turned her eyes back to the doctor. “Call me Ava. Matheson is my stepfather’s name.”
“But he raised you? Your stepfather and your mother raised you, didn’t they?”
“Yes.”
“And you only recently met your biological father.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is that why Mom and Carl insisted on this appointment? Because of my father?”
“He’s a new presence in your life.”
“Not really. I’ve been a fan for years.”
He gave her blank look.
Ava sighed. “Yes, he’s a new presence.”
“He’s a musician?”
“Please don’t pretend you don’t know who my father is. It’s irritating. I knew him as an old friend of my mother’s—that’s it. When I found out he was my actual father, it wasn’t a big deal. I’ve known since I was little that Carl adopted me.”
“But you had no idea the man was your real father.”
“No.”
“Did he know you were his?”
“Yes, but he agreed to let my mom raise me. He’s not the most… together person. He knows that.”
Asner paused thoughtfully. “Do you think your voices have anything to do with your father? A shared… creativity, perhaps?”
She curled her lip. “My father—as messed up as he is—is a brilliant composer. He hears music in his head and writes it down and makes lots of money. I hear garbled voices I don’t understand. Not really the same thing. You don’t get locked up for being a brilliant composer.”
“Do you fear being institutionalized?”
The fierce expression returned. “Why would I? As you said, I’m a successful photojournalist. Plus, thanks to my surprise dad, I’m rich enough to be eccentric instead of crazy.”
He couldn’t stop his own smile. “Tell me more about your voices. What do they say?”
She shifted again, and her eyes drifted back to the window. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said.”
“So you don’t hear language. You don’t hear other people’s thoughts?”
“I don’t know what I hear.” Her eyes swung back and narrowed on him. “But I know you believe me more than the others. I wonder why that is.”
“I’m an open-minded individual.”
“Maybe.”
“Tell me more. How do you know I believe you? Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“What am I thinking?”
“I can’t tell you that. That’s not the way it works.”
“Do you sense my feelings?”
“It’s all in the tone of your voice. The voice I hear, anyway.”
“And what voice is that?”
“The one everyone has.”
“Everyone?”
She took a deep breath and he saw the hints of resignation again. “Every country and every age. Different voices speaking the same language. That’s what I hear.”
He leaned forward. “Every voice sounds the same?”
“Of course not. Everyone has a different voice. They just all speak the same language.”
“Everywhere in the world?”
“Everywhere I’ve traveled so far. So… a lot of it.”
“What language is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are they saying?”
Frustration flashed. “I don’t know.”
“So how do you—”
“It’s a language, doctor. There are rises and falls in the rhythm. There are common words and phrases I hear again and again. I hear the same things from the minds of people all over the world. I just don’t know what they’re saying.”
He had to pause to contain his reaction. It didn’t matter.
She cocked her head. “That’s exciting to you.”
He smiled. “It’s very interesting, Ava.”
“Interesting is one word for it.”
He heard the irritation in her voice. “Though I’m sure it is frustrating, as well. I imagine it can be quite distracting.”
The corner of her mouth turned up. “It’s enough to drive you crazy.”
Asner laughed a little, and Ava relaxed a bit. “How do you sleep?”
“Probably the same way you do. A bed is usually involved, but I’m pretty comfortable on trains, too. Planes are harder. Buses, practically impossible.”
“What a clever and humorous deflection of my question.” He stretched his legs in front of him, almost spanning the small office. “When you sleep, do you dream?”
“Vividly. Always have.”
“And these voices… do you hear them in your dreams?”
She frowned, and Asner wondered if he was the first mental health professional to ask that question. Ava Matheson had seen more than her share.
“No. No, I don’t hear them in my dreams.”
He smiled. “That must be a relief.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Is that part of the reason you prefer to work alone? No voices?”
“Yes.”
“And happy, relaxed places. Vacation spots instead of conflict areas.”
“It’s all falling into place, isn’t it, Doc?”
“Have you tried medications?”
“All sorts of them.” She reached out and grabbed the arms of the chair she sat in. “Most of them make me sleepy. Kill my appetite. That’s about it.”
He nodded, jotting down more notes as she examined him. “Do the voices… are they always the same volume? Are some louder than others?”
“Everyone is different. Some people are clearer than others. Yours right now is very quiet, but… urgent. You want to get this information as quickly as possible, but you’re trying to remain calm.”
He stopped and looked up at her. “That’s very disconcerting, Ava.”
She gave him an innocent smile. “Imagine what it must be like for me. What do you want, Doctor? You want something.”
He paused, trying to decide how to answer. “I’d like to refer you to a colleague. He’s someone I think might be able to help you.”
“Why?”
“I remember him speaking once about a patient with similar symptoms. Do you mind traveling to see him?”
She waved at the distant ocean. “I was in Cyprus when my mom called and told me to go to a doctor in Israel for my yearly ‘what’s-the-matter-with-Ava’ appointment. What do you think?”
“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?
Damien continued in a low voice, “Leo, did you call the man to repair the air conditioner?”
A thundering set of footsteps came down the stairs and the hall. The man they belonged to stopped in the door, filling it with his massive frame. “They said they will come tomorrow. Beginning of the summer means lots of work. They’re busy.” Sweat dotted a pale forehead topped by a thatch of sandy-blond hair. Maxim followed Leo, a mirror of his cousin. The two were inseparable, cousins being as rare as siblings in their race. Their mothers had been twin sisters, and the men looked like twins themselves. Even their tattoos were almost identical, though their personalities couldn’t have been more opposite.
“So no air-conditioning until tomorrow?” Rhys asked.
Damien shrugged. “Sleep on the roof. There are beds up there and the breeze will be better when the sun goes down.”
For some reason, Malachi’s thoughts flicked to the woman slipping into the wooden house near Aya Sofia. The house had a plain street view, a classic Ottoman; it was probably cool and shaded in the interior. There might have been a courtyard. And air-conditioning.
“I should have kept following the woman,” he muttered.
Damien’s ears caught it. “What woman? Why were you following her? You know you’re not allowed to—”
“Do I look like a foolish boy?” He glared at the man. “There was a woman at the spice market. She’d caught the attention of a Grigori soldier. I was watching him, and he was watching her.”
All amusement fled the group. Each man knew the danger of a Grigori attack.
Maxim asked, “Did you kill him before he got to her?”
Rhys offered a bloodthirsty smile, forgetting his misery in the contemplation of Grigori death. “Set his soul free to be judged, brother? I wish I could have helped.”
“I didn’t. I’m being cautious, remember?” He aimed a pointed look at Damien. “Besides, his behavior was… odd. I wanted to ask you about it.”
Damien narrowed his eyes. “Odd how?”
“He was hunting her, but he wasn’t. He never approached her. Never tried to charm her. He was actually trying to remain unnoticed.”
Leo shook his head. “No, that’s not how they work. They seduce. They—”
“We all know what the Grigori do, Leo.” Damien was staring at Malachi. “What happened?”
“He followed her back to a hotel, and…”
Maxim said, “And what?”
“Nothing. He just watched her, called someone on the phone, then left.”
Damien was silent. The others were silent. It was, just as Malachi had suspected, unusual behavior for the Grigori of Istanbul. He had hoped Damien would have some clue, but the man’s face registered nothing. Not shock, not recognition. Nothing.
The watcher finally said, “So you know where this woman is staying?”
He smiled. “I do, but the Grigori doesn’t.”
“I thought you said—”
“She spotted him at the market. Took his picture when he was looking away. She went into the lobby of one of the hotels near the palace, waited for forty minutes until he’d left, then went to her real hotel. The Grigori never saw where she’s actually staying.”
Damien nodded, seemingly impressed with the resourcefulness of the human. “Clever.”
Leo nodded and grinned. “I like the clever ones. Was she pretty, too?”
Maxim elbowed his cousin. “That’s not important.” Then he turned to Malachi and narrowed his eyes. “But was she?”
“She was… interesting.” She had been pretty, Malachi realized. He’d been concentrating so hard on the chase that he hadn’t really noticed until he remembered her fine features, the slope of her eyes. “Yes, she was pretty.” Not that it mattered to him, but the cousins were still young enough to find human women attractive. They had never known true beauty like the older men had.
“I want you to go back to her hotel tomorrow,” Damien said. “Find out more. And you’re sure she wasn’t…?” There was a slight, hopeful rise in his voice.
“I don’t think so,” Malachi said quietly. “She would have heard me if she was. And the Grigori wouldn’t have shown any restraint.”
“Of course.” Damien looked away. All the men found things to look at, other than each other. “Go back tomorrow,” Damien said. “Find out more. We need to know why she’s attracted their attention this way. This is different.”
Malachi took a deep breath, alternately concerned and excited about the chase. It might be his most interesting day in the Old City yet.
The woman took a lot of pictures. And from the look of her equipment, she was a professional. She took picture after picture of the Sultanahmet’s mosques and streets. The alleys and corner gardens. Odd angles a tourist wouldn’t think of. Glimpses of old women selling lace and children selling toys. She even lay down on the dirty sidewalk at times. She ate corn and chestnuts from the carts in front of Aya Sofia and watched the tourists feed the pigeons. She captured it all, from the grand to the gritty.
No one was with her, and the Grigori hadn’t found her again. Malachi watched her for hours the next morning as she made her way through the old city. Every now and then, she would duck into a quiet alley or deserted shop, hold her head in her hands, and rub her temples.
Was she dehydrated? She’d been sipping water all morning but looked to be suffering from a terrible headache. Still, she didn’t return to her hotel. Her face, now that he was looking at it, was a picture of well-concealed tension. Crowds seemed to make her particularly nervous, and she avoided the swarms of tourists that came off the cruise ships at regular intervals.
Was she afraid of them? Was that why she took shelter in the quieter corners when she could? Malachi didn’t think so. She looked, more than anything, exhausted, though every now and then a child or group of children would pass and her face would light up. She liked children. So did Malachi. The thought made him smile.
Despite her exhaustion, she continued taking pictures all morning, checking her phone every now and then. He would guess she was a regular traveler. The way she navigated the city, the way she talked to people, there was something about her manner that told him she was very comfortable with new places. If she was a professional photographer, it would make sense. What didn’t make sense was why the Grigori soldier had been following the human woman yesterday, but not hunting her.
She worked her way through the Sultanahmet and toward the Galata Bridge, closer to the neighborhood where he and his brothers made their home. She picked up the tail just before the tram stop.
There were two this time, still watching. Still hanging back far enough that Malachi could keep them in sight while watching the woman. She paused near the train station, then turned back and turned left to an emptier side street. What was she doing? Was she headed for the park? The police station? No, she turned right again. She was headed back up the hill. Malachi tried to get closer, only to see her turn to look over her shoulder at the two Grigori following her.
She’d spotted them.
He could tell she was trying to lose the tail, ducking into crowds when she could and darting across the street, coming far too close to cars for his liking. She walked quickly, but the soldiers were good. Just before the street opened up, she made a quick left into an alley and Malachi’s heart leapt.
Bad move, woman. Why were humans so stupid at times?
He sped up. They wouldn’t attack her in the open during the day, but Grigori would have no qualms about disappearing with her. If they caught up to her, she was history. No government in the world would find a trace. The soldiers turned left and followed her into the alley.
Malachi started running, no longer worried about attracting attention. He had to get to her. Had to keep them from—
“And that is why you don’t fuck with someone with pepper spray, asshole! What? Did you think because I’m a tourist I wouldn’t be able to protect myself?” She kicked one in the kidneys, standing over both men and holding a small can. Malachi turned his head away as the breeze drifted toward him. Both Grigori soldiers were on the ground, writhing and clutching their faces, holding preternaturally sensitive eyes and noses that were, no doubt, in agony from the pungent concoction she’d sprayed from the can.
Malachi was gaping. How had she caught them by surprise? Their race could move almost silently. No human should have been able to fend off—
