The Scribe (3 page)

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—

“And you!” The woman was pointing at him now, aiming the can in his direction. He brought his right thumb to his left wrist and began tracing, silently rousing the spells that would protect his senses should she choose to attack. He felt it, the warm glow of magic spreading up his arm, suffusing his body with power, activating the tapestry of magic that protected him. In seconds, Malachi would be covered with an armor even the fiercest warrior could not penetrate. “Why the hell have you been following me?” she demanded.

“I haven’t been following you.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I saw these men follow you into the alley.” He lifted his hands, no longer worried about the pepper spray. He could feel the ancient power swirling over his skin. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I said don’t lie to me!” Her energy was high, her adrenaline staining the air as she walked toward him. Malachi backed away, drawing her out of the alley and into the safer street. “You were following me yesterday. You’ve been following me all morning. Why?”

How had she known?

“I haven’t been following you,” he lied. “Do you need some help? Is there someone I can call for you?” She was attracting enough attention just by her raised voice. He didn’t want to attract the police. That was the last thing either of them needed. “Put the pepper spray down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I might. If you tell me why you were following me all morning.”

“For the last time, I have not been—”

Her temper burst. “I heard you, you lying asshole! Do I look stupid? Why were you following me?”

The ground beneath him shifted. The spells on his arms pulsed.

I heard you.

Malachi blinked as his vision scattered, and then he focused on the fearless woman in front of him.

“What did you say?”

Chapter Two

I heard you.

Time stopped as the words left her mouth of their own volition, launching into the air between Ava and the stranger who stood at the mouth of the alley. A thousand whispers surrounded her, and the voices of the city washed over her mind. The words flew, cutting through the cacophony that followed her. Three words that never should have left her mouth.

The man halted immediately, eyes widening as they reached him.

“What did you say?”

He knew.

“Nothing. Leave me alone.” Forget her questions, she had to leave. Ava stepped over the prone bodies of the strange men who were still writhing on the ground. Instinct told her the man whose voice she’d heard following her since the day before was far more dangerous than the thugs who’d caught up with her near the bridge. She’d been lulled by it; something about the tone and pitch of this man’s inner voice was more resonant than most. She’d allowed the voice to follow her, soothed by its tone. It had been the one pure sound in the redolent, clashing air of Istanbul.

“What did you mean, ‘I heard you?’” he called.

He was following her out of the alley, abandoning the wounded men to their own moans and the growing crowd of concerned citizens and tourists. Ava slipped through them, never gladder to have perfected the art of weaving through crowds with as little contact as possible.

The stranger’s whispers followed her, alive with excitement. Curiosity. Hope? She walked faster, trying to leave his voice and the memories it brought behind.

He wasn’t completely unique. Ava had come across the strange resonance before in India. Another time back in Los Angeles. Once, outside a lonely house in Ireland. The resonance of his inner voice was different, though no more understandable, than the rest. Most of her waking hours were filled with the whispers of anyone and everyone she passed, but Ava had no clue what they were saying. It was as if she stood in a crowded room where everyone was whispering. Crowds blended into an off-key hum she’d battled to control for as long as she could remember.

What do your whispers mean, Mommy?

What whispers?

Everyone has whispers.

The strange looks, then the voices others could hear, too.

Crazy.

Troubled.

Dangerous?

Ava’s eyes caught the corner of a leg sticking out of a blanket. A homeless man sat up from a bench near the entrance of the park, eyes wild and body swaying. Their gazes locked for a moment and Ava fought back the pang of sympathy and kept moving. If not for her mother, she might have been him.

She crossed the road at the entrance to the park, headed back to the hippodrome and the relative safety of the heavily touristed areas. Her camera banged against her hip as she walked. Normally, it would be out. She wouldn’t pass up a chance to capture the smiling couple or the woman rolling out bread in a window. She would have captured the small dog watching the young woman tying a carpet in a store window. The two boys ducking behind a display in a shop. Snatches of life in the city. Family and friends going about their lives.