The Scribe, стр. 8

As soon as he did, an unprecedented sense of peace filled her. It was as if the tension fled the room. Ava felt… clear. Unburdened. She cocked her head and smiled at him.

“What on earth…”

“I hear you have had trouble with voices, Ava. I’d like to help. From what little Dr. Asner has shared, I think I have had other patients with the same affliction.”

“You have?” Nothing about this made sense, but not a single alarm bell was going off in her mind.

“I believe so. I hope my treatments might help you as they’ve helped others. My other patients have learned how to manage their condition, allowing them to live more serene lives. I believe I could do the same for you, if you’d be willing to meet with me. I’d very much like to help you.”

The peace stole up her arm and through her shoulders, loosening them as Dr. Sadik still grasped her hand.

“That sounds…”

“Yes?”

“Wonderful. It sounds wonderful. But I’m not going to lie—”

“You have doubts.” He cast an understanding smile toward her. “Of course you do. You’re an intelligent woman. But let us sit.” He motioned toward the chairs. “And talk more. Ask me whatever you like, Ms.—”

“Ava,” she interrupted. “Just call me Ava.”

“Very well, Ava.” Dr. Sadik smiled and settled into his own chair. “What would you like to know?”

Chapter Three

A cruise on the Bosphorus was hardly how Malachi would have chosen to spend a ninety-degree day, but that didn’t matter. He was still following Ava, which meant he did what she did. And currently, that meant sitting through an uneventful narration of the history of Istanbul while on the water. Ava perched on the port side of the cruise ship, snapping pictures. She was evenly split between amusement and boredom if he had to guess from her expression. He’d become reluctantly familiar with the human woman in the days he’d been guarding her.

There, the privately bemused smile.

There, the bored lift of her right eyebrow.

There, the slight pinch of her mouth when someone passed too close.

Malachi might have had his suspicions, but he questioned whether they were mere figments of his own hopeful imagination. He hadn’t spotted a Grigori in days—not surprising since the two who had approached her in the alley had seen Malachi, as well. No Grigori would willingly take on a trained Irin scribe alone, or even with a partner. But could Ava be what he suspected without attracting their attention? None of it added up.

Malachi heard his phone ring.

“‘Allo?”

“It’s Damien. Anything new?”

“You’re missing out. It’s a beautiful, hot day on the water. Lots of tourists. Sadly, no beer.”

His watcher ignored him. “No one is following her?”

“Other than me? No.”

There was a pause.

“If there has been no other threat to her—”

“They saw me.” He stood and moved to a more secluded part of the deck near the back, where the wind would carry his voice out over the water. He still kept an eye on Ava. “I imagine they’re being cautious. And since she thinks I’m some personal bodyguard her family hired to protect her, I don’t even have to hide. She sees me and says nothing. It’s the perfect cover to find out more about her.”

“Malachi, Rhys and I have been looking into her family history. There is no evidence—”

“That she’s Irina? I told you what she said.”

“She said, ‘I heard you.’ One statement that could mean any number of things, and then she ran away. If she was Irina, even if she didn’t know it, she’d be drawn to you. It’s part of who we are. And how could she be unaware?”

“If she was born after the Rending—”

“She was born Ava Russell, to Lena Russell, a single mother, in 1985. Born in Los Angeles, raised in Santa Monica. The scribe house there has no record of her or her mother. There is no father listed. What Irin would leave a child without giving her a name, Malachi? What Irina would raise her child outside the safety of a retreat?”

He had nothing to say. Damien was right. The number of Irin children born after the Rending could be counted on a few hands. They were never unguarded, particularly the young Irina. They were hidden away and treasured by their mothers, most of whom were in hiding. His people hadn’t been whole for two hundred years.

“I still think there is something different about her.” His voice was irritatingly hoarse. “How else would you explain the Grigori watching her like that?”

It was Damien who paused then.

“Jaron is…” His voice was halting. “Not as some others are. Since he has moved West, his people have not been as aggressive.”

A derisive snort was the only answer Malachi gave him.

Damien said, “It’s in their nature to be predators, yes. But there haven’t been as many deaths in Istanbul as you’d expect in the past twenty years. And yes, preying on women in the middle of the day like that is unusual. It’s possible that whoever was following her has been taken care of. He’s very controlling. That’s why this area has experienced the relative calm that it has.”

“You’re acting as if there is some kind of truce between you and him.”

“There isn’t. There can’t be; you know that. His nature has not changed, nor has ours. But he keeps a lower profile than what you were used to in Germany. Jaron is not Volund. He doesn’t like attention, and his Grigori are more subtle in their pursuits.”

Their pursuits. Malachi sneered. What a polite name for the Grigori practice of aggressively seducing and bedding human women, often leaving them half-dead or impregnated with children that could kill them simply by being born. Malachi had been tracking and killing Grigori soldiers for over four hundred years. It was his burning purpose in life. He had yet to see any soldier exhibit restraint.

“Nevertheless, I am going to stay with her.”

“And when she leaves? Rhys said she’s scheduled to leave Istanbul in another two weeks.”

“Then we’ll see what happens in two weeks.”

“You’re not following her out of the city, Malachi. I won’t allow it.”

Malachi bristled instinctively at the command. “Damien—”

“I am your superior,” his watcher reminded him coldly. “I will not allow it. Leave the human woman to whatever fate the Creator has for her.”

Malachi struggled to put into words the compulsion he felt. Ava Matheson needed to be protected. He knew she couldn’t be one of his kind, but there was still something…

“I sense something in her, Damien. Something different. I feel—”

“You feel hope, my friend.” The watcher’s voice softened slightly. “Something most of us haven’t felt for a very long time. But this hope… it’s your own desire. Nothing more. You’re not thinking clearly. She’s not Irina. She can’t be.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

Did he? His eyes returned to her. Ava was sitting next to a group of children, her eyes easy, her expression relaxed. Everything Damien had said about Ava made sense. There was no logical way she could be one of their kind. None. But something about her—her reactions, her energy—screamed that she was more than human. She was other. Different. Even the way she held herself away from the crowd while trying to blend in was familiar.

“I’ll follow her while she’s in the city. After that…”

“You’ll return to your duties, Malachi. You have a job to do. Leo and Maxim are already covering your shifts.”

A smile touched the corner of his mouth. “But I thought Jaron’s Grigori were the civilized ones.”

“A civilized Grigori is still a threat and an abomination. Some things will never change, including our mission.”

Malachi was tired of Damien’s constant discipline. Tired of the endless nights of stalking and waiting and violence. Perhaps someday he would join the more peaceful of their brethren in a rural scribe house like Rhys was always talking of doing. He would cloak his armor and spend his days copying sacred texts and his nights watching the stars, perhaps even some day counter the spells that prolonged his life so he could fade into the heavens as so many Irin had after their mates were torn from them.