Page 93 of The Scribe (Irin Chronicles 1)

Her heart swelled, and she tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “Is this real?”

He smiled a glorious smile and kissed her again. “Of course it is. We can live forever. The two of us. Forever. Have a family. A life.”

“I love you.” Ava kissed him back, her heart pounding out of her chest with a mad hope. She believed him, and it scared her. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

He held her on the bed, rocking back and forth as Ava bit her lip and tentatively allowed the dreams he shared to take root in her heart. She could see it. For the first time in her life, she caught a glimpse of a life that didn’t end in loneliness and pain. She wanted to be cautious, but her reckless heart ran toward him.

“To be completely honest, however…” He glanced down. “Some might consider us… mated.”

Ava sat up. “That’s the Irin version of married, isn’t it?”

“It’s not exactly…” He was fiddling with the fingers on her right hand in what had become his own nervous gesture. “Yes.”

“I knew it!”

Ava and Rhyswere looking through old record books, trying to identify the Grigori she and Malachi had seen in Kusadasi. Unlike police lineup books, which Ava had been acquainted with due to her kidnapping as a child, the Irin records were a mix of pictures and sketches. The profiles she paged through were only for the longest-lived and most dangerous soldiers, which meant it read more like an encyclopedia of evil than a suspect book.

Ulrich, son of Grimold. 1734. Took part in Rending near Stockholm.

Finn, son of Volund. 1856. Known kills in Barcelona, Madrid, and Rabat.

Michael, son of Svarog. 1699. Took part in attack of Prague prior to Rending.

Kemal, son of Jaron. 1955. Known kills, multiple victims in Istanbul, Athens, and throughout Romania.

Joseph, son of Volund. 1902. Known kills in London, Edinburgh, Manchester, Brittany, Lyon, and Milan.

Some of the names had been crossed out, usually with a notation about who had killed them. There were also notes about how each Grigori fought or who their associates were. Certain names kept popping up over and over.

Volund.

Jaron.

Svarog.

Galal.

“Hey, Rhys?”

“Hmm?” He looked up from his computer.

“These names—the fathers of the Grigori listed—so are these…?”

“Fallen angels,” he said. “The real kind. Not offspring like us, and definitely not the nice fluffy variety you see on the television. The Fallen never left Earth, and they’re incredibly powerful. Incredibly cruel. We’ve killed a few over the years, but it’s very difficult. They can shapeshift and cloak their power, so more than one Irin scribe has lost his life thinking one of the Fallen is a harmless old woman or child in need of help. It’s more common they kill each other than we’re able to kill them.”

“How do you kill an angel?” she whispered to herself.

“There are only a few weapons that can do it. Most are in the possession of the Council in Vienna. They have an ancient armory they loan out to very specific people. One of their daggers showed up on a Grigori soldier last month, which has everyone scrambling. Damien was up in arms when he called Vienna, wanted to know how the bastard had obtained it.”

“Does anyone know?”

Rhys shrugged. “It’s possible an assassin they sent to kill one of the Fallen failed. Brage—that’s the one who had it—is one of Volund’s most trusted children. Volund controls most of Northern Europe and Russia. He might have given it to him, but if he did, he’d have a very specific purpose for it. It’s not something you’d give away lightly or carry every day.”

“Is it weird that one of Volund’s Grigori is here in Istanbul?”

“It could be, but then, it may be nothing. Most go back and forth despite some rivalry.”

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