Page 31 of The Scribe (Irin Chronicles 1)

“Max, we have a girl here,” he said softly. “Grigori attack. She’s alive. Young. Call us. We need to take her to your friend’s clinic.”

Only a few humans in Istanbul knew of the existence of the scribes. Maxim’s doctor friend was one. He was discreet, and he and his wife did their best to help any girls who survived Grigori attacks. As they crept slowly through the neighborhood, Malachi rolled his window down. The summer night was cooler, and a breeze blew off the water. Turning a corner, he caught a whiff of the telltale incense.

“Rhys!”

“I smell it.” He slowed the car at the corner, glancing between Malachi and the girl in the back. “We’ve got to get her to the hospital. She’s dehydrated. Her breathing is shallow, and—”

“You go.” Malachi wrenched the door open. “I’ll go after the bastard.”

“Be careful,” Rhys yelled, but he didn’t try to stop him. It would take more than a single Grigori to worry any of their kind. Even a small group of them was considered no more than an annoyance. Their greater numbers were all that made them a threat. Still, Malachi was careful. It was miscalculation of Grigori strength and cunning that had led to the horror of the Rending.

He paused on a deserted corner, closing his eyes to take a breath and trace a few more temporary spells on his forearm. Magic not inscribed on the body would fade in time, but it was enough to give him a quick burst of strength. Just as he finished one set, he caught the scent again, but stronger. The Grigori was coming toward him.

Malachi grinned and ducked behind the corner of the building, a small café that was struggling to remain respectable in the crumbling neighborhood. He could see the graffiti that had been painted over, layers of it, rising to his eyes as the magic flowed through him.

Curses and political slogans. There was an advertisement for Coca-Cola that had been painted over many, many times. Still, the words drifted up, as if reaching for him through the years. In a city like Istanbul, every building held ghostly writing only an Irin scribe would see. Words through the ages, ever and always visible to his kind.

Their gift. Their curse.

The smell of sandalwood and a seductive laugh.

“I will get in trouble,” the girl protested weakly. “I don’t… No, it’s fine. I…I don’t care.”

“Of course you don’t.” The monster had his arm thrown around the young woman, who looked up at the handsome man adoringly. He was European; sandy-blond hair gleamed under the streetlights. His accent sounded German.

“Your voice,” the woman whispered. “It’s so beautiful.”

“I know.” He gave her a wicked smile. “Do you love me?”

“Yes,” she breathed out. “Say my name.”

“I don’t know your name,” Malachi heard the man say as he led her to an alley just as filthy as the one they’d rescued the last girl from. He watched them, waiting to see if the Grigori was alone. Often, they would hunt in pairs or even small packs. This one appeared to be alone.

“Is this all right?”

“Yes. Touch me. Please… kiss me again.”

Unwilling to wait another moment, Malachi sprang from behind the building, his dagger ready. He rushed into the alley and grabbed the man’s shoulder. Spun him around, only to be met with a silver dagger gleaming in the grey light.

With a grunt, the scribe fell back.

It was a trap.

“You must be the one they call Malachi,” the Grigori said with a leer. “We haven’t met.”

“No need to introduce yourself,” Malachi said softly as the two men began to circle each other. “I’ll be killing you soon.” If the Grigori had been carrying an ordinary weapon, Malachi wouldn’t have hesitated. Histalesmwere a living, pulsing armor around his body. But something told him that the Grigori’s blade wasn’t an average dagger. It shone with a dark metallic gleam.

“I’m sure that would usually be true,” the other man said. “I could barely sense you. Your concealment charms must be older than me.”

The Grigoriwasold. Malachi hadn’t examined the man when he’d been walking down the street, but on closer inspection, Malachi sensed his opponent’s age. His scent was deep, not like the lighter scent of a young soldier. His green eyes were calculating. And now that he had drawn Malachi in, he had no interest in the woman, even kicking her away when she tried to cling to the man’s legs, desperate for his touch.

“Please,” she begged. “I beg—” She cried out when the Grigori flung her into the wall.

He was stronger than the young ones. If Malachi had to guess, he’d say the Grigori was almost as old as Rhys.

Which meant he had taken part in the Rending.

Malachi snarled, curling his lip as the realization struck. As if reading his mind, the other man grinned, watching Malachi with taunting eyes.

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