“You…” The grip of her fingers loosened in his hair, and he pulled back, bracing himself over her as her fingers stroked his forehead, curling around his ear, tender in their exploration as he slowed the relentless pace of their lovemaking.
“You,” she whispered again. Their eyes met, gold and grey. The tips of her fingers traced his lip.
It was a dream. But not a dream. A dream had never felt so real.
“Blast!” The pipe caught Malachi in the face as he turned the corner. His cheek sliced open, and he saw stars as the Grigori swung again. Malachi ducked and decided he was tired of running. The Grigori danced in front of him, his clothes still rumpled from the human women’s hands and his quick flight. His hair hung over his eyes and a deep cut was already healing on his unearthly face. He had the thin, ethereal beauty of so many of his kind, ironically so like the angels the humans depicted in art. Delicate, almost boyish.
Malachi was not fooled.
The soldier danced in front of him, quicksilver over grit. Malachi felt like a slow brute with his heavy fists and thick muscles. The Grigori was faster than him. He’d have to be to get the jab in that he had, even now, when Malachi wasn’t at full strength.
They said nothing, both taking the measure of each other. The Grigori’s glance flicked over Malachi’s shoulder, then he feinted right. Malachi caught the look and slammed into the man’s body as he tried to slip to his left.
The Grigori might have been faster, but brute strength still won when it found its target.
Slamming the soldier into the cobblestone street, Malachi tried to flip him to his belly so he could pierce his spine, but the man proved as stubborn as he was fast.
“No,” he hissed, finally starting to panic. “Not like this!”
Malachi could not turn him, not while he had to hold his dagger with one hand and straddle the man to keep him from running. Irritating little bastard.
“Why don’t you just cooperate and die like a good monster?” he grunted, holding the man by his hair.
“Fuck you!”
“That’s not nice.” He grinned as an idea came to him. “Maybe you’re too much trouble after all.”
Malachi slid to his right knee, letting the man lunge up, desperate for escape, but the scribe’s heavy leg still lay over the Grigori’s waist. With a quick twist, Malachi slammed his opponent’s face into his braced knee and felt the nose crunch. The back of the Grigori’s neck suddenly bared, Malachi brought the silver blade home, piercing the man’s spine. The only sound was the sucking gasp as the soldier began to dissolve.
For a moment, Malachi saw her face. Felt the cold water at his waist. He was in the cistern again, and he heard Ava’s scream.
“NO!”
Then the memory was gone.
And so was the Grigori.
He sat in the dirt of the alley and stretched his back. He could feel the deep gash over his kidneys mending. He pushed up his sleeve and traced over the healing spell again, letting his fingers linger over the new marks that had bloomed as Ava sang to him in his dream.
She did this.
Malachi pushed his sleeve down when he heard Leo and Phillip coming down the street. But he still sat, rubbing his knee a bit where the Grigori’s nose had left a spurt of blood. That was irritating. He didn’t have that many clothes, and he hated asking Leo for things.
The two scribes turned the corner, chuckling when they saw him sitting in the center of the alley.
“Did you get tired?” Leo asked.
“Just taking in the sights.”
Phillip glanced around. “Well, if you were looking for a scenic corner of Budapest to loiter and people watch, you did not find it.” Then he grinned and held out a hand.
Malachi grasped it and pulled himself to his feet.
“Take care of the runner?” Leo asked.
“Yes.”
“He was fast.”
“Faster than me.” Malachi twisted his neck to the side, feeling the joints release. “Luckily, big guys get lucky sometimes.”
Phillip said, “More than luck, my friend. If you don’t remember Chicago in ’72, then I’ll remind you someday.”
“Maybe later.” He wanted a shower; he could still feel the dust on his skin. And then they needed to get on the road. He and Leo had only run out for a quick hunt when Tas decided they needed a different car. The irritable scribe had gone out to procure one from questionable sources while Leo and Malachi helped Phillip on patrol.
“Tas should be back by now, huh?” Leo asked.
Phillip shrugged. “Probably.”
“And where is this car coming from?” Malachi asked.
“It won’t be stolen,” the watcher said. “Not recently, anyway. But he’s right. If any of the Fallen have you on their radar, it’d be good to change cars occasionally. How are you doing on funds?”
“We’re all right,” Leo said. “Max left us some money.”
“He still playing cards?”
Leo smiled. “He calls it supplemental income.”
“The boy has rich tastes,” Malachi said. “Always has.”
Both of them stopped and looked at him expectantly.
“What?” Malachi said. “I remember bits and pieces. Most of it is still a blank.”
“If you say so,” Phillip said.
“Besides, Max’s taste is obvious. How many scribes do you know who wear a five-thousand-dollar watch?”
“It didn’t cost me five thousand dollars, Leo.”
“But Malachi said—”
Leo held the phone out. Max was on speaker, calling from Berlin.
“If he bought it in a store, it would cost that,” Malachi said, eyes on the road.
“But you didn’t buy it in a store, did you, Max?”
“Where I buy my watches is no one’s business but mine. Now, can we talk about Vienna, or did you want to discuss my shoes?”
Leo bit back a laugh. “You do have a pair of grey loafers that—”
“Vienna,” Malachi barked. “Please. What have you found out about the Irina?”
“Phillip is right, there are definitely more Irina in the city, and they’re becoming more visible. One of my sources was watching an interview with Edmund’s mate—”
“Edmund?”
“British council member. He’s become very pro-compulsion.”
Malachi glanced to Leo. “Explain.”
Leo said, “There is a movement to solve the Irina problem. Critics are calling it ‘compulsion.’ Basically, some elders want to force the Irina back into retreats.”
Max said, “They claim it is for their own protection and to protect the future of the Irin race. It’s gaining popularity among younger scribes who want the opportunity to find a mate—as slim as that chance may be—and among scribes who see our race dying off if nothing is done.”
“Our race is dying off,” Malachi said.
“Yes,” Max said, “but trying to force the Irina back into the retreats where they were all but slaughtered isn’t exactly the wisest way of coaxing them back, is it?”
“All the elders want the Irina back,” Leo said, “but they don’t agree how to achieve it. Gabriel works for Konrad, who is more traditionalist. He says the reason Irina fled was because of the retreats, so it’s useless to try to force them back. He’s proposing to reform the full council. Irin and Irina elders, the way it used to be. That way the Irina would know they have a full vote by their own elders and not just a bunch of old scribes.”
Malachi narrowed his eyes, watching the road as he mulled over what Leo and Max had told him. “Max, how are the elders chosen?”
“By the watchers,” Max said.
“But I thought the watchers were chosen by the Council.”
Leo said, “It’s not a perfect system. Irina elders were chosen more democratically. Singers voted based on regions. Seven regions for seven council members.”
“Keep in mind,” Max said, “it was easier for the Irina, because they were more centralized. Most singers were in retreats and didn’t move around much, whereas the scribes were scattered. Different cities. We move much more. Having the watchers choose the seven elders does make a kind of sense.”