“Find her and kill the scribe. They are stronger together. But do not harm the woman. She is mine.”
Brage trembled before the Fallen.
“Yes, Father.”
“Do you have any messages for me?”
A trickle of urine ran down his leg as he remembered Svarog’s message.
“A message from Svarog, Father.”
“Yes?”
“His words were ‘I know what he is doing, and I want no part of it. If he thinks I will roll over as Jaron did in Istanbul, he is mistaken.’”
Brage stood motionless before Volund, bracing for a reaction, though he could not predict what it would be. There was only the whimpering of the woman, the stink of his own urine, and the white tile that covered the floor as he kept his eyes trained down.
Finally, Volund threw his head back and laughed.
“Svarog…,” he muttered, stepping away from Brage and sinking back into his human facade.
Volund lifted the woman on the couch and passed a hand over her neck, healing the red marks before he gave her a smile and kissed her on the lips. His fingers brushed away the tears on her cheeks and he cupped her flushed cheek in his palm. “Look at you,” he said. “What a pretty one.”
Brage said nothing, waiting for his Father’s leave to speak. Volund never gave it, but he spoke to Brage over his shoulder.
“Go to the house in Oslo. I’ve already sent some of your brothers there. Kill the scribe. Capture the woman and bring her to me. No harm must come to her. Do not fail me this time.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Feed from one of the women in the house before you go.”
“I will.”
“And tell someone to clean up your piss. It stinks.”
Brage pinned the woman down with his body as she moaned in pleasure, keeping as much skin contact as possible between them. It was heady, the rush of energy that flowed from her limbs and into him. He drew from her as he thrust in and out. She gasped and moaned in pleasure, but he could feel her weakening under him. He needed more.
He needed everything.
He captured her lips, breathing in the rush of her soul’s life. It was the only magic he owned, this terrible hunger. The woman’s soul fed him, filled the hollow in his chest. He could almost picture it. A great black hole that lived where his heart should be.
Hungry. It was so hungry.
He came in a rush after the woman peaked, giving up her climax to the greed of his body. It was the final ecstasy for her, and the closest that Brage would ever feel to satisfaction in anything. For the seconds it lasted, he felt alive.
The woman was unconscious when Brage pulled out of her. He lay back on the bed and pulled her body over his, spreading her arms across his chest to maintain contact.
She would die. But then, she would have died anyway. Humans were fragile. One this beautiful should have been a delicacy to be savored. But he’d been hungry. He hadn’t fed since Budapest, and the visit with his father had drained him.
A soft sigh escaped her lips as he felt the last of her energy soak into him.
For a moment, he recalled the woman and the scribe. Remembered how he’d seen them in Istanbul, embracing. He’d held her against his body and, instead of fainting, she’d grown stronger. He fed her as she fed him.
“Find her and kill the scribe. They are stronger together.”
As the Irin always were with their Irina. It was the reason his father had led the attack that had almost eradicated the females of the race. They were stronger mated with their own kind. Mating was a privilege never given to the Grigori. They could only take and take and take until there was nothing left.
The woman’s heart stopped and Brage pushed her body to the floor, ignoring the bitter taste on his tongue.
Chapter Nineteen
The streets of Oslo later that afternoon were just as cold as Malachi expected. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to keep the Grigori inside.
“Another one,” Rhys grunted, turning down an alley behind a bar on the outskirts of town, following the scent of sandalwood.
Malachi and Lang slipped into the alley behind the other scribe, and Malachi pulled down his leather glove to trace the edges of his talesm prim. Within seconds, he could feel the surge of power. He’d slept fitfully that evening, and his dream walk with Ava was murky. He’d woken from a brief nap with a feeling of dread and loss that chased him out of the scribe house and on patrol with Rhys and Lang.
Urgency stalked him. Some instinct warned him that something very dark and very dangerous was heading toward the cold city on the edge of the fjord. The sky hung bitter and grey, and the clouds were low.
They reached the end of the alley to see two Grigori with human women wrapped around them. The women moaned with pleasure, but as the Grigori turned their heads, the twin expressions on their faces chilled him.
Dead. Malachi had never seen colder eyes. No smirk of pleasure. No vengeful gleam. They were animals, feeding from prey. They shoved off and stepped away from the women in unison, turning to the Irin scribes as they zipped up their pants and pulled out their knives.
“Rhys,” Lang called, “get the women inside somewhere. They’ll die of exposure with this wind.”
Rhys waited until the two soldiers were distracted by Malachi and Lang, then he bent down and tried to help both of the humans up with gloved hands, careful not to touch their skin for fear of harming them further.
The Grigori didn’t stop. They didn’t charge. They walked steadily toward Malachi and Lang, no expression on their pale faces, no caution in their steps. Their dead faces were eerie. Malachi and Lang spread to opposite sides of the alley and the two Grigori split to mirror them.
Malachi raised his dagger, feinting right before he lunged left, flipping the dagger to his left hand and trying to slip under his opponent’s arm, which had lifted to stab him. He felt a quick slice along his shoulder, but within seconds, the Grigori was shoved up against the wall of the alley, and Malachi’s blade was piercing his spine.
The soldier said nothing in his last breaths. Then his dust rose to heaven and the silent monster was gone.
Malachi turned to see Lang with the other soldier propped against a wall. The Grigori’s face was bloody and his hands hung limply at his sides.
“Who sent you?” Lang didn’t yell, and his voice was all the more frightening because of it. “Hmm? I understand what you need. Do you think I do not pity you? To have to touch these… humans, just to feel alive. No one pities you more than I. But tell me, who sent you to my city, eh?”
The Grigori soldier said nothing, perhaps sensing Lang’s false sincerity. He looked exactly like his brother. Pale and ethereally handsome, the two could have been runway models. Their light brown hair was close-cropped and their skin unlined. The two humans would have been entranced by the sight of them, Malachi was sure.
Undiluted by generations, Grigori were bred from the Fallen themselves. Direct descendants of the ancients, and their looks proved it. Not even the Irina were immune to their unnatural charm. But for Malachi, Grigori perfection prompted an instinctive revulsion.
“There are more of you this past week,” Lang continued to speak softly, but the Grigori still had no expression. “Is there a master in the city? Has Volund come for a visit?”
With any luck, Rhys would have both of the women at the hospital. Human medicine couldn’t do much for them if the Grigori had drained too much of their energy, but the doctors would provide a safe place for the women’s bodies to heal themselves if they were able.
“Tell me what is happening,” Lang said, “and I will let you go. You can chase after the human again. She probably didn’t go far.”
Finally, the Grigori’s expression changed. The corner of his mouth lifted. “Why run after the humans, scribe, when far more delectable flesh awaits those who please my father?”
The air might have been sucked from Malachi’s lungs.
“We know…” The soldier grinned, the smile of a predator assured of his prey. He sang, “They’re baaaack. We know—”
He broke off when Lang’s fist met his mouth. But the Grigori only spit out blood and smiled again.