The Scribe - Hunter Elizabeth (библиотека книг бесплатно без регистрации TXT) 📗

She reached out to pat his hand, but Malachi tensed before she paused and drew back. “That’s a good idea. I’m wearing you out.”

“You’re fine, Ava. I don’t mind.”

“No, I do it to everyone.” Her face had fallen back into its polite mask. He could practically feel her withdrawing. “It’s… fine. You should call your friend. Take a break from me.”

He didn’t want to take a break from her. Leaving her with Leo seemed like an even worse idea than it had only a minute before. Her mask was an open wound to him. The confident, energetic woman was gone, replaced by a cool, carefully contained stranger.

“Ava.” He waited until she finally looked at him again. “I enjoy spending time with you. It’s no chore. You’re intelligent. Funny. I like that you’re so curious about everything. And it’s my privilege to show you around Istanbul.” He allowed himself to smile. “Besides, it makes my job easier when I can keep you within grabbing distance.”

Not that I could actually grab you without hurting you.

The sadness behind her eyes still didn’t flee, but her mouth turned up at the corner. “You, too. Well, not the grabbing-distance thing. You probably don’t want that.”

You have no idea.

He cleared his throat. “Better keep it professional, Ms. Matheson.”

She took another bite of bread. “Absolutely… Mal.”

The narrow street stunk of urine and rotten meat. Malachi and Rhys stalked the edges of the city where the Grigori preyed. Here, a missing girl would go unnoticed. Her family might worry, or they might not. But either way, these were the people the authorities ignored. Missing girls from this neighborhood were quickly forgotten. Girls who appeared mysteriously pregnant were hidden or sent away, even killed by family members convinced the girl had brought dishonor on herself. Foolish humans.

The Grigori didn’t care.

Damien had heard police reports of girls going missing in this neighborhood. It was possible the monsters had found a new hunting ground.

Malachi saw Rhys’s shoulders angle toward a dark alley.

“Hmm?” They spoke as little as possible on patrol.

A nod was his only answer. Malachi saw Rhys trace the characters along his wrist, calling on his magic. Malachi copied the action. Within seconds, he felt the power creep up his arm, crawl over his shoulders, then down his back. In the time it took him to draw a silver dagger, his vision sharpened; the black became grey. His arms flexed with new strength. His skin pulsed with a web of incantations that made him impervious to human weapons.

Malachi followed Rhys into the alley, alert to his surroundings as his brother focused on a point in the darkness. He heard the scribe utter a soft oath in the Old Language, then he ran and fell to his knees, pulling on gloves before he lifted the broken figure on the ground, making sure his skin didn’t brush hers for fear of further harm.

“Too late,” Rhys muttered as he stood and started walking. “It’s Grigori, and from her condition, he hasn’t been gone long. Do you sense anything?”

“No smell. Not even a hint.” A seductive smell of sandalwood usually followed Grigori attacks. Malachi followed the other scribe as he rushed back toward the street. “Is she alive?”

“Barely.”

As they approached the street lights, Malachi got a better look at the victim. She appeared to be no more than sixteen or seventeen. Her skin was pale and her breathing shallow. The young woman’s torn clothing was traditional but new. He saw Rhys’s gloved thumb brush her cheek.

“A child.” The raw fury bubbled under the surface of the quiet man’s voice. “She’s a little girl, Malachi.”

“They don’t care.”

Grigori soldiers seduced mercilessly, using their otherworldly charm and beauty to convince a human woman to give them the soul-energy they craved. The women went willingly, joyfully, never aware of the magic that drew them. And when the monsters were finished, they left, the female but a forgotten moment of sexual gratification in their centuries-long lives.

Dead. Unconscious. Drained of their most vital energy, most humans didn’t survive an encounter with a Grigori. The rare one who did was often impregnated by the monster. If the survivor was lucky, she would live to bear a very gifted child, one who bore an echo of his or her otherworldly parentage. It was a cruel twist that had resulted in some of history’s geniuses. Diluted Grigori blood was laced through the human population, like a black thread through a colorful tapestry.

“Call Maxim,” Rhys said. “See if his friend’s clinic is open tonight.”

Malachi pulled out his phone as Rhys walked back toward the Range Rover they’d parked under the brightest light on the main road. A few curtains flickered, but at two in the morning, not even the nosiest Turk would ask what the two imposing men were doing with the woman they carried. Malachi opened the back door and Rhys slid the unconscious girl inside.

They couldn’t take her to a hospital. The human doctors would have no idea how to help her, and her family might be contacted. There wasn’t much that could be done except rest, fluids, and oxygen. If the young woman survived, she wouldn’t even realize she’d been attacked. Most Grigori survivors went searching for their attackers, convinced they had experienced an act of the purest love imaginable. Often, they became obsessed.

The phone kept ringing with no answer. Eventually, Maxim’s voicemail picked up.

“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 cafe 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.