“With no Irin guardians there in an official capacity?” Max asked. “No Grigori patrols? I would assume—”
“Don’t assume.” Vilem ran his hands through his hair, looking around the club nervously. “That’s the problem. Everyone assumes because of the past. And I understand why, but it’s not… It’s just not what you think.”
“Boy, what are you talking about?” Though Max wasn’t quite two hundred years old, he was far more worldly than this young scribe whose talesm didn’t even reach his collar.
“We don’t need Irin protection,” Vilem said.
“The whole world needs Irin protection,” Max said. “Whether they know it or not.”
Grigori seduced and fed from the souls of humanity, often leaving nothing in their wake but a shell of a person. Most often, they left a corpse. They had a particular liking for young female travelers. It was one of the reasons there were so many scribes in Prague.
And the Fallen? They reveled in the destruction their offspring wrought. Human were nothing to them. They staked out territory to play games and control riches; archangels were the worst of all.
Max finished his beer and caught the waitress’s eye to ask for another. Vilem was nervous, tapping his finger on the table and glancing over his shoulder.
From what Max knew, two archangels, Svarog and Volund, were influential in Dresden, but neither truly held it. Because of that, numerous minor angels struggled for control, often killing each other in the process.
The most recently deceased angel—and his offspring—were the subject of Max’s inquiries.
“You have to understand,” Vilem said, “Cassius wasn’t controlling. He let his children live their lives. He wasn’t ambitious, so his sons… They have no reason to be aggressive. Do you understand?”
“They are Grigori.”
“But they don’t have to be violent.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know this?”
The young man went pale, but he didn’t look away. “I have a friend.”
“What kind of friend?”
“A Grigori friend.”
Max’s arm shot across the booth as he grabbed Vilem by the throat. The waitress who was returning with his beer gasped and dropped the glass before she ran away.
“Please,” Vilem choked out. “Please listen.”
“We are not friends with Grigori,” Maxim hissed. “They are demons. Monsters who raped and murdered our women. Who turned our children to dust. We are not friends with them. We hunt them like the animals they are.”
Vilem tried to pry Maxim’s hand loose. “Not… all…”
“The Grigori who participated in the Rending are mostly gone,” said a smooth voice to Max’s left.
Max let Vilem go and immediately reached for the silver dagger in the sheath at his shoulder.
The Grigori who’d spoken raised both hands. “I come in peace.”
Which was a good thing. Max had been so angered by Vilem’s words he’d completely lost awareness of his surroundings. If he’d been paying better attention, he would have noticed the telltale scent of sandalwood growing stronger. Max’s eyes swept the room, looking for more, but the Grigori appeared to be alone. They were sitting in a corner, hidden by shadows as pulsing lights swirled around the dance floor.
Max didn’t want to startle the humans, but he kept his hand on the handle of his dagger. “What is this?”
“Hopefully a conversation and not an execution,” the Grigori said.
Max’s eyes darted between a pale and frightened Vilem and the Grigori.
The man was, in all ways Max could see, exactly like others of his race. He was fine-featured and attractive. His scent was designed to be alluring to the humans around him. Grigori were perfect predators. Once they touched a human, the man or woman would do nearly anything the Grigori wanted. Often, their victims wept and fought against being rescued.
But Grigori also had a nearly manic energy, a crackling kind of magic that careened out of control. They had all the power of angelic blood with none of the control.
Except for this man.
“What are you?” Max said. “You’re not like the others.”
“There are more of us than you might think.” The man kept his hands in his pockets. “My name is Charles, and Cassius was my sire.”
“Cassius is dead.”
“He is,” Charles said. “Which means that for the first time in my life, my brothers and I are truly free.”
Max left the bar, following behind both Vilem and Charles, unwilling to let the Grigori out of his sight. He had to admit he was intrigued. Charles was unlike any Grigori Max had ever stalked. He exuded a concentrated focus. Max could see him resisting the advances of the human women who propositioned him. They were drawn to his scent and magic, intoxicated by it, but Charles ignored them. Max could see the effort, and it astonished him. It was the first time in his life he’d seen any Grigori exhibit control.
“You’ll see,” Vilem said. “You’ll see when you meet Josef and the others.”
“Others?” Max asked.
“I allowed Josef to bring two friends with him. None of them have been out of the compound before,” Charles said. “They’re very disciplined, but they need experience around humans if they’re ever going to live anything close to a normal life.”
“Is that your goal?” Max asked. “For them to live a normal life? What does that mean for Grigori?”
“For us?” Charles frowned. “It means not being monsters.”
According to Charles, Grigori whose fathers were dead had free will and could be taught—disciplined was the word the Grigori used—to live peacefully. It was a struggle against their nature, but it was possible.
“Those like Josef and his friends are our hope,” Charles said. “They were young when Cassius died. Young enough to have no memory of violence. Their identity has not yet been set. They were willing to live by my rules.”
“What about your brothers who don’t want to live by your rules?”
“They’ve fled Dresden,” Charles said. “Or I killed them.”
Charles and Vilem walked north toward the narrow streets of the Jewish Quarter. They passed a line of quiet restaurants in neat reconstructed buildings and turned right into a narrow residential complex that looked more empty than occupied. There was a small garden on the corner, and graffiti decorated a plywood fence propped against a broken wall. Prague was in a constant state of repair these days.
They entered the courtyard and headed for a set of heavy metal doors that looked like a holdover from the communist era. More graffiti. More plywood. Max went on alert the minute he ducked through the doorway.
Vilem was a lamb. Though Charles seemed legitimate in his manner, all this could be a trap. He brushed a thumb over his wrist, activating his talesm.
“I understand your caution,” Charles said quietly. “But please trust me. I want peace with your people. That’s all I’m looking for.”
“So you say.”
They climbed two flights of stairs, Max keeping them in his sights the whole way.