“You’ll see,” Charles said. “When you meet the young ones, you’ll see. They’re not like the others.”
Charles went right when they reached the second floor and walked halfway down the hall. Max looked around and listened, but he didn’t hear a sound. The complex appeared to be under construction. There were various tools parked in corners, and much of the ragged industrial carpet had been torn up. There were no human voices or scents at all. The whole building felt deserted.
The Grigori knocked twice on a door before he opened it. “Josef?”
There was no answer, and something cold slithered along the back of Max’s neck. An unfamiliar energy lingered in the narrow entryway. He turned and saw a flash of dark hair disappear at the far end of the hallway.
A woman?
Charles walked farther into the flat. “Xavier? Paul?”
Max followed them, grim suspicion making his feet heavy.
Charles and Vilem stood in the middle of the living room where the remnants of a meal sat cooling on the coffee table. Charles was staring at the old sofa along the wall.
“I don’t understand,” Vilem said. “What’s going on?”
Child.
Max knew what the crumbled clothes meant. He saw the remnants of dust on the sofa and the floor. There were no signs of struggle. Nothing appeared to be upended. That was the most disturbing part. The Grigori boys had been killed where they sat, not appearing to offer even token resistance to their deaths.
Charles lifted his eyes to Max. “How did you find them?”
Max shook his head. “I did not do this.”
Rage and grief colored the Grigori’s cheeks red. “Your people did this!”
Max glanced at Vilem and spoke calmly, trying to defuse the situation before the Irin boy was harmed. “This was not a sanctioned killing, Charles. Think. I knew nothing of this place. How would I tell anyone about it?”
“Your people tracked them. They tracked them and—”
“You know what our mandate is.”
“Kill Grigori!” Charles yelled. “Even if they’re trying to live in peace. Even if they—”
“We protect humans,” Max said. “Do we attack known sanctuaries? Only if humans are being kept inside. We only attack Grigori when they prey on humans. This was not sanctioned by any watcher, Charles. There aren’t any girls here.”
But there had been a woman.
Vilem said, “Wait. What are you saying?” He turned to the sofa and the empty clothes. “Are you saying—”
“Your friends are dead,” Max said calmly. “But this was not ordered by a watcher.”
“Says the scribe who’s a lapdog for the corrupt council in Vienna,” Vilem said, inching behind Charles.
“Vilem, come with me.” Max held out his hand, worried about the Grigori. Charles seemed calm, but would the loss of his brothers send him into a murderous rage? “Boy, come with me now.”
“No.” Vilem eyes shone, but his mouth was firm. “Charles is my friend. Josef was my friend. They helped my family when we couldn’t trust the scribes. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
At Vilem’s words, the Grigori’s rage crumbled. He knelt at the sofa, gathering the empty clothing of his brothers into his arms.
A mean, vengeful voice whispered inside Max’s head: now you know how it feels.
He was a baby during the Rending, but he’d heard the stories. Whole families—whole villages—wiped out. Women and children killed in their beds.
He spoke to Vilem again. “I can help your family.”
“We don’t need your help.” Tears were falling down Vilem’s cheeks. “Leave. Let us mourn in peace. Go hunt Grigori who are actual threats.”
Max debated for a few silent minutes, but it was clear where the boy’s loyalties lay.
“Fine,” he said. “You have my number. You may call me anytime.”
“I don’t need you.” The boy knelt by Charles. “We don’t need any of you.”
Max backed out of the room, listening for any movement in the hall. Someone had been here, and it hadn’t been a scribe. It hadn’t been anyone associated with a watcher. This looked nothing like an orderly hunt. This was a stealth attack that had rendered the boys immobile as they were being killed, and no scribe had magic like that.
He’d only taken three steps out of the building when he felt the point of a knife at his spine.
“Tell me,” a soft voice said, “what business a scribe has with monsters?”
It was the woman he’d seen. It had to be.
“You killed the boys.” Max tried to turn, but the blade pressed harder.
“I killed three little monsters who had lured two human girls into their den.”
Max closed his eyes. “I didn’t see any girls.”
“Of course not. They ran away when the boys fell asleep so suddenly. Very strange, the girls said. Were the boys drunk?”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“You don’t need to know that.”
“You don’t want to touch me,” he said. “I could hurt you.”
She might have been armed, but Max’s touch could have the same effect as the Grigori. Irin scribes weren’t allowed to touch human women. Their souls held the same hunger as the Grigori; they just had the magic to control it.
“I know what you are, scribe.”
Who was she?
Max didn’t like being helpless. He didn’t like being threatened. And he was running out of patience. Before the knife could press closer, he ducked to the left and spun around, grabbing the arm that held the knife. Instead of bare skin, he met a long leather glove. Smiling, Max wrenched her wrist, causing her to drop the knife, then he spun her around, reversing their positions so he held her in a headlock. The woman didn’t flinch. She whispered something under her breath, and Max’s arms turned to dead weight. Then she stomped on his instep and kicked up with the heel of her shoe, nearly hitting his groin. He twisted to the side to avoid the blow, only to lose his grip on her.
She dove for her knife and crouched across from him in a fighting stance.
Max’s eyes went wide. “Who are you?”
“What’s wrong?” Her tone was taunting. “Don’t you know any girls who fight?”
She smiled and Max noticed how beautiful she was. She wasn’t just beautiful, she was stunning. Long reddish-brown hair and eyes so deep he could fall into them. She was nearly as tall as he was and built lean and long. Long legs. Rounded hips.
Her full lips parted, and she whispered more words. Words in the Old Language.
Her magic brought Max to his knees, and he went willingly, lifting astonished eyes to her precious face. “Irina.” His heart ached saying the word. “You’re Irina.”
“You need to stop staring,” she said, sitting across from him in the cozy basement pub across the Charles Bridge.
She was digging into a bowl of goulash and not eating delicately. She tore off hunks of brown bread as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Her weapons glinted from under her long brown overcoat, stored in shoulder holsters very like his own.
“I can’t,” Max said.
“Have you never met an Irina before? Not once?”