The Scribe
Page 20

“Ava,” Damien said thoughtfully. “It is a good name.”
It was an Irina name. Malachi had wondered, but he knew humans used it too. It meant nothing.
“I touched her.”
The brush clattered to the table and Damien grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him around. The watcher’s eyes were frigid pools of blue.
Malachi was quick to continue. “It was only a second. An accident caused by an unruly child in the crowd.”
“She was not harmed?”
“No. It was only a few moments. No.”
The grip on his shoulder relaxed slightly. “You’re sure?”
Malachi lifted his hands. “She was tired afterward and asked to go back to her hotel, but I sensed it was the crowd bothering her more than anything. It had become busy at the cistern, and her head was aching again.” And he’d reached out to relieve her as if she’d been Irina, Malachi realized later. Luckily, he’d drawn his hand back before their skin could connect. “She had a doctor’s appointment the next day. She seemed completely healthy.”
“Good.” Damien took a deep breath and turned back to his tasks. “Has Rhys made any progress finding information about this doctor?”
“He’s found her doctor in Tel Aviv, but there’s no record of that man referring any patients to a Dr. Sadik in Turkey. Or any doctor in Turkey, for that matter.”
Damien grunted again. “You two trust your computers too much. You think just because it isn’t written in some electronic cloud, it cannot exist? Not everything is written, you know. Especially if this does have something to do with the Grigori. They would know better than to leave a record.”
“Her doctor is not Grigori. I’ve seen him. And all his staff are women.”
Damien nodded. Both men finished their tasks and walked out of the ritual room, which remained unlocked and open unless a scribe sealed it to mark talesm.
“I want you to patrol tonight,” the watcher said. “I’ll put Leo to watch the girl.”
“Leo?” Malachi instantly felt mutinous. “Leo is too young.”
“He’s over two hundred years old, brother.” Damien smirked. “How old do you think he needs to be to watch a tourist sleep in a hotel and go out to dinner? She won’t even see him; make sure you’re ready to fight tonight. I don’t like any of us to go too long without battle.”
Malachi wanted to object but knew it was useless. Damien ran the scribe house; his word was final when it came to matters of safety or strategy. Though he deferred to Malachi or Rhys on occasion because of their age, he didn’t have to.
“Fine.” He walked to his room, wishing he’d gotten better rest the night before.
Damien called out, “She’s human. How much trouble could she attract in one night?”
Malachi watched the edge of the water where the waves crashed up against the embankment as a giant freighter glided through the narrowest part of the Bosphorus. It was a normal sunny day along the water, so why was his mood so dark?
“What’s with you today?” Ava nudged her foot against his knee. She was relaxed again. The change in her temperament would last for a few days after each appointment before the agitation would start again. It was a curious cycle, but one he couldn’t question more without arousing suspicion. He caught the tip of her shoe in his hand, pinching her toe under the leather before he released it. Another curious thing. He found himself finding ways to touch her without contact with her skin. A brush of arms as they passed each other. A hand on the small of her back as they walked through a crowd. It was fleeting and probably unwise, but he couldn’t resist.
He didn’t really want to.
He frowned when he realized he’d never answered her question. “I’m fine.”
“You’re being all broody, Mal.”
He muttered, “I really wish you’d stop calling me that.”
Ava picked up her glass of tea and sipped before she answered. “It’s good to want things… Mal.”
He couldn’t help it; she made him smile. He shook his head, relieved that she hadn’t wanted to do anything more strenuous than stroll along the waterfront and shop a bit. She’d bought an embroidered purse for her mother, earrings and a scarf for herself. The earrings were so long they almost brushed her bare shoulders, and the scarf held her hair back, its colors vivid against her dark curls. He felt it again, the pull to put his hands on her. To stroke the skin where the jewelry touched. To pull the scarf from her hair.
They’d retired to a café, one of Malachi’s favorites, to drink tea and grab a quick bite to eat. Bread and cold salads covered the table, a mezze platter of eggplant and yogurt and the spicy tomato salad she loved. Black olives and oil-soaked cheese. Ava tore off a piece of bread and dipped it, still tapping her foot against his.
“Have you always fidgeted?” he asked.
“Yes. My mom says it’s the reason I’m so thin. Couldn’t keep still if my life depended on it.”
“Even though you eat constantly.”
“Hey, you burn through a lot of energy when you contain this much awesome.” She winked, but the smile on her lips held a trace of bitterness.
He fell silent again, thinking about going out on patrol that night. He wondered why Damien was insisting on it. The watcher hardly needed to worry about Malachi being battle-ready. He’d done almost nothing but fight for over two hundred years. First in Germany, where his parents had been killed, then in Rome for a time. Buenos Aires. Chicago. Johannesburg. Atlanta. He’d traveled the world, killing the Grigori who had slaughtered his family, then others—any others—he could find. He’d become known for his quick, brutal killing style and relentless drive. He was focused and disciplined in battle, though reckless regarding his own safety. Nothing and no one came between Malachi and his target once his sights were set.