The Scribe
Page 3

“That and the lack of deodorant on hot days. I might check it out.” She shrugged. “Like I said, no guarantees. If I happen to be in Istanbul, I’ll look him up.”
He smiled politely and rose to his feet as she stood to gather her things: a large messenger bag, a battered camera case, a light scarf thrown around her neck to keep the dust of the city away. She grabbed the paper from Doctor Asner’s hand and had started toward the door before he spoke.
“May I ask…?”
The young woman turned, tucking a curl behind her ear before she put her sunglasses on. “You can ask whatever you want. If I don’t want to answer, I won’t.”
He frowned. “Your name—Ava—means ‘voice’ in Persian. Did you know that?”
The sunglasses hid her eyes. “Yes.”
“Who gave you your name?”
She paused. “My father did. It was the one thing he asked for. To name me Ava.”
“Do you know why?”
“No.”
“And you never asked?”
She shrugged. “Does it matter? It’s a nice name. Maybe he just liked the actress, you know?”
“Names are important.”
She smiled a little. “Good-bye, Doctor Asner. Fun chatting with you. I probably won’t see you around.”
Mikhail Asner watched her through the window as she wound through the narrow streets of Neve Tzedek and wandered north toward the city center. The slight woman with curly black hair melded into the city landscape effortlessly, a seasoned traveler accustomed to blending with her surroundings. He watched for a few more minutes, then picked up the phone, dialing a number from memory.
“You haven’t called me in some time,” said the voice on the other end.
“I found someone of interest.”
“Did you give her my number?”
“Yes.”
“Her name?”
“Ava Matheson. American.”
A notable pause followed Asner’s declaration.
The voice asked, “Will she come?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Did you tell her I could help her?”
“Of course.”
“Then she’ll come.”
Chapter One
Istanbul, Turkey
Malachi spotted the Grigori foot soldier at the edge of the bazaar. The man walked slowly through the spice market, stopping occasionally to examine wares he wouldn’t buy, scanning the crowd for…
Her.
Dark curling hair shielded her face, but her figure was slight and quick. The human woman radiated energy, even as she strolled through the cacophony of sounds, sights, and smells that careened through the market in the heart of Old Istanbul. Vendors yelled out their wares as tourists sampled the variety of spices, dried fruits, and nuts the market held, and deft boys dodged the traffic, delivering trays of dark tea.
The woman seemed to exist in her own space, blending into the colorful mosaic of the bazaar, though she spoke to no one.
Malachi’s gaze drifted away from her, back to the Grigori soldier. In his mind’s eye, he approached the man quietly, stalking him to a deserted corner before he grabbed him silently and stabbed a sharp blade into the base of his skull, killing the murderous creature and releasing its soul to face judgment. Then he melted into the crowd, another passing traveler at the crossroads of the world.
You’re reckless. Looking for trouble instead of using your head.
The voice of his last watcher mocked him, so Malachi did none of those things that morning. Instead, he fought back the instinctual rage and watched the man carefully.
The Grigori was hunting.
Casually adjusting the silver knives he wore under his shirt, Malachi tossed a few lire toward a vendor, then grabbed a small bag of roasted almonds, just another nameless tourist in the market that morning. Though he was one of the taller men in the crowd, hundreds of years had taught Malachi the art of blending into his surroundings. He followed the Grigori as the creature followed the woman. Hunting him, hunting her. The soldier kept his distance but never let the woman stray too far ahead. There was no sense of urgency as was usually seen when a Grigori was tracking his prey. The man almost looked relaxed if one didn’t notice the dark eyes that never left the figure as she wound her way toward the courtyard that separated the bazaar from the mosque.
The man was nondescript, as the best soldiers were. Local, if he had to guess, though he’d never seen him before. But Malachi had returned to the country of his birth after hundreds of years away. It was possible one of his brothers was familiar with the soldier who was tracking the woman with such restraint.
Who was she?
Her face still obscured by her thick hair, she could have been Turkish or foreign, local or tourist. Her clothes were unremarkable, a loose pair of linen pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Modest, but not religious. The only feature that struck him as notable was the messenger bag she carried. It was expensive. Worn. A man’s bag. Once belonging to a father? A brother? It was a decidedly masculine accessory for the delicate female.
She stopped at the exit of the L-shaped building, turning back to take a picture with a small black camera, just another tourist taking in the sights. As her face lifted to the sun, he saw her features. European… with a distinct hint of something else. A common enough look in a city like Istanbul. The breeze lifted her curling hair as she raised the device and held it away from her body as she framed the entrance to the building. The Grigori stopped near a small mountain of hazelnuts and tried to ignore the eager vendor who shouted at him about a sale.