The Scribe by Elizabeth Hunter Page B

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.
    “Your voice,” the woman whispered. “It’s so beautiful.”
    “I know.” He gave her a wicked smile. “Do you love me?”
    “Yes,” she breathed out. “Say my name.”
    “I don’t know your name,” Malachi heard the man say as he led her to an alley just as filthy as the one they’d rescued the last girl from. He watched them, waiting to see if the Grigori was alone. Often, they would hunt in pairs or even small packs. This one appeared to be alone.
    “Is this all right?”
    “Yes. Touch me. Please… kiss me again.”
    Unwilling to wait another moment, Malachi sprang from behind the building, his dagger ready. He rushed into the alley and grabbed the man’s shoulder. Spun him around, only to be met with a silver dagger gleaming in the grey light.
    With a grunt, the scribe fell back.
    It was a trap.
    “You must be the one they call Malachi,” the Grigori said with a leer. “We haven’t met.”
    “No need to introduce yourself,” Malachi said softly as the two men began to circle each other. “I’ll be killing you soon.” If the Grigori had been carrying an ordinary weapon, Malachi wouldn’t have hesitated. His talesm were a living, pulsing armor around his body. But something told him that the Grigori’s blade wasn’t an average dagger. It shone with a dark metallic gleam.
    “I’m sure that would usually be true,” the other man said. “I could barely sense you. Your concealment charms must be older than me.”
    The Grigori was old. Malachi hadn’t examined the man when he’d been walking down the street, but on closer inspection, Malachi sensed his opponent’s age. His scent was deep, not like the lighter scent of a young soldier. His green eyes were calculating. And now that he had drawn Malachi in, he had no interest in the woman, even kicking her away when she tried to cling to the man’s legs, desperate for his touch.
    “Please,” she begged. “I beg—” She cried out when the Grigori flung her into the wall.
    He was stronger than the young ones. If Malachi had to guess, he’d say the Grigori was almost as old as Rhys.
    Which meant he had taken part in the Rending.
    Malachi snarled, curling his lip as the realization struck. As if reading his mind, the other man grinned, watching Malachi with taunting eyes.
    “I have killed your kind, Scribe. But please feel free to underestimate me for a while longer. That will suit my plans perfectly.”
    He was speaking in puzzles. Malachi lunged to the right, taking the man off-balance as he tossed the dagger to his left hand and reached around, trying to pierce the base of the Grigori’s skull.
    His opponent ducked and countered. The blade slashed along Malachi’s stomach, sizzling as it hit the protective spells. Malachi’s skin held… then split open with a hiss.
    It was no ordinary blade. The Grigori carried an angelic weapon.
    His mocking laugh echoed off the walls. “I do love that look of surprise! When was the last time you saw one of these out of Irin hands?”
    Malachi grunted as he sucked in the pain, weaving it into the fabric of his armor as he shifted and hooked his ankle around the other man’s knee, sweeping his foot out from under him and causing the man to stumble back. The blade clattered away.
    The smirk fell from the Grigori’s face. He dropped into the fall, rolling over and away from Malachi, reaching for the dagger where it had fallen. Malachi saw his eyes dart into the night sky a second before the footsteps landed behind