Page 12 of The Storm
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?”
