Page 13 of The Storm
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 younevermet an Irina before? Not once?”
“I saw one once in Vienna, but only at a distance. I went to the library to deliver a report, and I saw her in the gallery. She was covered though.” He passed a hand over his face. “She didn’t want anyone to see her face.”
The Irina’s eyes turned inward. “Just one?”
Max nodded.
“And the Elder singers’ desks?”
“The Elder singers’ desks have been vacant for two hundred years,” he said. “I’ve only heard stories about their songs.”
Her jaw tensed. “So we are only rumors now.”
“Legends. Stories. Myths.”
