A thin man wearing glasses approached, holding out his hand for Ava to shake. He looked like he was in his early forties, younger than she was expecting. A pair of green eyes peeked out from behind simple gold rims. His English was slightly accented; Ava would guess Dr. Sadik had studied in England.
“You must be Dr. Sadik.” She smiled, trying to be polite. She could be polite. He was probably a perfectly nice man, even though he wouldn’t be able to help her. He took her hand in his and grasped it warmly.
As soon as he did, an unprecedented sense of peace filled her. It was as if the tension fled the room. Ava felt… clear. Unburdened. She cocked her head and smiled at him.
“What on earth…”
“I hear you have had trouble with voices, Ava. I’d like to help. From what little Dr. Asner has shared, I think I have had other patients with the same affliction.”
“You have?” Nothing about this made sense, but not a single alarm bell was going off in her mind.
“I believe so. I hope my treatments might help you as they’ve helped others. My other patients have learned how to manage their condition, allowing them to live more serene lives. I believe I could do the same for you, if you’d be willing to meet with me. I’d very much like to help you.”
The peace stole up her arm and through her shoulders, loosening them as Dr. Sadik still grasped her hand.
“That sounds…”
“Yes?”
“Wonderful. It sounds wonderful. But I’m not going to lie—”
“You have doubts.” He cast an understanding smile toward her. “Of course you do. You’re an intelligent woman. But let us sit.” He motioned toward the chairs. “And talk more. Ask me whatever you like, Ms.—”
“Ava,” she interrupted. “Just call me Ava.”
“Very well, Ava.” Dr. Sadik smiled and settled into his own chair. “What would you like to know?”
Chapter Three
A cruise on the Bosphorus was hardly how Malachi would have chosen to spend a ninety-degree day, but that didn’t matter. He was still following Ava, which meant he did what she did. And currently, that meant sitting through an uneventful narration of the history of Istanbul while on the water. Ava perched on the port side of the cruise ship, snapping pictures. She was evenly split between amusement and boredom if he had to guess from her expression. He’d become reluctantly familiar with the human woman in the days he’d been guarding her.
There, the privately bemused smile.
There, the bored lift of her right eyebrow.
There, the slight pinch of her mouth when someone passed too close.
Malachi might have had his suspicions, but he questioned whether they were mere figments of his own hopeful imagination. He hadn’t spotted a Grigori in days—not surprising since the two who had approached her in the alley had seen Malachi, as well. No Grigori would willingly take on a trained Irin scribe alone, or even with a partner. But could Ava be what he suspected without attracting their attention? None of it added up.
Malachi heard his phone ring.
“‘Allo?”
“It’s Damien. Anything new?”
“You’re missing out. It’s a beautiful, hot day on the water. Lots of tourists. Sadly, no beer.”
His watcher ignored him. “No one is following her?”
“Other than me? No.”
There was a pause.
“If there has been no other threat to her—”
“They saw me.” He stood and moved to a more secluded part of the deck near the back, where the wind would carry his voice out over the water. He still kept an eye on Ava. “I imagine they’re being cautious. And since she thinks I’m some personal bodyguard her family hired to protect her, I don’t even have to hide. She sees me and says nothing. It’s the perfect cover to find out more about her.”
“Malachi, Rhys and I have been looking into her family history. There is no evidence—”
“That she’s Irina? I told you what she said.”
“She said, ‘I heard you.’ One statement that could mean any number of things, and then she ran away. If she was Irina, even if she didn’t know it, she’d be drawn to you. It’s part of who we are. And how could she be unaware?”
“If she was born after the Rending—”
“She was born Ava Russell, to Lena Russell, a single mother, in 1985. Born in Los Angeles, raised in Santa Monica. The scribe house there has no record of her or her mother. There is no father listed. What Irin would leave a child without giving her a name, Malachi? What Irina would raise her child outside the safety of a retreat?”
He had nothing to say. Damien was right. The number of Irin children born after the Rending could be counted on a few hands. They were never unguarded, particularly the young Irina. They were hidden away and treasured by their mothers, most of whom were in hiding. His people hadn’t been whole for two hundred years.
“I still think there is something different about her.” His voice was irritatingly hoarse. “How else would you explain the Grigori watching her like that?”
It was Damien who paused then.
“Jaron is…” His voice was halting. “Not as some others are. Since he has moved West, his people have not been as aggressive.”
A derisive snort was the only answer Malachi gave him.
Damien said, “It’s in their nature to be predators, yes. But there haven’t been as many deaths in Istanbul as you’d expect in the past twenty years. And yes, preying on women in the middle of the day like that is unusual. It’s possible that whoever was following her has been taken care of. He’s very controlling. That’s why this area has experienced the relative calm that it has.”