“Who is vulnerable?” Gita, the central Asian singer, asked. “Me? Because it has been the singers of my region who stabilized the human population there after the Grigori erupted in violence over the death of their sire. The singers, not the scribes.”
Rasesh stood. “You speak of an isolated incident—”
“The singers in Africa have been active for at least fifty years,” Kanti said with a shrug. “The Grigori are on the decline because of it.”
“Exactly.” Konrad sounded bored. “Where are they? I see no Grigori. No Fallen. Our city is safe.”
Ava frowned when the cacophony started to die.
Konrad stood up, emboldened by the sudden quiet. “With the return of the Irina Council, our enemies must know we are stronger than ever. We draw from the power of both halves of our race now. We can begin to rebuild our society. Why would the Grigori…”
He died off when he heard a low clapping sound.
Ava looked up to see where everyone’s heads were pointing.
Vasu.
The angel was sitting on the railing of the balcony just below the organ pipes, slowly clapping with a wide grin on his face.
When he saw everyone’s attention on him, he spread his hands. “Why do you stop? This is very entertaining.”
DAMIEN, Kostas, and Malachi stared at the row of blood-stained doors.
“The Fallen have cardinals too,” Kostas said. “Though only six were believed to be living, we know that’s not true now. My father is one of them. Jaron and Volund are as well. Many of them have the same gifts as the Forgiven, and I am of Barak’s blood.”
Malachi nodded. “His purpose in heaven?”
“Barak was a guardian of the realm before he fell. He listened for unspoken threats. His gift is hearing.”
Damien’s eyes were sharp. “And you hear as he does?”
“Some.” Kostas shrugged. “In bits and pieces. I have no control over the ability, but the magic is there.”
“Hearing…,” Damien murmured. “Malachi?”
“I say Gabriel’s door,” he said. “Irin in Gabriel’s line have unusual skill in reading, but Irina of Gabriel’s line can hear beyond the normal range. I’d guess Barak’s magic is most closely associated with Gabriel.”
“I’d guess the same.”
Kostas said, “And I dislike the word guess. But I suppose it’s worth a shot. Which door is Gabriel’s?”
Malachi pointed to the second closest to the main passageway. The spellwork was complex. Layer upon layer of it, written in the black-red that marked them as blood-spells. For the Irin, blood mixed with ash from a sacred fire produced an ink of unmatched power. Indeed, it was the mix of blood and ash in their talesm that made the spells written on their body most potent. For written spellwork, you couldn’t get more dangerous than a blood-spell.
And this blood-spell would turn a scribe’s own magic against him. The more powerful, the more deadly.
Kostas stood in front of the door and took a deep breath. “What do I do?”
“Open it,” Damien said quietly. “Just turn the knob.”
The brass doorknob sparked when Kostas put his linen-covered hand on it. Malachi could almost see the slither of magic crawl up his arm, twining and testing the creature who dared touch it. Kostas’s jaw tensed, but he did not break contact or cry out.
“It feels like a snake tearing through my innards,” he forced out the words through gritted teeth. “How long?”
“I don’t know,” Damien said, carefully keeping his distance from the Grigori.
“What is it doing?” Kostas cast them a sidelong glance.
“It’s testing you. I think. Trying to find where you belong.”
“Good luck then,” the man groaned out. “I don’t belong anywhere.”
He wasn’t sure if the other man heard when Damien whispered, “I’m counting on it.”
Malachi saw Kostas’s knees buckle, so he stepped forward, only to have his watcher’s arm throw him back.
“Don’t touch him.”
“He’s falling.”
“But he’s not letting go.”
It was true. Though Kostas was on his knees, his hand had not dropped from the doorknob. The brass glowed red-hot, and the spells on the doorway slithered over each other, ancient blood rising to life to take its turn testing the strange creature attempting to breach the passageway. The spells moved like living creatures, sliding closer to the doorknob and then slipping away after Kostas’s body gave another jerk. Over and over, hundreds of years of blood-spells attacked the foreign intruder.
After more minutes than Malachi wanted to count, the crawling spells slowed. Kostas’s body was still jerking, but he hadn’t let go. His eyes were glazed over, and sweat soaked through his linen wrappings.
“How much longer?” he whispered.
Damien knelt down next to him. “Hold on, brother. When I tell you, you will give the command to open.”
“Command…?”
“Luoh,” Damian said quietly. “Say it now, Kostas. Luoh.”
“Luoh,” Malachi whispered along as Kostas groaned the old command.
With a heavy sigh, the reluctant door to the armory swung open.
THE whole Library stared at Vasu for silent seconds before the guards stationed at the foot of the stairs cried out and threw silver daggers at the angel.