He’d knocked as many unconscious as he could, but there had been some who’d left him no option. The beautiful children knew their advantage and took it as their elder brothers attacked the Irin front line.
Struggling through the attack on the Irina, the scribes had been pushed to the gates of the cathedral, their focus now on keeping the Grigori back as long as possible, hoping that more Irin would come. Hoping that Kostas’s men would be able to kill Grimold. Without the angel’s direction, the Grigori soldiers would lose their focus.
“Sari?” he called over his right shoulder. “What do you see?”
He threw two unconscious Grigori children away from the circle of Irina and turned. Sari was standing, her hands held up and her mouth hanging open. Two Grigori children lay at her feet, eyes open and bodies frozen.
“What is this?” she asked, pushing them with her foot. “They’re not dead, but…”
“I don’t know.”
He looked up. Ava was hanging out a window, Leo holding her as she stared at the gates of Stephansdom. Her eyes were narrowed and he could see her lips moving. He felt their magic rise.
Another child dropped at his feet.
“Ava,” he said. “She’s using Fallen magic.”
“It works on the children?” Sari said. “Do you know how—”
“I know the word, but not how to write it!” he said, flinging a child from his waist. “I can’t write it, Sari, not even with my blood.”
“Tell me!”
Tears were running down Malachi’s face as he struck the arm of a Grigori boy who’d latched on to the singer at his left.
Mercy.
He was so small.
The boy’s warm blood spurted on Malachi’s face, but he would not let go of the Irina’s throat. Another scribe’s blade reached the child’s neck as he bared his teeth. The Grigori froze; his eyes went wide. His mouth, soft with youth, hung open as Malachi fell to his knees, catching the child’s body before it hit the ground. It shouldn’t hit the dirty cobblestones. It wasn’t right. None of this was right.
The child’s unearthly gaze met Malachi’s as he caught him. They stared for a moment, Irin and Grigori. Then the bright life drained out of his eyes just before the small body dissolved to dust.
“I can’t,” he groaned. “Ava, forgive me. I can’t.”
Mercy.
“Malachi!” Sari was at his shoulder. “Tell me the spell!”
The spell?
“Zi yada,” he whispered. “Make it stop.”
Make them stop.
Sari rose and flung her staff to the side. “Zi yada!”
A child froze mid-jump, then fell to the cobblestones at their feet. He did not move.
Other Irina heard and took up the spell, and the air rang with the shouts of Fallen magic as the Grigori children froze in their attacks.
Malachi looked up, searching for her, his cheeks wet with blood and tears. She hung over the window, her attention directed at the Grigori fighting the Irin scribes.
One by one, they began to fall, writhing in pain as their dust filled the air.
The scribes in the square rallied as their enemy began to fall back. Some of the children looked confused. A few followed their elders, though most continued trying for the Irina, even as their small bodies fell.
Malachi began to pick up the bodies of the fallen children, carrying them to the side of the cathedral so they wouldn’t be trampled. He heard a shout and looked up. Walking down the Rotenturmstraße from the direction of the river and running behind the cathedral came a large group of the Irin. Led by a scribe in Rafaene robes, they walked with grim purpose and more than a few frightened expressions. Some of the men wore business suits that covered their talesm. Some wore scholar’s robes. All carried weapons.
He heard the Grigori hiss and fall back from the edges of the plaza.
The Irin had awoken.
BARAK and Kostas followed the rail tracks north from the Zentralfriedhof, fanning out as the tracks spread west of the freeway.
“He’s here,” Barak said.
Kostas motioned to Sirius, then the commander and six of his men spread their Grigori out in teams of three to five men, searching the rail yard which was empty of humans but teeming with Grigori assassins.
“Where?” Kostas asked.
“Quiet.”
He let the profound noise fill him. Thousands of souls, tormented and peaceful, full of joy or sorrow. They surrounded him. Spread over him. Filled his mind and body until he could not separate himself from the voices of heaven. Then he reached out, looking for a single thread among many.
Gravel scraped along his senses.
There.
His eyes still closed, he drifted toward it, calling his children with him.
“Father, no.”
A plea tugged at the edges of his mind. He opened his eyes to see Kostas before him, holding a black, heaven-forged blade to his throat. “Where did you get that?”
“Do not command us,” he said through gritted teeth. “We will follow you, but do not take our will.”
The fine blood vessels in Kostas’s eyes had burst, and the Grigori’s gaze was red and angry.
“Put it down, child—”
“Father—”
“—and follow me.”
Barak strode over the rail yard, his form growing with each step. He reached into his body, pulling out the flaming sword of the guardians.
He had once been a protector of heaven, his purest joy in guarding the Creator and those who dwelt at his side. Then he fell into darkness, and the darkness had overcome him.