The Secret
Page 38
“And the women? Why did we never see them? Hundreds of years—thousands! How could a secret like this remain hidden?”
“How do we remain hidden?” Max said. “Human see what they want to see. And sometimes Irin do as well.”
Malachi couldn’t argue with that. He looked at the protective Grigori soldier who stood near them. Watching his sister. Watching them.
The man was different than the others. All these Grigori were. There was none of the desperate hunger he associated with his mortal enemies. The men around him looked like Grigori. Smelled like Grigori. But… they did not act it. And Malachi wondered how it was possible. Was the presence of only one female so powerful to them?
“Your sister.” Malachi walked toward Kostas. “There are others like her?”
“Yes. Though there have never been many,” Kostas said. “If you’re truly interested, I’ll explain, though it probably won’t improve your opinion of our race.”
Malachi asked Max, “Do you trust him?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Malachi crossed his arms and stared at Kostas. “Maybe you’re different. But don’t try to tell me most of your kind aren’t murderers and rapists. I’ve witnessed the aftermath of too many attacks.”
“I’d never claim to be anything but what I am,” Kostas said. “But if it helps, the same angels trying to kill you would love to kill me as well.”
“Why?”
“I’m an abomination,” he said with a grim smile. “I should have died years ago when my father was killed, but I didn’t. Volund, especially, hates that I even exist.”
“Volund killed your father?”
Kostas nodded. “He wanted his territory. Barak used to control most of Northern Europe.”
“That’s all Volund’s land now,” Max said. “He was successful.”
“How much do you know about us?” Kostas asked Malachi. “Other than what you’ve learned in your efforts to kill us, what do you know?”
“You have magic, but not like us.”
“True.” Kostas motioned them toward a number of ragged chairs. The Grigori who were sitting there moved away immediately. It was obvious who was in charge. “The average son of the Fallen lives for around one hundred sixty to one hundred eighty years. Nothing close to the Irin lifespan.”
“But there are some who are much older.”
Brage, the Grigori who’d killed Malachi in the cistern—who’d tried to take Ava from him—had been present during the Rending. He’d been at least two hundred and fifty years old.
“Our lives can be prolonged by magic—as the Irin’s can—but only at the will of the Fallen. We exist for them. An angel who finds a particular child useful can extend his life indefinitely.”
“Do they?”
“Rarely.” Kostas leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Do you know what the Grigori are, Scribe?”
“You’re sons of the Fallen. Half angel and half—”
“We’re slaves,” Kostas said with a bitter smile. “The Irin forefathers left, giving their children knowledge and freedom. The Fallen stayed and kept their children under their thumbs. We exist to serve them. We have no will other than theirs. No life beyond what they give us. If they call us, we come. If they command us, we obey. To do otherwise is unthinkable. We feed…” Kostas drew in a ragged breath. “We feed on humans because our touch hunger is voracious and most Grigori have no outlet other than the humans we’re presented with when we are mere children. No mothers. No sisters. No mates.”
“So you kill like monsters?” Malachi asked.
“We are never taught to care. We take what we want because we can. Cruelty is rewarded. Mercy or conscience is not.”
“So why should I trust you?” Malachi asked. “How many women have you killed?”
Kostas’s eyes froze. “Too many.”
Malachi leaned forward. “And why should I not execute you here?”
“Because my men surround you,” Kostas said. “They owe me their loyalty. And I cannot allow you to take my protection away from those who need it.”
“How do I even begin to trust you?” Malachi said. “You could lie—”
“I love my sister.” Kostas’s eyes softened as he looked to Kyra. “I have always protected her. Even when my father was alive. I am far from guiltless, but she is the reason I’ve never surrendered to the total rage most Grigori feel. Her touch. Her life. Our father allowed us to stay together because I was useful to him, and I’m stronger with Kyra near me.”
“Barak did not have an overly cruel reputation.”
“Some angels are more lenient than others,” Kostas said, turning back to them. “Some are negligent and don’t care. But all of us exist at the whim of the Fallen. Free will only came to me once my father was dead.”
Malachi checked on Ava again, but his mate was still huddled in the corner with the other two women, speaking in low voices. “Why have we never seen a female of your race before?”
“How do you know you haven’t?” Kostas asked.
Malachi had no answer.
“Kyra and I were fortunate,” he continued. “Barak doesn’t kill his daughters at birth like most of the Fallen do.”
A knot tightened in his gut. “Killed at birth?”
“How do we remain hidden?” Max said. “Human see what they want to see. And sometimes Irin do as well.”
Malachi couldn’t argue with that. He looked at the protective Grigori soldier who stood near them. Watching his sister. Watching them.
The man was different than the others. All these Grigori were. There was none of the desperate hunger he associated with his mortal enemies. The men around him looked like Grigori. Smelled like Grigori. But… they did not act it. And Malachi wondered how it was possible. Was the presence of only one female so powerful to them?
“Your sister.” Malachi walked toward Kostas. “There are others like her?”
“Yes. Though there have never been many,” Kostas said. “If you’re truly interested, I’ll explain, though it probably won’t improve your opinion of our race.”
Malachi asked Max, “Do you trust him?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Malachi crossed his arms and stared at Kostas. “Maybe you’re different. But don’t try to tell me most of your kind aren’t murderers and rapists. I’ve witnessed the aftermath of too many attacks.”
“I’d never claim to be anything but what I am,” Kostas said. “But if it helps, the same angels trying to kill you would love to kill me as well.”
“Why?”
“I’m an abomination,” he said with a grim smile. “I should have died years ago when my father was killed, but I didn’t. Volund, especially, hates that I even exist.”
“Volund killed your father?”
Kostas nodded. “He wanted his territory. Barak used to control most of Northern Europe.”
“That’s all Volund’s land now,” Max said. “He was successful.”
“How much do you know about us?” Kostas asked Malachi. “Other than what you’ve learned in your efforts to kill us, what do you know?”
“You have magic, but not like us.”
“True.” Kostas motioned them toward a number of ragged chairs. The Grigori who were sitting there moved away immediately. It was obvious who was in charge. “The average son of the Fallen lives for around one hundred sixty to one hundred eighty years. Nothing close to the Irin lifespan.”
“But there are some who are much older.”
Brage, the Grigori who’d killed Malachi in the cistern—who’d tried to take Ava from him—had been present during the Rending. He’d been at least two hundred and fifty years old.
“Our lives can be prolonged by magic—as the Irin’s can—but only at the will of the Fallen. We exist for them. An angel who finds a particular child useful can extend his life indefinitely.”
“Do they?”
“Rarely.” Kostas leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Do you know what the Grigori are, Scribe?”
“You’re sons of the Fallen. Half angel and half—”
“We’re slaves,” Kostas said with a bitter smile. “The Irin forefathers left, giving their children knowledge and freedom. The Fallen stayed and kept their children under their thumbs. We exist to serve them. We have no will other than theirs. No life beyond what they give us. If they call us, we come. If they command us, we obey. To do otherwise is unthinkable. We feed…” Kostas drew in a ragged breath. “We feed on humans because our touch hunger is voracious and most Grigori have no outlet other than the humans we’re presented with when we are mere children. No mothers. No sisters. No mates.”
“So you kill like monsters?” Malachi asked.
“We are never taught to care. We take what we want because we can. Cruelty is rewarded. Mercy or conscience is not.”
“So why should I trust you?” Malachi asked. “How many women have you killed?”
Kostas’s eyes froze. “Too many.”
Malachi leaned forward. “And why should I not execute you here?”
“Because my men surround you,” Kostas said. “They owe me their loyalty. And I cannot allow you to take my protection away from those who need it.”
“How do I even begin to trust you?” Malachi said. “You could lie—”
“I love my sister.” Kostas’s eyes softened as he looked to Kyra. “I have always protected her. Even when my father was alive. I am far from guiltless, but she is the reason I’ve never surrendered to the total rage most Grigori feel. Her touch. Her life. Our father allowed us to stay together because I was useful to him, and I’m stronger with Kyra near me.”
“Barak did not have an overly cruel reputation.”
“Some angels are more lenient than others,” Kostas said, turning back to them. “Some are negligent and don’t care. But all of us exist at the whim of the Fallen. Free will only came to me once my father was dead.”
Malachi checked on Ava again, but his mate was still huddled in the corner with the other two women, speaking in low voices. “Why have we never seen a female of your race before?”
“How do you know you haven’t?” Kostas asked.
Malachi had no answer.
“Kyra and I were fortunate,” he continued. “Barak doesn’t kill his daughters at birth like most of the Fallen do.”
A knot tightened in his gut. “Killed at birth?”
