“No.”

“Be strong, brother. We’ll try to disable as many as we can in hopes that Kostas’s men will find Grimold in time, but do not let their faces fool you.”

“I know,” Malachi said. “Some will die.”

It was inevitable.

Malachi saw Leo, Ava, and Kyra reach the edge of the Irin lines. With only a little push, the scribes in front of them would be the first into the battle. He saw some of the Oslo scribes there, along with others from Sofia and Berlin. The warriors had come to Vienna, and just in time.

Rhys, Max, and Gabriel were part of the core of scribes circling the Irina, guarding the women who sang out a circle of magic. Malachi could feel it move through the air around him but knew they must move out of it to kill their enemy.

“It’s coming,” Damien said. “They’re pushing out and then we must go.”

Malachi nodded.

“Do you have your blade ready?”

“Yes, Watcher.”

“Be strong,” Damien said. “And return to your mate.”

Malachi touched his talesm prim, felt the power of his magic grow and swell, covering his body like armor. His marks glowed silver and his skin heated with excitement and power.

Sari let loose a loud cry, shouting a command into the sky, and Malachi felt the circle of magic pulse up and out. Grigori cowered before it, some falling from their perches on balconies and others covering their ears as they let out a wail.

Malachi charged.

He rushed past Leo and the women, throwing his knives at two Grigori who had spotted what they thought was easy prey. They fell down with knives in their throats as Malachi ran and threw an elbow in the face of another.

He felt the first knife slash across his arm, but his skin healed within seconds. With a loud grunt, he head-butted the soldier who had attacked him, sending him to the ground. From the corner of his eye, he saw Leo and Ava making their way toward a red-fronted building with Kyra between them, soldiers falling and writhing around them as he saw his mate’s lips move. For a second, he saw the knife headed toward her throat, then Leo batted it away, pulling the arm of the Grigori who wielded it in one smooth motion, grabbing his head and twisting his neck until it snapped. The Grigori dropped to the ground and the three kept running.

Malachi lost sight of them in the fighting.

He let the power flow through him as he moved in instinctive rhythm. Punch, slash, kick, slash. His knife pierced the spine of so many Grigori soldiers he felt their dust coat his skin.

The crowd thinned, then thickened again, becoming more erratic. A knife pierced his groin, digging into the inside of his thigh as it reached for the artery there. He tugged the tiny attacker away. It was a child, no more than seven or eight, who wielded the silver knife that had struck him. The boy bit his arm and screamed, trying to scramble away, but Malachi shook him once, and he fell still. Then he clocked the child on the side of the head, sending him to the ground unconscious before he laid him on the side of the street, hoping he would not rise before Grimold was dead. Already too many small bodies had fallen, their diminutive outlines of dust staining the wet cobblestones in the shadow of Stephansdom.

And still they came, pouring down the streets and over the buildings. Hundreds of Grimold’s children battled to take the city the Irin claimed as the scribes and a remnant of singers protected their home.

“YOU!” Volund stalked across the brilliantly tiled roof of the Stephansdom, headed toward Jaron. “Where is she?”

Jaron watched him coming, leaning against the base of one spire. “I don’t know who you mean. My child? Your granddaughter? Which female do you fear today, brother?”

“But you would give her to Vasu?”

Jaron had long suspected that Vasu knew about Ava and Volund, but clearly the thought of another having access to his mate had pushed Volund into madness. His eyes were wide and raging. His form had lost all semblance of humanity.

He had to die, and Jaron had to kill him before his rage passed and he remembered his granddaughter.

Volund had already drawn the flaming sword from his body, so Jaron knew he would be weakened. Still, it was no easy thing to kill an angel of Volund’s age. Jaron was depleted from shifting so many humans in the city. He was the only one of his brothers able to hold a dream for so long, and he had no weapon to match a guardian’s sword. Only a consecrated blade would work.

All Jaron had was knives.

“I will kill you,” Volund said. “I will kill you and your children. Take what is mine and—”

“She was never yours!” Jaron flew at him, felt Volund’s blade pierce his shoulder, but he did not stop. “She is my child. She was never yours, thief.” He and Volund rolled across the bright roof of the cathedral, then Jaron pushed back until the sword left his body, knowing he would not heal from the wound.

“I claimed her,” Volund said, panting. “And she is mine. And when you are dead, I will find her and she will torment me no more!”

“If you want her,” Jaron said, “then follow me.”

He pushed off the building and launched his angelic form into the air, knowing that Volund would follow.

Ava watched from a window across from the Stephansdom, the great gothic spire of the cathedral knifing into the grey sky as the Irin and Grigori battled beneath it. Dark clouds hung over the normally bright roof, hiding it from human eyes. Thunder rumbled, though no lightning struck. And like a dark fog, the Grigori spread over the square, lurking as the shadows fell.

“There’s no end to them,” she whispered. Kyra was huddled in a corner, eyes closed, clearly in agony over the violence below. Ava had tried to enhance the woman’s shields, but panic was her enemy. The only relief Kyra seemed to find was clutching Leo’s hand with grim determination. Of course, when Leo had to let go…

“There is an end,” he said, stepping beside Ava to look down. “And Malachi will survive.”

His face was set, his eyes fixed on his brothers fighting below.

“You don’t know that.”

“Look.” He pointed to one small clearing. “There he is.”

Ava squinted. “Are you sure? How can you see?”

“I can’t see his face. I know how he fights, though…” Leo’s eyes shuttered. “The children are unexpected.”

Ava turned her eyes away. “Am I a coward?”

“No.” Leo placed a hand on her shoulder. “He needs you to be here, away from the blood. So that when he returns he’ll remember what it is to be clean. Some memories you carry until you die. There is no reason you need to carry them as well.”

“Leo—”

“I need you to stay with Kyra while I check this floor,” he said. “Can you do that, Ava?”

She nodded. “Find me something I can use as a staff.”

He grinned. “I’m sure there’s a janitor’s closet somewhere.”

Ava gave one last glance to the fighting below the building, then she turned back to Kyra, opening the door in her mind to listen and keep watch as thunder sounded over the city.

“THEY’RE attacking the Irina,” Damien said, running up to him. “Fall back and protect the singers or we will have no shield.”

Malachi looked over his shoulder, and he could see Sari and the others wielding their short staffs, batting back the children who had managed to sneak past their circle of magic. That must have been why Grimold had sent them. For some reason, the smallest of the Grigori seemed immune to the singers’ power.

Children. His watcher was ordering him to kill the children.

“Damien—”

“We must protect the Irina. The small ones are immune to their magic.”