What power would the council have without an enemy to fight?

“We need to go back to Italy,” Ava said. “We have to find my grandmother. I refuse to let Jasper stonewall me. If she’s like me, she’s been living with voices her whole life, Malachi. There must be something I can do.”

Ava’s conscience would never allow her to let another live in the torment she’d faced for over twenty years.

“We’ll go to Italy,” Malachi said. “We’ll find a flight to Genoa in the morning. I think it’s only six hours or so with connections. We can be there by tomorrow night.”

It was a good thing Max’s forger was competent. Their fake passports were getting more than a little mileage.

“Do you think my grandmother is in Italy?”

“Honestly? No. Italian hospitals are the first Rhys checked because your father tends to take his holidays there. None of them match the information we have. But we are going to Italy, and we are going to find her.”

“How—?”

“We tried getting information from Jasper and got nothing.” Malachi smiled in the darkness. “I think it’s time to talk to the man who holds his keys.”

Chapter Ten

THEY TOOK A FLIGHT to Genoa the next morning and were driving by late afternoon. Ava had a hard time sleeping. Part of her wanted to find her grandmother, but another part wanted to be back in Bulgaria. Only Kyra’s urging had allowed her to leave.

“Go. Find your grandmother. You know who and what she is now. You can help her.”

Ava had wanted to start lessons immediately. She’d wanted to find the old monastery Kyra had spoken of where thirty Grigori women hid from the world and the madness that lurked on the edges of their lives.

Kostas and Malachi had refused. Kostas, out of distrust; Malachi, out of concern.

It was too soon, her mate said. They needed to think. Needed to plan. How could they risk putting Irin knowledge into Grigori hands? Ava knew Max and Renata agreed, even though they clearly trusted Kostas and Kyra more than Malachi did.

Her brain knew he was right, but her heart had other ideas.

For Ava, meeting Kyra had been like looking in a mirror. It wasn’t her looks, because the woman’s angelic beauty was nothing like her own. In fact, Ava was almost resentful she’d gotten all the mental anguish of Grigori blood without the excellent skin tone.

Oh well.

It was her eyes. Kyra said all the female Grigori had gold eyes like their angelic fathers, but it was more than that. The pain was the same. The constant stress of hearing. The ache of being other. Kyra, like Ava, had lived most of her life alone, though she’d been lucky enough to have a brother. She spoke of Kostas with a fierce and protective admiration, as if daring anyone to think badly of him.

Ava didn’t think badly of the renegade Grigori. She didn’t know what to think.

It was hard not to be wary.

While Kostas’s men didn’t exude the voracious hunger of the Grigori that had stalked her and killed Malachi, they were still clearly the sons of the Fallen. The seductive features were there. The scent of sandalwood that lured her. Their hunger was in their eyes, even though it wasn’t layered with blind rage.

But they were also different from their brethren. Did they exude tension? Yes. But it was controlled.

“Ava?”

“Hmm?” She glanced at Malachi as he drove them toward Portofino.

“Why don’t you try to sleep?”

“I’m too wound up.”

“Try, canım. We don’t know what this day will be like.”

“More warrior lessons?”

He smiled, fine wrinkles appearing around his eyes. “Yes, like they taught us in school. Eat when you can. Sleep when you can. Fu—”

“I get it.” She reached over and slapped a hand over his mouth. “Bad man. They didn’t teach you that in school.”

“The professors might not have, but the older boys did,” he said as he peeled her hand away and kissed her palm. The smile fell from his face.

“What is it?”

“The Grigori have all this power—all this natural magic—and they have no control over it. I think it would be better to be human.”

“Do you have to make it sound like that’s the worst thing in the world? Being human? I was one, you know.”

He gave her a raised eyebrow. Oh, those eloquent raised eyebrows her man offered.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “If they were human, they’d have no magic, but at least they’d live a normal life.”

She squeezed his hand.

“No mates,” he continued. “No children, except those they sire by accident, and what kind of relationship would they be able to have with them? They’ve had thousands of years to be hungry with no relief. I’d never thought about that before. I cannot imagine the rage they must feel. To have so much power and no control. To live only to be a slave for the Fallen.”

“They’re no innocents, Malachi. They hunted me. They killed you. They’ve killed thousands of humans. They seduce them, rape them, and—more often than not—kill them.”

“I know.”

“And you feel sorry for them?”

“No.” He paused. “Yes. Some. I feel sorry for some of them. Those who are trying to live peacefully but are caught on the other side of a battle they don’t want. I feel sorry for the children.”

“Do you think we can make the council see that?”