“That was the Creator’s mistake, giving the Forgiven’s children free will. What was he thinking?”

Drifts of snow began to fall on the dirty sidewalk. Barak lifted his head to the sky and opened his mouth to catch one.

“Gifts given freely are more precious,” Barak said, staring into the cloudy winter sky. “And our children are capable of love.”

Vasu watched a girl walking along the sidewalk across the street. She hurried, perhaps late for school. Her breath fogged in the morning air.

“What are we capable of?” Vasu said.

“Watching,” Barak answered him as he stopped his movements to follow the girl with his eyes. “Waiting.”

The car took the corner too fast. Barak heard the driver’s panicked thoughts when he spotted the little girl in the bright green coat. She wasn’t looking at the road. Hadn’t noticed the ice. She was a child. She was thinking about her mathematics test.

The two boys watched impassively as the car spun in the road and jumped the sidewalk, crushing the little girl beneath its wheels in a sickeningly quiet thump. Shopkeepers rushed out of their buildings, crying and screaming. One wrenched the driver’s door open. The human was pale and shaking.

“We watch and wait,” Barak said.

Silently, Vasu crossed the street, stepping between the cars that had halted in the road. His hands were shoved in his pockets. Nobody noticed the solemn-faced boy in the grey coat as he crouched down next to the wheels of the car and reached out.

The little girl in the green coat smiled at him and took his hand. Standing next to Vasu, she watched the crowd with a small worried frown until the dark-haired boy tugged her hand. Then the two children walked up the sidewalk, Vasu holding her hand as old women cried over the dead child’s body and sirens started to wail.

“And some of us still serve,” Barak whispered as his eyes followed the archangel wearing the face of a child.

Chapter Thirteen

MALACHI CLOSED HIS EYES and dreamed of Constantinople.

Cobbled walkways under his feet as he strode the paths his ancestors had followed. Sun-warmed stone and the smell of the river in his nose. The familiar streets were a comforting respite from the tumult of his waking hours.

Ava reached out and took his hand.

“Where are we?”

“When,” he said, taking a deep breath and pulling her to his side. The heady scent of the spice market teased his senses. “When are we? These are my memories, canım. This is Constantinople when I was young.”

Malachi heard the echo of horses clopping on the streets and vendors calling to bargain, but they were alone in the streets of the city he’d loved as a young man. The city where he’d met her.

“We’re dreaming,” Ava said, her face spreading into a smile. “We’re in your dream instead of mine.”

“I suppose so.”

“I like it.” She ran her fingers along the carvings of a wall as they passed, and Malachi could see the ancient words rise beneath her fingers like shadows reaching for long-dead eyes. “No, I love it. Your dreams are so much clearer than mine.”

“I don’t feel him here.”

“Jaron? No.” She turned and brushed a kiss on his cheek. “I like the privacy.”

“So do I.”

They walked for a while longer, enjoying the empty streets where the voices of long-dead residents clamored. He hadn’t known dreams could be like this. It felt lighter. Brighter. Like a pleasant memory they could enjoy together.

“When this is finished,” she said, “I want to come back here.”

“To Constantinople?”

“Istanbul, remember? They changed the name a while ago, old man.”

“So they did.” He pinched her side and felt her squirm as she laughed, her body as real to his hands as if they were awake on the plane heading to Vienna.

“Why do you think we’re in your dream and not mine?”

“Maybe because I’m remembering more.”

“Are you?” She pulled him to a park bench along the Hippodrome, and Malachi heard the echo of wings as pigeons took flight. She pushed him down, then straddled his lap and faced him.

“What do you have in mind, reshon?”

Her words came shyly. “I want to sing to you again.”

“Yes, please.”

He waited, eyes closed in the sunlight as his mate put her hands on his cheeks and began a tentative song. It was an old poem he remembered his mother singing when she wanted to center herself. A focusing ritual before more complicated magic was sung.

“Relax,” she whispered in English before she began the halting words.

Malachi resisted the impulse to correct her pronunciation as she sung the spell. He wouldn’t interfere until something became dangerous.

Before, Ava had commanded him, a heady, forceful magic intoxicating to the senses. This time she coaxed. The words were lighter, more playful. A sunny, teasing spell that made him want to smile. Even the burn of the talesm on his shoulder and collarbone felt more like a tickle than a knife.

“Ava.” He hummed her name when her lips tickled his ear. His hands smoothed over the curve of her hips, up her sides, and wrapped around her shoulders, drawing her body into his. Overhead, he heard the flap of bird wings again, but nothing in the sunny dream could distract him from the desire that coursed under his skin.

“Sir.”

“Don’t stop,” he whispered into Ava’s ear as her song died down.