The Seeker

by Elizabeth Hunter

  Zep looked him up and down. “Come with me. You can clean up at the house. The humans were fine after a few minutes. You, I’m not so sure about.”

  Rhys sought anonymity on Frenchmen Street that night, sitting at a back corner table at a club, drinking a bottle of red wine as a man played piano and a woman sang about lost love. He’d showered, changed, and dried off, but he could still feel the grit of the Grigori’s dust under his fingernails, still feel the mud caked into his palms as he held the man down.

  Dieudonné.

  Teodoros.

  God’s gift.

  Which Fallen considered themselves the Creator’s gift? It hadn’t occurred to him during the struggle, but the answer was obvious. He went by various names, depending on geography. Darko. Boško. Dado.

  Bozidar.

  The divine gift of heaven.

  He was an archangel with an inflated sense of purpose and an ego considered monumental, even by Fallen standards.

  “You’ll find out soon enough. It’s coming.”

  There was always something coming. Some horrible threat. Some catastrophe.

  “You’ve been working like a madman for five years now. Maybe it’s time you let an attractive woman distract you.”

  He couldn’t rest. He couldn’t stop. Not when he’d been one of the survivors. Until the Irina regained everything they’d lost—until hope wasn’t just a dream in their world—he couldn’t be distracted.

  Rhys felt a hand slide up his arm before someone sat across from him. He turned to protest the intrusion only to find Meera sitting across from him, her eyes locked on the singer at the front.

  “I love her voice,” Meera said. “She’s a regular here.”

  “How did you find me?” How did you know I wanted to be found?

  She turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “The city’s not that big, Rhys.”

  He could only stare at her. He was worn out. Tired. He had the absurd instinct to lay his head on her breast, close his eyes, and sleep for hours.

  He shoved the impulse aside. He barely knew the woman. She was beautiful, yes, but so were countless other women. There was nothing particularly compelling about Meera.

  Liar.

  There was something about her—a glow, a depth—that drew him in, and he had no idea why. He was past the reflexive awe at Irina presence. He’d lived with females of his race for years now.

  It wasn’t awe. It was… attraction.

  As if she could read his thoughts, her mouth turned up at the corner in an impish smile. “Have you eaten?”

  Rhys barked out a laugh. “No.”

  “Going without dinner is a crime in this city.” Meera waved over a waitress. “If you’re looking for comfort food, you can’t go wrong with the red beans and rice.”

  He was in the mood to be coddled, and Meera seemed to be offering. “Why not?” he asked. “Sounds good.”

  “I heard you had a day today.” Meera paused and gave the waitress their order. Red beans and rice for Rhys. Gumbo for her. Another glass for wine.

  Rhys couldn’t take his eyes off her. “Yes. I had a day.”

  Chapter Four

  Meera looked at him, the prowling cat lying in wait. From the moment she’d sat across from him, his eyes hadn’t left her. His gaze raked her skin like claws teasing her flesh. It was unnerving. And… arousing.

  “Do days like this happen to you often?” she asked. “I thought you were a scholar.”

  “I am.”

  A scholar with battle-hardened eyes. Meera saw the same shadows her own father bore. When Zep had called her that afternoon and told her they’d met a suicidal Grigori in the Garden District, Meera’s heart had hurt. For the Grigori and for the scribe who had killed him.

  Meera said, “I don’t often meet scholars quite so good at hunting Grigori in my world.”

  “Sounds like a narrow world.”

  “Yes, it was.” She poured water from the carafe at the table, ignoring the slight tremor in her hands. “Until recently.”

  His eyes sharpened. “So you did live in a haven once.”

  “Not a haven.” Meera didn’t know what had caused her to lower her guard. Maybe it was the darkness in the club or the music or the pained look in his eyes. She wanted to comfort him, and that was a dangerous impulse. “I’ve been asking about you.” She glanced over at him. “Rhys of Glast, son of Edmund and Angharad the Sage, heir of Gabriel’s library.”

  “I see I’m not the only scholar at the table.” Rhys set down his drink and leaned toward her. “Why were you asking about me?”

  “Because you’ve been asking about me.”

  “That’s fair.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smile, and it was far more tempting than it should have been.

  “Zep thinks you’re here doing academic research. But I know…” She leaned forward. “…the scribes’ council doesn’t send scribes like you to do academic research.”

  “I am no errand boy for the council. If you asked about me, you know who sent me.”

  Sari of Vestfold, one of her mother’s oldest friends and mate of Damien, praetor of Rěkaves and former Watcher of Istanbul. Damien came from a military tradition much like her father’s, and Meera knew how that tradition engendered loyalty beyond politics.

  According to her mother, Rhys’s allegiance was to Damien and his current watcher in Istanbul, not the Elder Council. But Sari had also sent Rhys without telling him anything about who Meera was.

  She didn’t know what to think about that.

  Rhys was staring at the singer on the stage, his wineglass dangling from graceful fingers. “So, my fellow scholar,” he drawled, “which of the Fallen would refer to the Irin as a race of mongrel dogs?”

  “Mongrel dogs? That’s a new one.” She tapped her lip. “Is this Fallen here in the Americas?”

  Rhys nodded.

  “Who has a healthy ego and no respect for the Forgiven?” Meera mused. “My guess would be Bozidar.”

  “Right in one.” He lifted his wineglass. “You are as clever as they say.”

  “Do they say that? I’ll have to thank them.”

  “You know you’re clever.”

  “Do I?”

  “I’d lose patience with you if you didn’t. I’m not a patient man.”

  Meera let the matter drop. She knew the scribe wasn’t the patient sort. His restless energy didn’t fit with other academics she’d known. Was it the setting, the assignment… or was it her?

  “Bozidar.” She waited for the waitress to set down another glass. “Is that who he belonged to? The Grigori today?”

  “I think so.”

  “Interesting.”

  Rhys poured a generous serving into Meera’s glass. “Interesting is one word for it.”

  “He’s been moving closer every year. Tiny steps, but consistent ones.”

  “Why aren’t the scribe houses more concerned?”

  She shrugged. “They judge Fallen presence by the number of Grigori attacks. They’re old-fashioned that way.”

  “But not you.”

  “Oh, I’m very old-fashioned.” She smiled. “About some things.”

  Bozidar didn’t concern her. Maybe he should have, but Meera had dealt with Fallen antagonists her whole life. The heir of Anamitra had always been a target of the Fallen.

  “Mongrel dogs,” she murmured. “That’s interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we are. Mongrels, anyway.”

  The flash of Rhys’s eyes told her he didn’t like the label.

  She continued, “All but a few of us are an odd mixture of various angelic lines and human blood.” She sipped the dry red wine, another new taste since leaving Udaipur. “The Grigori, in their own twisted way, are more purely angelic than we are.”

  “Do you think that makes them more powerful?”

  “Yes and no. I do think it would give them some advantages if they knew what to do with it. And I think the prospect of that should terr
ify the Fallen.”

  “Free Grigori rising up in an army against the angels who made them?” Rhys made a face. “I was hopeful once. In my experience, free Grigori willing to discipline themselves are few and far between.”

  “But their numbers are growing every day,” Meera said. “Free Grigori and kareshta. With every Fallen angel we send back to heaven, more Fallen children are free. Surely that is better than endless war.”

  “You’re an idealist. Endless war is a reality. Even when we wish it wasn’t.”

  Meera felt a twinge of disappointment. She had hoped—she didn’t know why—that this scribe might have been different. That he might have seen clear to envisioning a third way beyond victory or defeat.

  The waitress brought their food, and Meera kept Rhys company as he slowly peeled off the layers of the day. When his gaze grew heavy, she reached over and brushed his hand, offering him a taste of the energy she gathered in the club. By the time they’d finished the wine and the food, the shadows had lifted a little. His belly was full and his soul was a little lighter.

  “Thank you.” He rose when she did.

  “For what?”

  “You know.”

  They walked out of the club when the musicians changed. Rhys held the door as Meera wrapped a scarf around her shoulders. The clouds had come back and the air had chilled.

  Rhys took a deep breath. “It smells like rain.” His sensual lips spread into a wide smile. It was the first time Meera had seen him truly happy, and the effect was breathtaking.

  She said, “You’re handsome when you smile.”

  He blinked. “I’m not.”

  Meera laughed. “I don’t think you get to decide if you’re handsome or not.”

  “You think I’m handsome?”

  “I think… I like your smile. Anyone would like your smile. It’s a nice smile.”

  His trapped her with his eyes. “I’m not asking about anyone.”

  Meera turned and started walking up Frenchmen Street, away from the entrance to the club and the inconvenient scholar with poetic lips.

  “Meera!” Rhys called.

  She stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  Rhys opened his mouth. Frowned. “I should walk you home.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. I don’t want you to.”

  He looked around. “This neighborhood can be dangerous after dark.”

  “I know.”

  “But—”

  “Rhys.” She stepped toward him and let the magic rise in her voice. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Go home and sleep. You need to sleep.”

  He opened his mouth as if to argue, then he shook his head and cleared his throat. “I don’t think—”

  “I’m fine.” Damn him, he was strong-minded. She wasn’t surprised, but it was still irritating. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

  “A few days?”

  A jazz band started on the corner, distracting him, and Meera stepped into the shadows, whispering a spell to avert his gaze. While he’d be able to see her from the corner of his eye, he wouldn’t be able to focus on her.

  “Meera?” He looked away. Looked back. The annoyed expression had returned. “Damn it, woman.”

  She bit her lip to stop from laughing and slipped away while he was turning in the street. A crowd gathered around him, and Meera kept to the shadows, slipping out of sight while he was distracted. She worked her way away from the river and farther into the Faubourg Marigny, heading toward the shotgun house that was her home.

  She stayed in the shadows, avoiding the drunks whose voices echoed in the quiet residential streets. Within three blocks, the music from Frenchmen died down and she walked in silence back to the alley that led to her garden.

  As if he’d been waiting up for her, the dark angel stepped out of the shadows the minute Meera latched the garden gate.

  “Vasu?” She sighed. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been expecting it. It was out of character for him to stay away as long as he had. “What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here?” The shadow compressed into a smaller form, and a little boy with gold eyes and dark hair stomped up to her, his hands fisted on his hips. “Why are you in America, Meera Bai?”

  Meera walked over and sat on the porch steps, bracing her chin in her hand. “Don’t be cross. And don’t pout.”

  The child transformed into an eerily handsome young man with long black hair and a trimmed beard. His hair shone with reddish-gold stripes not unlike a tiger’s coat, and the arms he crossed over his bare chest were covered in raised talesm the same golden ochre of his skin. Unlike Irin scribes, Vasu’s magic was inherent. The spells were part of him, not tattooed on but rising from beneath the surface.

  It was not an unfamiliar figure. Meera guessed this form was as close to his truest self as Vasu ever showed in human presence.

  “I’m not pouting,” he said.

  “You are.”

  “The last time I saw you, you were in your aunt’s compound where you belong.”

  Parrying with Rhys had taken too much out of her. “It’s not for you to say where I belong. And the last time you saw me was four years ago.”

  Vasu frowned. “No.”

  “Yes, Vasu. Four years. A lot has changed.”

  “I know. That’s why you should be back in Udaipur.”

  “I have work to do here.” Knowledge to find. Peace to pursue.

  “Is four years a long time?” He cocked his head. “You don’t look older. Are you going to get old like Anamitra? That was a choice, you know. I didn’t approve of that.”

  The Fallen angel truly didn’t understand time. Meera often wondered if Vasu still saw her as the child he’d played with so long ago within the fortress walls of Udaipur.

  He’d speak of things a hundred years before as if they’d happened yesterday, and he’d speak of the morning as if eternity was contained within hours. Anamitra had told her once that Vasu was a child and an ancient contained in the same body.

  “Can you just…?” Meera sighed. She was soul-deep exhausted from her time with Rhys, and she needed to drive to the haven in the morning. “I need to sleep.”

  Vasu crouched in front of her, unperturbed by silly human conventions like personal space. “You’re tired?”

  “I’m weary.”

  He touched her temple, and Meera felt the penetrating flood of his presence in the delicate touch. “You are weary. I’ll stay.”

  “Not necessary.”

  He ignored her. Before she could register it, he had transformed again, this time into a large house cat with dense black fur and amber eyes. He waited at her door as Meera retrieved her key and opened the house before he slipped into the darkness.

  As always when Vasu was nearby, Meera slept like a rock.

  She started early the next morning, leaving the city before rush hour traffic started. Vasu had disappeared in the night. She might see him in an hour or it might be three years. Both were equally likely.

  It was simply the way he was.

  “He’s not like the others,” Anamitra had told her when Vasu had first appeared. “He never will be. He was newly born when the angels fell. His home is earth, not heaven.”

  For centuries, Vasu had a relationship with Meera’s aunt. She couldn’t say it was an alliance—that would imply Anamitra had some influence or sway over Vasu. It would be closer to say that Vasu considered Anamitra—and Meera by extension—a loved and familiar pet. An amusement and comfort. Anamitra kept Vasu’s secrets… to an extent. And she never revealed her knowledge of him to any singer or scribe until Meera had been presented to her as an heir.

  “Don’t ever mistake Vasu for anything but what he is. He is an angel. He can be as terrible as he likes. He could take anything he wants. The power we cultivate with labor and study is as easy to him as breathing.”

  Meera never forgot it. She never forgot anything Anamitra had told her. That was her gift and her curse. Her memory was a perfectly formed prism stretc
hing back centuries, long before she’d been born. Anamitra had spent hundreds of years conveying the knowledge of Irina power and history to Meera before she’d surrendered to the heavens.

  Anamitra’s power belonged to Meera; one day she would pass it on to another. A daughter. A niece. A singer of her own blood. The heir of Meera Bai.

  She felt the weight of history and legacy bearing down on her as she spotted the old house in Saint James Parish that sat in a bend of the river and marked the edge of haven land. For as long as anyone could remember, that house had existed. No one lived there but an old man who usually sat on the edge of a small dock, hanging a fishing line into the water. No matter what time of day she arrived, no matter what the weather, he always seemed to be sitting there. Something about the old man always struck Meera as odd, but no one, not her mother, her father, or any of the other Irin at the haven, could find anything unusual about him.

  There are mysteries and peculiarities everywhere, she mused. Not only in the Irin world.

  Mysteries like a scholar who moved like a warrior, or a singer who was friendly with an angel.

  She turned off the main road and back into the twisting tracks leading to the back of the haven. Dense foliage grew thicker. Cypress and pine gave way to rolling lowlands filled with sugarcane where the air hung heavy and sweet. She turned left at the first live oak.

  An alley of trees guarded the front of Havre Hélène, the great Creole house that past singers had saved from ruin, but the entrance Meera used came in from the farm. The property stretched south from the river, guarded by high fences and thick foliage cultivated by labor and strong earth magic. Sugar was what had run the plantation when it had belonged to humans. Sugar kept their new farm running still.

  Meera felt the wards welcome her as she crossed the threshold of the haven. The old overseer’s home had been ripped out when the land was bought, and a new guardhouse had been built in a style matching the house. A mated couple, both of her father’s clan, lived in it now with their young child. When Meera had decided to leave India, her father, Maarut, had called them and they’d followed without question.