The Seeker

by Elizabeth Hunter

  He wore no shirt, and Meera tried not to stare at his chest. “Do you miss cool weather?”

  “Constantly.” He reached out and played with the end of her braid. “Tell me about the weather in Udaipur.”

  “There are a few months that are quite hot, but it is drier than here. The rains come in the middle of summer and cool everything off. I love the rain.”

  “I do too.” He brushed her shoulder with the end of one braid. “Is it in the mountains? A valley? Plains?”

  “It’s lake country.” Her heart was racing. “The city is surrounded by lakes, and there are hills.”

  He’d dropped her braid and was trailing a single finger up and down her arm.

  “I want to kiss you.” He leaned down and whispered, “Actually, I want to do far more than kiss you, but Roch isn’t far away, and I don’t care for an audience.” He bit her earlobe and Meera smiled.

  “So kiss me,” she said. “Kissing is too often overlooked.”

  But though Meera was expecting a peck on the cheek, she got far more than that. Rhys braced himself over her, lowered himself down, and took her mouth fully with his.

  Every time he’d kissed her, it had been different. Their first kiss was a test and a taste. Their second, a careful declaration. The third, hot and hungry.

  But this…

  He drank her in like a parched man in the desert. Meera lifted her arms and pulled him down until he was caging her body with his. Rhys’s kiss was openmouthed, slow, and deep. His tongue tasted of mint with a hint of the whiskey he and Roch had shared after dinner.

  Meera wanted his weight. Wanted the heavy feel of his body on hers. She hooked an ankle around his thighs and pulled him closer, only to have Rhys nudge her knees open so he could settle in the cradle of her body.

  She sighed into his mouth.

  It was so good.

  Years had passed since Meera had taken any lover, and she hadn’t felt the touch of an Irin male for over a century. His carefully contained power was stronger than any aphrodisiac.

  His lips were firm and his hand rested carefully on her hip, but she wanted more. She ran her hands up his sides and along the ridges of muscle that framed his lower abdomen. She scraped her fingernails along his skin until his careful mouth lost its patience and nipped her jaw in rebuke.

  Meera laughed. “Don’t you like it?” She’d felt the quick shiver on his skin. The raised flesh against her thigh. She dipped her fingers beneath his waistband, teasing him for a second before she ran them up the center of his belly, playing with the fine black line of hair. She brushed her thumbs over his flat nipples and felt him groan against her neck.

  “Princess, you’re tempting me.”

  She arched her hips up. “Good.”

  His mouth took hers again, and she couldn’t say a word. He kept their lips fused together as he began to move, pressing his arousal between her legs. She could feel her flesh heating, growing damp and hungry for him.

  Meera reached for his pants, but Rhys grabbed her hand and knit their fingers together.

  He didn’t mean to—

  “Oooh!”

  Rhys covered Meera’s lips with his own and swallowed her moan as the line of his erection stroked at a perfect angle between her thighs. The cloth between them was thin, and Meera felt everything. The act felt illicit. Forbidden. He was teasing her to orgasm fully clothed, only a few feet away from another scribe.

  Meera arched up when she was close, but Rhys kept right on going, not stopping for a second until the tension gathering in her belly snapped and she came hard and long, shuddering beneath him. She felt a burst of magic release from her body and fill the tent, reaching for Rhys and surrounding him.

  He lifted his mouth and arched up, red riding high on his cheekbones and his lips swollen from her kisses. He locked his eyes with hers and let out a long breath as he reached for her knee and angled it up until he pressed long and hard between her thighs.

  Meera saw a flash of silver in the darkness, and Rhys swallowed a guttural groan of pleasure as he came. He released her knee and rested on top of her, pressing his cheek to hers. His breath was hot on her neck.

  “Meera,” he whispered, kissing her neck. “Sha ne’ev reshon.”

  The tender words nearly brought her to tears.

  My beloved reshon.

  His skin was damp with sweat. He placed one more kiss on her mouth before he rolled to the side and stripped off the loose shorts he’d been wearing, cleaning himself before he rolled them into a ball he tucked into the corner of his duffel bag.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Enjoying the view?”

  “Yes.” She ran a hand down the intricate tattoos on his back. “Your family marks are long.”

  “That’s not the compliment I was looking for.”

  Meera rolled her eyes. “I don’t need to tell you things you already know.”

  Rhys laughed, pulled on a clean pair of shorts, then stretched out beside her, pushing up her shirt to place his hand over her abdomen.

  Meera smiled and tried to move him. “I have a belly.” It was the one part of her body she was a bit self-conscious about.

  Rhys said not a word, but his hand slowed and he moved it deliberately over the soft rise. He pressed a kiss over her belly button and whispered, “Perfect.”

  The gesture was so unexpectedly tender her breath stopped for a moment. She reached down and traced the arch of his eyebrow and the line of his nose, wanting to explore every inch of him.

  Who are you, Rhys of Glast? Who is the man the Creator designed for me?

  He stretched out next to her, scooting his sleeping bag closer to hers, and tucked her into the curve of his arm.

  “Tell me more about Udaipur,” he said sleepily.

  “Are you going to fall asleep?”

  “Yes.” He yawned. “But I want to hear your voice while I do.”

  “Okay.”

  She woke in the blue light before dawn. Something was waiting for her in the darkness. Meera untangled herself from Rhys’s arms and crept out of the tent.

  The pontoon rocked slightly on the gently moving water, and the moon was full, hanging low in the sky. Meera walked to the edge of the boat and looked out toward the forest. A flash of green eyes met hers before they disappeared.

  Come with me.

  It was an animal. Animals couldn’t talk. But there was something out there, and it was calling her.

  Meera opened every sense and searched in the night. She heard the souls of the two scribes resting peacefully on the boat. She felt the hum of plant and animal life verdant in the bayou.

  But there was something else. Someone else.

  Anya niyah…

  The whisper of a children’s song carried in the wind.

  Mashak tamak…

  “She’s old.” A voice came from the edge of the pontoon. Vasu was sitting in child form, swinging his legs back and forth from the railing of the pontoon.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Did you miss me?”

  “Not particularly.”

  He frowned. “She’s old. Older than you. Older than Anamitra.”

  Meera frowned and slipped on the rubber boots Roch had set out for her, then she grabbed a headlamp and stuck it in her pocket. She whispered a spell for night vision before she slid the wooden planks over the edge of the water and into the trees.

  Vasu walked beside her, a child with ancient eyes. “Do you know who you seek, Meera Bai?”

  “No.” She glanced down. “And neither do you.”

  “That’s true. She is an enigma. The singer who can slay an angel with her voice. So many others tried. She was the only Irina who won. Is that why you want her magic?”

  “It’s not about winning.”

  “It is for him.”

  Meera turned to reply, but Vasu had disappeared.

  Annoying creature.

  Walking carefully across the boards and balancing herself on the knees of bald cypress
near the shore, Meera entered the forest. She picked each step with care but followed the memory of the green eyes and the whispered song.

  Cicadas and crickets sang around her, adding to the wild cacophony of life that surrounded her. The magic of the bayou filled her up and spilled over. She could feel the threshold as she crossed it, a magical boundary redolent with moss and the earthy scent of pine.

  A fox jumped on a log and perched there, watching Meera as she came closer. It was so intelligent-looking, she almost wondered if Vasu had shifted again. Perhaps it was some other creature.

  “Do you understand me?” she asked, coming closer. She tried French. Did foxes speak French? “Are you a true animal or something else?”

  “No.”

  Meera raised her shields and spun around to see a lean woman squatting next to a fallen cypress log. She was dark-skinned even in the moonlight, and intricate black tattoos covered most of her body. Her hair was knotted at the top of her head, and a thick necklace of shells hung around her neck. She wore no clothes save for a skirt made of animal skin wrapped around her waist.

  “It’s just a fox,” the woman said in French, and the animal went to her. “My fox.” It curled around her arm and settled next to the woman after an affectionate scratch behind the ears.

  “Atawakabiche.” Meera stepped toward her. This had to be the legendary Irina. There was no hint of evil around her, no sense of illusion or Fallen trickery. Though she was difficult to see in the darkness, there was a heady power that lay within her like a banked fire.

  “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

  “You found us.” Meera fell to her knees before the legendary Irina. “We were looking for you, but you found us.”

  The Wolf cocked her head, not unlike the foxes that gathered around her. Two more had come and stood at attention as she spoke. “You called me.”

  “We did?”

  “Something did.” The Wolf brushed away the animals. “Is your mate with you?”

  “My mate?”

  “I felt mating magic,” the woman said, standing to her full height. “I haven’t felt that for a very long time.” She was tall and lean with the muscles of an archer. She reminded Meera of her mother. “Stand up. Is your mate near?”

  Meera rose. “I… I’m not mated.”

  “Are you sure?” She frowned. “Come closer.”

  Meera did, lowering the shields she’d thrown up at the first hint of danger.

  Atawakabiche, legendary warrior of the Irina, breathed out a long string of words in a language Meera couldn’t translate, then she fell to her knees.

  “What are you doing?” Meera asked.

  “Somasikara.” The Wolf breathed out the name with reverence. “Sha somasikara. You are a keeper.”

  Of all the things Meera had expected, this one hadn’t even crossed her mind. “You remember the keepers?”

  “I know the magic of a somasikara when I feel it.”

  “It’s been a long time since anyone called me by that name.” As always, Meera’s heart was humbled by the use of her title in the Old Language. The somasikara were the keepers of memory, and it was rare for younger Irina to even know the word. “Please.” Meera held out her hand. “Mother, I come to ask your wisdom.”

  “I thought I would never see another keeper on the earth. I thought they had all been taken.” Atawakabiche looked up, weariness written on the planes of her face. “Surely Uriel has sent you so I can finally die.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rhys woke with the dawn and the knowledge that Meera was not beside him. He sat up, activated his talesm, and opened his senses.

  Two powerful energies came to Rhys. One was Meera, familiar and intoxicating. The second was older. Far older. He rolled to the tent flap silently, grateful that the zipper was already undone.

  Who was with Meera? Was it Vasu?

  No, he’d felt Vasu before. This was an unfamiliar magic.

  He moved on silent feet, tapping on the edge of Roch’s tent before he walked across the planks leading to shore.

  He didn’t draw his knives.

  He crossed the unsteady bridge and followed the muddy footprints to the clearing in the forest.

  Meera. And a woman who could only be the ancient warrior they’d been seeking.

  Her skin, from her chin to her toes, was intricately tattooed with signs and symbols he didn’t recognize. They were not in the Old Language. This was some different magic. Her hair was pulled up into a topknot, and she had looped a crown of shells around her head. She wore no clothes save for a short leather skirt.

  The warrior woman watched him from her seat on a fallen log. Meera had her back to him and did not turn.

  “Meera?”

  She turned. “Rhys, she found us.”

  Yes, she did. Why?

  Meera was speaking French. The woman appeared to understand it. But then, a ruler of the Uwachi Toma would have easily spoken French to communicate with the Europeans who invaded their land.

  “I can see she found us.” But he couldn’t see whether they were welcome or not. “Atawakabiche of the Uwachi Toma”—he spoke carefully in French—“I am Rhys of Glast, son of Angharad the Sage. Archivist of Istanbul—”

  “Where?” she asked.

  Rhys racked his brain for a name she might recognize. “I am the archivist of Byzas, the city between the seas, now called Istanbul.” Some of the old scribes in Cappadocia used that name.

  “You’re from across the oceans,” she said. “Like her.”

  “Yes.”

  “You are her mate.”

  Rhys paused. “I am her reshon.”

  Atawakabiche nodded. “Yes, I can sense that. You are welcome on my land.”

  “Thank you, mother.”

  “For now. When I have no more use for you, then you must leave.”

  “That’s fair.”

  “I don’t care if it’s fair or not. That is what will be.”

  Rhys nodded carefully, but the Wolf was already ignoring him and speaking to Meera again.

  “All my people are gone,” she said. “I believe I am the last one living. You must take my memories so that I may join them.”

  “You could be correct,” Meera said sadly. “And I am so sorry. But surely there are other people you might—”

  “No.” Atawakabiche made a dismissive motion with her hands. “I have made my peace with this. It is the way of ages and peoples and war. One group rises when another falls.”

  “I don’t believe it has to be that way,” Meera said. “The Creator has granted you life despite your loss. You and your brother brought five centuries of peace to this continent. Can’t you teach us how? The Irin people desperately need peace.”

  “You have a beautiful spirit, Somasikara, but what you’re asking for is more than you realize. When I have given my memories to your keeping, then I will be content to fade.”

  Rhys heard Roch coming down the forest path.

  “Atawakabiche, there is another with us,” Meera said. “He is my friend.”

  “Then he may be on my land as well.” She looked up and narrowed her eyes. “I have seen this one before. He’s a son of the Old Ones.”

  Rhys looked over his shoulder. Roch was standing with hastily-pulled-on pants and a half-buttoned shirt.

  “Meera, you all right?” he asked.

  “She’s fine,” Atawakabiche said. “Why are you here again?”

  Meera started, “His mate—”

  “No.” She held up a hand. “I asked him. He visits this wilderness often. I recognize him. What do you want?”

  “The woman I love…,” Roch started. “My mate is sick in her mind. You helped her once. I think you can help her again.”

  “When was this?”

  “Nearly two hundred years ago,” Roch said.

  “In the past.” Atawakabiche frowned. “I help anyone who comes into the swamp if they are not of the Fallen.”

  “Her name is Sabine,” R
och continued. “She was hurt and calling for you when you found her. Anya niyah, mashak tamak.”

  The warrior closed her eyes. “Old magic. Child’s magic. There have been many.”

  “Children?” Rhys asked.

  “If they are lost, my foxes find them. If they mean harm, my wolves find them.”

  Apparently her canines had good instincts. The Grigori had said they’d been attacked by wolves.

  “And what happens if they seek knowledge?” Rhys asked.

  Atawakabiche examined him. “You have a seeker’s face. And you are mated to the somasikara.” She rose and three foxes circled her legs. “You may come with me.”

  Roch started. “Mother—”

  “No.” She raised her hand. “I know what you want, old son, but I’ve given her everything I can. It is up to you now. Wait here and think about what your mate needs.”

  Meera turned to Rhys and Roch with wide eyes. “Roch?”

  Rhys turned to his brother. “If you want us to stay—”

  “No,” Roch said. His jaw was tense. “Go. I knew it was probably… Just go.”

  “I’ll try to get more.”

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “You can try.”

  Rhys frowned. “She said she’d given Sabine everything she needs.”

  “Don’t make the mistake of equating age with virtue or wisdom,” Roch said in a low voice. “Just because a singer is old doesn’t mean she’s kind. Doesn’t mean she knows more than you do.”

  Rhys glanced at Meera and Atawakabiche, who were huddled together. The Wolf was hanging on everything Meera said. “Okay.”

  “You don’t believe me.” Roch nodded at the two women. “Watch. She wants something from Meera, otherwise she’d have stayed as hidden as she has before. You watch out for our girl, Rhys.”

  “I will.”

  Roch’s eyes softened. “I know you will.” He clasped Rhys’s hand. “I’ll get your packs ready and stay with the boat. You know how to mark a trail?”

  “I’m not completely useless.”