The Seeker

by Elizabeth Hunter

“And when does the Wolf arrive?” Sari asked.

  “She said four days, which would be tomorrow morning,” Rhys said. “But how she’s arriving is a mystery to everyone but her.” He glanced at the two scribes hustling toward them with a wave. “I think these gentlemen will take your luggage to the cottage Patiala set up for you. Let’s go meet Meera.”

  He walked across the lawn, marveling at all the decorations. Flowers and fountains seemed to have sprung up like magic—they probably had sprung up by magic—and the heady scent of freesia filled the air.

  “Rhys!” Meera spotted him and broke into a huge smile. “You’re earlier than I thought you’d be.” She ran down the steps and into his embrace. “Traffic must have been easy.”

  There. Safe. Surrounded. He let out a huge breath, not failing to notice the three new Tomir warriors who had joined Maarut on the porch. They had come for the mating celebration and decided to stay at Maarut’s request.

  Rhys was decidedly in favor of that. Meera, less so.

  “Sha ne’ev reshon.” Rhys kept his arm around Meera. “This is my former watcher, Damien, and his mate, Sari.”

  “We are also his friends,” Damien said, taking Meera’s outstretched hand and bowing over it. At the first touch of his hand to Meera’s, Damien looked up with wide eyes. “Soma…? Does he know?” Damien glanced at Rhys.

  Meera nodded. “He does.”

  Damien looked at Sari. “Did you know?”

  She smiled softly. “Some secrets are not mine to tell, my love. You know this.”

  Damien let out a long breath and fell to his knees before Meera. Tears filled his eyes. “Forgive me. It has been over seven hundred years since I have been in the presence of a keeper.”

  “Rise, brother. I am just a woman.”

  “No. You are much more than that.” Damien rose and wiped his eyes unashamedly. “Does the light still burn in this house, sister?”

  “It does, and you are welcome to its light, you and your own.”

  Damien bent and kissed both Meera’s cheeks reverently. “I am honored to be here, both for my friend and to meet you.”

  “As I am honored to meet you.” Meera smiled up at Rhys. “My reshon speaks very highly of you.”

  “I find that hard to believe considering how headstrong he’s always been. Rhys of Glast is the absolute worst kind of scribe to command. Stubborn. Arrogant. Filled with a vast well of self-importance—”

  “I think you mean confident in my own opinions.” Rhys pulled Damien away from Meera. “I’m almost sure that’s what you meant to say.”

  Sari pursed her lips. “No, I’m fairly sure I’ve also heard him say—”

  “Aren’t you tired and needing to freshen up?” Rhys asked. “Let’s go feed you. Maybe then you’ll stop talking.”

  “Oh no.” Meera linked her arm with Damien’s. “Please, tell me more.”

  Rhys was sleeping that night when he heard the knock on his cottage door. He rose and rubbed his eyes as he opened it.

  Maarut was standing at the door. “Dress in your linen clothes. Patiala says the Wolf is at the border of the wards.”

  Without another word, Rhys nodded and combed his fingers through his hair. He dressed hastily in the ceremonial linen tunic and trousers, walking barefoot out of the cottage and onto the grass. He followed the line of torches, not to the formal alley that led to the river, but back to the vast sugarcane fields at the back of the property. He could hear drums beating in the distance and the sound of foxes howling.

  Ata’s retinue?

  Rhys found Meera in the predawn light and took her hand as the sound of drums grew closer. They knelt on the grass with Patiala and Maarut on one side, Rhys’s parents standing quietly on the other.

  Angharad and Edmund had arrived late in the night, only a few hours before, and he’d barely greeted them before they’d begged for sleep, but seeing his mother and father that morning, dressed in the linen robes he remembered from his childhood, he was utterly grateful they were there. They were meeting a legend of Irina history, a warrior come back from the dead.

  Scribes and singers filled the lawn, many holding torches to light up the pathways. Others held heavy ropes of flowers to greet their guests. Roch and Sabine were standing to the side, hand in hand, and Rhys was pleased to see Sabine’s expression was serene.

  Meera squeezed his hand. “Are you ready?”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.” She smiled at him, and he saw a bright blue stone sparkling at the crease of her nose.

  “That’s new.”

  “Not new, I just don’t wear it often. Do you like it?”

  Rhys smiled. “I love it.”

  “I do too.”

  They turned back to the cane fields where the sound of drums was growing louder. Rhys’s heart pounded with them, with the power he felt permeating the ground.

  Such strong magic.

  The wolves emerged first, their silver-grey coats glowing in the moonlight. Five of them leapt out of the fields, circling before the gathered scribes and singers before the largest wolf lifted its head and howled. They sat in a semicircle at the edge of the fields, wild sentries waiting for their commander.

  The foxes came next, their bright red fur vivid against the green of the fields and the grass. Their green eyes shone in the darkness as they ran back and forth, sniffing the ground and the people gathered.

  A few moments later, two drummers emerged from the fields, one male and one female, holding wide drums they beat with bone clappers. Their tattoos were different than Ata’s and reached from their toes to their forehead. The sides of their heads were shaved and tattooed, and the rest of their hair fell down their back in a fountain of long black braids.

  Their clothing was made of linen, as all Irin ceremonial clothing was, but instead of white, it was a vivid purple styled into long-sleeved tunics secured by elaborate, inlaid belts.

  “Dene Ghal,” Meera whispered. “Native Irin from the north and the west.”

  Two singers crossed to the drummers and scattered red flower petals at their feet.

  “She invited guests.” Rhys was thrilled and a little intimidated by the power he felt from the man and the woman. “Where did they come from?”

  Meera shook her head. “I know a large community of Dene Ghal still lives in the Pacific Northwest and Canada, but it’s a very spread-out group.”

  The drums kept on, unceasing, and Rhys heard more footsteps coming through the fields. The Irin who emerged next would have stopped the fiercest Grigori in their tracks. Four spear bearers, three male and one female, stepped forward. The scribes were tattooed with familiar-looking talesm, but the woman bore no tattoos. Her rich brown skin glowed in the torchlight.

  Both the men and the woman wore crimson linen, their robes pinned at the shoulders with elaborate gold brooches. More gold was threaded through their hair, which was twisted in intricate coils and ropes around their heads. The spears were also gold and the handles were carved and painted brightly.

  “Koconah Citlal,” Meera whispered. “Irin from the south. Related to the Uwachi Toma. You could think of them as distant cousins.”

  Four scribes stepped forward and held out necklaces of red flowers. The Koconah Citlal warriors inclined their heads and allowed the flowers to be placed around their necks.

  Finally, flanked by the four spear bearers and the two drummers, Ata emerged, but she barely resembled the simple woman they’d met in the bayou.

  She was still bare from the waist up, but paint had been added to her tattoos to create a stunning pattern of color. The linen she wore around her waist was bright yellow and secured with a gold belt. And on her head was a tall crown of gold feathers radiating in a half circle reminiscent of the rising sun.

  Atawakabiche, last of the Uwachi Toma and Painted Wolf of the Western Lands, was in every inch of her bearing a queen and a warrior.

  She walked with a gold spear in her hand, and elaborate ceremonial armor wrapped around her lo
wer legs. Her foxes circled her, yipping excitedly, and the drummers and spear bearers beside her bowed their heads as she passed.

  As she approached them, Rhys and Meera rose. Her eyes still held the edge of fury, but her voice was utter politeness.

  “Does the fire still burn in this place?” Ata asked in the Old Language.

  Meera answered, “It does, and you are welcome to its light. You and your own.”

  Patiala stepped forward, handed Ata a rope of flowers, and bowed. “Atawakabiche, sister of Uriel’s blood, you honor my family with your presence. We have prepared the guest house for you, or a comfortable tent if you would prefer.”

  Ata looked around at the warriors and animals who followed her. “I think whichever option is closer to the outdoors for my animals.”

  “We will prepare the tent.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ata spotted Sabine and Roch on the edge of the lamplight. She walked over without a word and stood in front of Sabine. Then the fearsome woman leaned forward and whispered something in Sabine’s ear before she turned back to Patiala and Maarut.

  Rhys exchanged a glance with Meera, but he had no idea what might have been said. Sabine’s expression was frozen. Roch only looked confused.

  Patiala and Maarut grabbed torches and led the visitors to the largest of the tents, an elaborate structure lavishly decorated with silk cushions, large mattresses, and rugs Patiala had pulled out of storage.

  “Damn,” Rhys muttered. “I was hoping they would choose the house.”

  “So you could move into the tent?” Meera asked.

  “Have you seen inside? It’s smashing.”

  The guests of honor departed before the sun breached the horizon, and the scribes and singers of Havre Hélène retreated to their beds. Roch and Sabine drifted away before Rhys could find them and ask what had passed between them and Ata.

  He took Meera’s hand in his, eyeing her Tomir guards. “Come to my cottage, just for a few hours. I have a feeling today is going to be hectic, and I’d love some time for just the two of us.”

  She melted into his chest. “That sounds amazing.” She waved her guards away and slipped her arm around Rhys. “We’re going to have to steal the time when we can.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve spent several hundred years perfecting the ability to be sneaky.”

  “I know. Damien and Sari spilled all your secrets.”

  “All of them?”

  “A badger, Rhys?” She shook her head. “Honestly, what were you thinking?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Meera sat in the library with Roch, Damien, Sari, and Rhys. “Go over what we know,” she said. “And tell us what Ata said to Sabine, if that’s within your rights to tell.”

  “What passed between Ata and Sabine doesn’t relate to any of you,” Roch said. “But I need tonight to myself. I’ll make our excuses to Patiala.”

  “It’s the welcome feast,” Meera said. “The whole haven will be there. We’ll miss you, but if you need time, take time.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sari said, “Why has killing Bozidar become a priority? He’s existed in North America for centuries. Irin have had their skirmishes, but by and large, he’s kept a lower profile than most Fallen.”

  “The lower profile has also allowed him to grow in numbers and strength,” Rhys said. “We were talking with Zephirin—one of the New Orleans scribes and a friend of Meera’s—about what they know and what kind of resistance is in place.”

  “Is there anything?” Damien asked. “If he’s alive, his sons are still under his control.”

  “If he even knows they exist,” Meera said. “Zep says there is already a contingent of Bozidar’s sons who aren’t free of him, but they aren’t loyal either. They’re rebels who’ve escaped his attention. Flying under the radar, so to speak. They don’t make trouble. He forgets they exist.”

  Roch said, “He does have a lot of children.”

  “Daughters?” Damien asked.

  “A few,” Rhys said. “But there is no organized protection for kareshta like Kostas has developed or what’s happening in Thailand. It seems that most of Bozidar’s female offspring are simply abandoned. They wouldn’t have any idea who they are.”

  Sari shook her head in disgust. “Those poor girls.”

  Meera continued. “These rebels have been tracking Bozidar’s movements for the past decade. He’s increased his numbers, spread his influence. He’s been slowly working his way down the center of the country from Chicago.”

  Roch said, “He’s counting on infighting between eastern and western Irin communities, and he won’t be disappointed. There’s no love lost there.” Roch stared across the room. “He’s moving down the river. Splitting the continent in two. I bet he’s got his eye on Houston.”

  Sari asked, “If he wants Houston, why would he be in New Orleans?”

  “A flank attack,” Roch murmured. “The Fallen would see New Orleans as the soft belly of Houston. Less guarded. More lazy.”

  “The scribe house in New Orleans isn’t lazy,” Meera said.

  Rhys said, “Maybe not. But I wouldn’t call them vigilant.”

  “They haven’t had to be.” Meera spoke up in their defense. “They try to keep the peace. If a Grigori isn’t causing problems, live and let live.”

  “Except,” Roch said, “this angel is using that peace-loving attitude to lull them into complacency.” The scribe rolled out a map on the library table. “I’ve identified as many new nests of Grigori with Zep and his Grigori associate as I possibly can.”

  Meera had to admit she was shocked. There were far more red markers on the map than she’d expected. Like the New Orleans scribes, she’d been lulled into thinking lack of deaths meant lack of Grigori. It clearly wasn’t the case.

  Nearly two dozen red areas were highlighted, most in the industrial zones of the city. Warehouses, abandoned apartment complexes, and condemned houses.

  Sari asked, “Have you looked into unremarkable deaths?”

  Meera asked, “Unremarkable deaths?”

  Sari said, “Grigori trying to remain hidden often feed from the homeless and the poor, who usually don’t have good medical care. Particularly the homeless. Humans might die unexpectedly, but their deaths will be attributed to liver failure, heart attack, or some other consequence of poor health, not anything unnatural.”

  “I’ve checked into it,” Rhys said. “Higher than normal, but not enough to raise any human alarm.”

  “There could be an epidemic of Grigori,” Damien muttered, “and it wouldn’t raise human alarm.”

  “Right now we can’t do anything about the human deaths except to recommend upping patrols,” Roch said. “Which the scribe house is already doing. I don’t know how much further we want to drag them into your plans, but if you want to keep the haven hidden—”

  “We want to keep the haven hidden.” Meera didn’t even want to think about telling her mother she’d revealed the location of Havre Hélène to Zep and his brothers, who would immediately report it to their watcher in New Orleans. “We can do this on our own.”

  Rhys nodded. “Fine. We have resources.”

  Meera leaned over the map. “So what do we do? What is the plan?”

  “He knows you’re here.” Vasu appeared in the corner of the room.

  In unison, Damien and Rhys muttered curses and flung silver daggers in the direction of the voice. The Fallen disappeared and the daggers embedded in the toile-covered wall.

  Roch shouted, “What was that?”

  “Will you stop?” Meera asked. “My mother is going to murder you all if you ruin her library. Vasu, what are you doing here?”

  Roch pointed at the angel. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Vasu appeared behind the scribe. “Yes,” he whispered. Then he disappeared again and reformed standing behind Sari.

  “Don’t”—she raised her staff when the daggers pointed her direction—“even think about it. Vasu, you
pain in the ass, don’t make me hurt you.”

  All weapons were lowered, though the temper of the room remained high.

  “Explain yourself,” Meera said.

  “No,” Rhys added, “explain what you mean about Bozidar knowing we’re here. Explain why this is all happening now, Vasu! What have you done?”

  “Me? Nothing. What makes you think this is my fault?” He turned to Meera. “Bozidar knows about Havre Hélène. He’s known for years.”

  “So why—”

  “He can’t be bothered.” Vasu waved a careless hand. “Or… the wards are too strong. Or he knows you’d kill too many of his sons before he could do anything. Something like that.” The angel sat on the library table and swung his legs back and forth. “This table is sturdy.”

  “He knows the haven is here?” Meera felt her stomach drop. The singers. The children. The hidden ones.

  “Why now, Vasu?” Rhys wouldn’t let up. “If he couldn’t be bothered before, why now?”

  “Maybe… he likes parties.” The angel grinned.

  Meera’s mind was spinning. “Rhys, what are we going to do? He knows we’re here.”

  Rhys didn’t answer, but Meera saw him having a wordless conversation with Damien and Sari. There were raised eyebrows, frowns, and head shakes.

  “You have a veritable army coming to your mating ceremony,” Damien muttered. “It could work.”

  Rhys said, “If he’s coming anyway—”

  “He wouldn’t be able to resist.” Damien shook his head. “I see your point, but I can’t be a part of this decision. It’s not my haven to protect. What you’re thinking carries a lot of risk.”

  Meera tried not to lose her temper. She hated being left out of the conversation. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

  “There are warriors in this haven,” Rhys said quietly. “Legendary heroes.”

  Sari let out a long breath. “Wow. That is… bold.”

  Meera knew enough about how Rhys’s mind worked to imagine what he was thinking. “You’re suggesting we somehow tell Bozidar that the Painted Wolf—the last warrior of the Uwachi Toma—is here and… what? Use her as bait?”