The Seeker Read online

  He’s a scribe looking for answers. If only a cagey—

  and frustratingly attractive—singer will let him help.

  * * *

  The Seeker

  Summoned to the Gulf Coast of Louisiana, Rhys of Glast, Irin archivist and scribe of Istanbul, must convince a legendary Irina singer to trust him. His success could shift the balance of power all over the Irin world and give singers an important key to their past.

  Meera didn’t call for Rhys’s help, and she doesn’t need it. The scribe’s mission is to bring more martial magic into the Irin world, while Meera has been looking for a path toward peace. She’s convinced that some other motive is at work, and his stubborn arrogance doesn’t pass for charm in her hallowed opinion.

  Discovering ancient Irina magic should be something both scholars can agree on, but can these two rivals find any common ground? Neither Rhys nor Meera can ignore the simmering heat between them, but will attraction overcome the caution that has shaped both their lives?

  THE SEEKER is the seventh book in the Irin Chronicles, a romantic contemporary fantasy series by Elizabeth Hunter, USA Today best-selling author of the Elemental Mysteries.

  Praise for Elizabeth Hunter

  Elizabeth Hunter's books are delicious and addicting, like the best kind of chocolate. She hooked me from the first page, and her stories just keep getting better and better. Paranormal romance fans won't want to miss this exciting author!

  Thea Harrison, NYT bestselling author

  Developing compelling and unforgettable characters is a real Hunter strength as she proves yet again with Kyra and Leo. Another amazing novel by a master storyteller!

  RT Magazine

  This book more than lived up to the expectations I had, in fact it blew them out of the water.

  This Literary Life

  A towering work of romantic fantasy that will captivate the reader's mind and delight their heart. Elizabeth Hunter's ability to construct such a sumptuous narrative time and time again is nothing short of amazing.

  The Reader Eater

  The Seeker

  Irin Chronicles Book Seven

  Elizabeth Hunter

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

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  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Elizabeth Hunter

  The Seeker

  Copyright © 2018

  Elizabeth Hunter

  ISBN: 978-1-941674-25-3

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Cover: Damonza

  Editor: Anne Victory

  Proofreader: Linda, Victory Editing

  If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, please delete it and purchase your own copy from an authorized retailer. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Recurve Press LLC

  PO Box 4034

  Visalia, California

  USA

  ElizabethHunterWrites.com

  For my son

  * * *

  Light of my life.

  Travel companion.

  The ultimate adventurer.

  I thank God every day I get to be your mom.

  Chapter One

  Houston, Texas

  Rhys of Glast, only son of Edmund of Glast and Angharad the Sage, Irin scribe and archivist of Istanbul, was not impressed by the biscuits and gravy at the diner on Kirby Drive. The biscuits were passably flaky, but the gravy tasted too much of flour and was thick enough to stand a fork in. Fortunately, the chocolate cream pie had redeemed the meal.

  The waitress walked around the counter and down to Rhys’s booth with a steaming pot of coffee. “Warm-up?”

  Rhys quickly put a hand over his mug, an edge of ash-black ink peeking from the long-sleeved linen shirt he wore. “Tea.”

  Her brown eyes widened. “Pardon me, sugar?”

  “Tea,” Rhys said again. “I’m drinking tea, not coffee.”

  She smiled. “That’s right. Can I get you some more hot water?”

  “Please. And another bag of tea.”

  “You got it.” She walked away with a natural sway to her wide hips, dodging with practiced grace the server coming at her.

  There were two waitresses working in the diner that night, the older black woman with greying hair and quick reflexes and a younger white woman Rhys suspected was just starting her job. She looked to the older woman almost constantly for cues and lingered at a table in the back corner near the toilets where a brown-haired young man smiled and flirted with her.

  Rhys catalogued the diner in detail. Fading incandescent bulbs reflecting off dated gold-veined mirrors provided ample visibility of every angle in the restaurant. The red vinyl booths squeaked whenever patrons moved, and an old-fashioned bell over the door alerted him to any new entry.

  In addition to the waitresses, there were seven other patrons. Three students who had taken over a round booth, a middle-aged couple who appeared to be quietly fighting, an older man lifting coffee to his mouth with shaking hands, and the Grigori flirting with the young waitress.

  Rhys sipped his tea as he watched the Grigori. It was plain black tea, nothing like the symphony of teas he was accustomed to in Istanbul. There one could find tea blended with spices from all over the world in countless varieties and subtle variations. Love of tea had redeemed Istanbul for Rhys.

  Pie was on its way to redeeming Houston.

  The Grigori glanced at Rhys and opened his newspaper, pointedly ignoring the scribe who watched him. A newspaper meant the Grigori had to be over sixty, early middle age for one of the Fallen children. Though his face was young and attractive to the humans around him, he could pose a slight challenge if he chose to confront Rhys.

  The air-conditioning blasted in the restaurant, even in the middle of the night, forcing the hot, wet air of the Bayou City to cold condensation that ran down the windows and scattered the light of the passing traffic on Kirby Drive.

  The Grigori glanced up, then looked down again. Despite the air-conditioning, Rhys could see a gleam of perspiration at the man’s temples.

  Rhys of Glast had spent his formative years in the cool, rolling hills of Somerset in southern England, but for some reason known only to the Creator, his entire adult career had been spent in various places that baked and steamed.

  Spain. Morocco. Istanbul.

  And now he was being sent to New Orleans, Louisiana, by way of Houston, Texas.

  Hot and hotter.

  The waitress returned with a battered metal pot with a red-and-yellow packet wedged on the side. “You want another piece of pie?” She motioned to the near-empty plate. “Sure didn’t seem like you liked the biscuits and gravy much.”
>
  “I didn’t.”

  The woman didn’t look offended; her pink-painted mouth turned up at the corner. “More pie, Mr. Bond?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The waitress glanced over her shoulder before she turned back to Rhys. “Fancy British guy eating pie and drinking tea at two in the morning on a Wednesday night? Sitting in the corner booth with one eye on the door and the other on that flirty fella in the booth by the bathroom?” She wrote something down on her order pad. “If I didn’t know you weren’t carrying, I’d be worried.”

  Rhys sat up straighter. “Not that you’re wrong, but how do you know I’m not carrying a firearm?”

  The tilted smile turned into a grin. “Sugar, I’ve been waiting tables in Texas for thirty-five years. I know when someone’s got a gun.”

  “Fair enough.” He made a mental note not to discount the waitress.

  Rhys hadn’t approached the Grigori by the toilets. He’d been drawn to the diner by the scent of sandalwood that followed the half-angelic creatures—sons of the Fallen always carried the distinctive scent—but so far the Grigori had done nothing but flirt, and that was built into its DNA. In the complicated times they lived in, that meant Rhys was forced to show restraint.

  No longer could scribes hunt Grigori on sight. Though the Irin race was charged with protecting humanity from the offspring of fallen angels, recent revelations had turned black and white to countless shades of grey.

  Some Grigori had wrested freedom from their Fallen fathers and conquered their predatory instincts. Many of those had turned those instincts to join the Irin in their quest to rid humanity of fallen angels. Some of their sisters, the kareshta, had mated with Irin scribes. Rhys’s own brother-in-arms was mated to the sister of a Grigori the Istanbul scribes had once hunted.

  It was all so complicated now.

  “Has he done anything to concern you?” Rhys asked the waitress quietly. “The man by the bathrooms?”

  “No.” She lifted the empty pie plate. “Just sitting there reading his paper. He likes the blueberry and wears too much cologne. Not my type.”

  Rhys forced his eyes away from the Grigori. “Another piece of chocolate for me.”

  “Cook just put a black-bottomed pie in the case.”

  His mouth watered. “That sounds perfect.”

  “See?” She winked at him. “Knew you were my type.”

  Rhys couldn’t help his smile.

  “You be good,” she said, walking back to the counter.

  Rhys sometimes longed for the days when the borders between enemy and friend were clear. Only a few years ago, he could have stalked the creature waiting in the restaurant with a clean conscience; run him to ground, pierced his neck with the silver blades he had hidden, and watched Grigori dust rise to the heavens to face judgment.

  It is what they deserve, a vengeful voice whispered inside him. It was the Grigori who slew the Irina singers. It was the Grigori who tried to wipe out their race. It was the Grigori—

  No.

  That wasn’t their world anymore. Rhys dunked the teabag into the silver pot. That would never be their world again. Their world demanded forgiveness. It required reconciliation, both within their race between the Irin who hunted and the Irina who hid, and outside their race between the Irin and those Grigori who pursued a peaceful life.

  So Rhys waited for his tea to steep.

  And he watched.

  At four in the morning, the air outside the diner was still muggy. Rhys toyed with the end of a cinnamon toothpick as he watched the entrance of the diner from the car he’d rented at the airport. His phone was on speaker, and his brother Maxim was speaking.

  “The Houston scribe house and the New Orleans house are combined under one watcher. It’s a situation that’s persisted despite complaints from New Orleans, but the American Watchers’ Council is unconvinced that New Orleans needs a stronger presence.”

  Rhys said, “It’s a large tourist destination.” Grigori liked to feed on tourists.

  “True. But as far as anyone can tell, attacks are surprisingly low. Houston has more. Larger population, bigger house.”

  Rhys pulled the toothpick from between his lips. “Fallen presence?”

  “The closest known Fallen stronghold is in Saint Louis. There are always minor angels about, but Bozidar is the closest known archangel, and he resides in and around Saint Louis. Prior to his arrival around two hundred years ago, there hadn’t been a significant Fallen presence in North America for four hundred years because of the native Irin presence.”

  And by Irin presence, Max meant what their people had once been. Not the fractured and suspicious people they were now. The Irin of North America were legend in Rhys’s world, vibrant and powerful societies of warrior scribes and singers descended from Uriel, the oldest and wisest of the Forgiven angels. Renowned for their long lives and prowess in battle, the largest group, the Uwachi Toma had routed the archangel Nalu and all his cadre eight hundred years before, leading to a golden age of Irin peace that lasted for roughly five hundred years.

  But with European expansion into North America, new Fallen came, breaking the rule of the Uwachi Toma and their allies.

  Rhys said, “North America didn’t escape the Rending.”

  “Nowhere did,” Max said. “But they had already been weakened by the American Revolutionary War. By the time the Rending happened, many Irin communities were already scattered, more stories than actual presence.”

  “So what you’re saying is it’s entirely possible this singer we’re looking for was already in hiding and lived.”

  Maxim didn’t respond. Rhys frowned and tore his eyes away from the diner entrance to make sure they still had a connection.

  “Max? Are you there?”

  “I am. According to Sari’s contact, this Irina is definitely still living. And likely somewhere in Louisiana. If we can find her—”

  “We might be one step closer to restoring Irina status.”

  Max said, “The Irina need to relearn martial magic if they want a chance at regaining their rightful place in Vienna.”

  The Rending, the massive global Grigori attack that had killed eighty percent of Irin women and children, hadn’t happened out of nowhere. The Irina had spent centuries focusing on creative, artistic, and scientific magic, letting their focus drift to peaceful pursuits while Irin scribes gained more and more battle prowess. Battle had become men’s work, far beneath more lofty Irina goals. It had left the singers vulnerable to attack.

  Two hundred years after the Rending, most surviving Irina were still reluctant to leave the havens where they’d hidden. The Elder Council in Vienna was the governing body of the Irin people, financing the scribe houses and protecting the secrecy of the Irin race in the human world. Since the Rending, the council was made up of old men reluctant to part with their power.

  The lack of Irina martial power was a constant and pressing concern for those working toward reform in their world. Though the Irina Council had reformed in Vienna, every day Irina still lived with the threat of Grigori attack looming over them and a lack of confidence from Irin scribes around the world.

  Damien, his former watcher in Istanbul, and Sari, Damien’s mate, had taken over the martial training academy in the Czech Republic. They were only one example of reformers desperate to rediscover the once-potent battle spells Irina had sung. Songs that had destroyed angels had been lost to time and the Rending.

  Unlike the scribes’ vast libraries and archives, Irina libraries existed only within singers. Librarians were knowledge in human form, walking encyclopedias of magic, able to recall complex spells from memories trained since birth. They did not write magic down, believing that the delivery and emotion behind oral preservation were as essential as the spells themselves.

  It was a stubborn ideology that drove Rhys mad.

  He was a scribe of Gabriel’s blood, trained to preserve knowledge and copy any manuscript with precision, gifted in tattooing intri
cate magic on his body. Rhys’s tattoos, his talesm, started on his left wrist, wrapped around his arm and up his shoulder, down his chest, torso, and right arm, covering his body from the tops of his thighs to his neck. Only the space over his heart was bare, waiting for the mating mark he was mostly convinced would never come.

  His talesm were not only magical armor but personal history. Every scribe was trained to preserve knowledge for future Irin generations in the most efficient and sensible way: writing.

  “So this woman”—Rhys adjusted his seat—“the singer we’re looking for. Is she a librarian?”

  “She’s more valuable than a librarian.”

  “Right.” Rhys rolled his eyes. At this point in their history, there was nothing more valuable than an Irina librarian.

  “Rhys, Sari’s contact believes she’s found the Wolf.”

  “What wolf?”

  “The Wolf.”

  Rhys blinked. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.”

  “The Wolf and the Serpent were both killed in battle.”

  “No. Ulakabiche died in battle, but his sister didn’t. Atawakabiche lives. At least according to Sari’s contact.”

  Rhys was skeptical. “And not once in nearly three hundred years has she revealed herself to her sisters?”