The Seeker Read online

  “I know where Meera lives because I listen to her.”

  He listened to his daughter, the woman behind the legacy. The woman who loved color and music and life beyond fortress walls. Rhys thought about where he’d run into Meera and where she’d found him. Thought about tiny clues she’d dropped and directions she looked when she wasn’t paying attention to who was watching her.

  Then he smiled. “Zep, you don’t need me here do you?”

  Zep shrugged. “Not if you’ve got things to do.”

  “I have an idea I want to check out. For… my research.” Rhys turned around and started walking back toward Ursuline Avenue. “I’ll see you. Call me if you need anything.”

  “Later.”

  Rhys didn’t turn to look as Zep continued down Bourbon, following the tourist traffic. He walked the opposite way, heading toward the Esplanade and the Faubourg Marigny. He was almost sure it was where Meera lived.

  He ignored the annoying voice in his mind asking him why he needed to know where she lived.

  Naked chess.

  Not naked chess. This wasn’t about his libido. It wasn’t. Meera was living anonymously in a city that could be dangerous. She needed his protection.

  Rhys crossed the Esplanade and turned right on Kerlerec Street before he cut across to Frenchmen. The music and the crowd wasn’t as loud as Bourbon Street, but the street was filled with tourists. It was so packed he could hardly see anything.

  The fourth time he was shoved off the sidewalk by a group of revelers, he nearly gave up. What had he been thinking? The city was small, but not that small. And he didn’t know Meera that well. Just because he was drawn to this neighborhood didn’t mean she was. He’d run into her because she was looking for him.

  Rhys leaned against the wall near the Three Muses and listened to the singer who’d sung to him and Meera earlier in the week. He watched the crowds flow around him, his senses tuned to detect anything angelic.

  Nothing.

  Then he remembered the way Meera had concealed herself in shadow and wondered if she was watching him in that moment. He could feel a faint prickle on his neck. Was it his own imagination or something else?

  Where are you, Meera Bai?

  He wandered over to the art market and walked through stalls selling everything from wire sculptures to earrings made of spoons. There were delicately painted teacups, screen-printed T-shirts, and watercolors of the city.

  She likes this. She likes life and color and variety. She likes the chaos and humanity.

  Her life had probably been ordered beyond what he could imagine. While his own schooling had been more rigorous than most young scribes, Rhys had also been a boy who grew up with a class of other small troublemakers around him. He’d acted out and been punished harshly, but he’d acted out. He’d had his rebellion.

  This place is hers.

  The thought made Rhys smile. He left the art market and wandered back up Frenchmen Street, heading toward the sound of trumpet and clarinet. A jazz band was playing on the corner, and tourists crowded around them, shouting encouragement and tossing coins and dollars in the bucket they passed.

  A red flash from the corner of his eye made him turn, but it was a human woman in a bright red dress. She looked nothing like Meera, but she was short and laughing on the arm of a man who led her away from the crowd.

  Just a man?

  Rhys followed them for a block until they turned into a club and he was sure it was nothing more than a human couple out for a date.

  He was paranoid, seeing threats where none existed. He’d been in unfamiliar territory for too long without a mission he could sink his teeth into. He had no direction, no goal, no—

  Sandalwood in the air.

  His heart leapt at the scent of Grigori drifting from the shadows. Rhys turned and followed the trail down an alley and toward a residential area.

  The Grigori was walking alone, his hands in his pockets. He didn’t appear to be hunting, but he did look like he was searching for something. He was a handsome man with light brown skin and dark curly hair that reminded Rhys of the Grigori in Istanbul. He was of medium height and build. Like all Grigori, humans would have found him attractive.

  The Grigori had been on Frenchmen; why hadn’t he taken a human?

  A faint hope sprang up in Rhys’s chest that this was a free Grigori. Perhaps this man was the reason New Orleans was mostly free of attacks. Maybe there were free Grigori in the city who had claimed the space for their brothers and had forced the Fallen sons to run.

  The strange Grigori stopped in the middle of the road, shook his head, then turned a different direction. Walked down another alley, then back again.

  What was going on?

  Rhys followed the Grigori north and east of Frenchmen, deeper into the Marigny. The man stopped and closed his eyes.

  A homeless man on the corner shouted at him. “Hey buddy, you got a buck?”

  The Grigori turned and stared at the man. “What did you say to me?” His voice dripped with disdain.

  “Just asking for a buck, man.”

  The Grigori stared at the human and walked over, drawing a hand from his pocket. Rhys was expecting a dollar to emerge, not a stiletto.

  “Stop!” he shouted, but it was too late. The knife plunged into the human’s neck. The man seized, his arms and legs flailing before he went suddenly limp.

  The Grigori didn’t even turn. He took off jogging back toward Frenchmen Street.

  No!

  Rhys ran over and bent down to the human, but the human was dead, his blood pouring into the gutter where the Grigori’s blade had slit his throat.

  Rhys took off after the murderer. He touched his talesm prim as he ran down the road, following the man into the shadows and activating the magic that acted like living armor. The Grigori was fast, but Rhys was faster. He leapt over a garden fence and through a backyard, following the scent. He could see the Grigori in the distance. The man was standing frozen in the middle of a residential street, then he walked into another alley as if he was in a trance.

  Rhys silently followed.

  The alley was bound by a brick house on one side and darkened garden gates on the other. The Grigori walked to a gate and paused. He pressed his hands to the gate and fell to his knees just as the gate creaked open.

  Meera stood in the gate, the bloody Grigori fallen at her feet.

  Chapter Six

  Another one had found her.

  Before Meera could register the weeping Grigori at her feet, a deadly figure flew from the darkness and pulled the man away.

  “Rhys?”

  He pushed the Grigori up against the brick wall and pulled his dagger on the struggling man.

  Meera shouted, “No!”

  Her words rang hollow in the dark alley. Rhys plunged his silver knife into the back of the Grigori’s neck. The man’s back arched before he fell to the ground; his body curled into a fetal position before it began to dissolve.

  Rhys turned back to her. “Meera?”

  “Why did you do that?” She felt the tears welling in her eyes. Angry tears. “He wasn’t attacking me.”

  The scribe stepped closer. “How did he know where you live?”

  She shook her head and felt the tears hot on her cheeks. “You didn’t have to do that. He wouldn’t have hurt me.”

  Rhys raised his hands. They were covered in blood. “He murdered a harmless man in front of me. The human asked him for a dollar and instead got a knife to the throat, so tell me again, Meera, how did he know where you live?”

  She slumped against the gate. “They find me. They always have. But I can send them away. All I have to do is talk to them and they leave me alone.” She turned and walked back into her garden, ignoring the scribe who followed her.

  Meera’s heart hurt. She could still feel the torment of the Fallen son who had found her. He’d been young. Sometimes she could ease their emptiness. Sometimes she could give them peace. She would touch them and whisper
a spell, easing some of the relentless soul hunger that plagued all their kind. Most of them never returned.

  She heard the gate close behind her and Rhys’s footsteps on the path. He strode past her, walking toward the house.

  “Stay back,” he ordered.

  “There’s no one else here,” she said woodenly. “Just me.”

  He ignored her, walked up the steps and through the kitchen door. Meera followed him into the cozy house that had become her refuge. Rhys kept his dagger drawn as he swept through the kitchen and past the antiques and eclectic collection of furniture in the living room, his head swinging every direction.

  Despite his size and speed, he didn’t make a sound. His magic permeated the air, drawing up the dark hair on her arms and making her skin prickle.

  “Rhys, there’s no one here.”

  He acted as if he didn’t hear her, poking his head in the bathroom before he walked through her bedroom, scanned it quickly, and went back to her office. It was the room that faced the street, the front of the shotgun house lovingly restored by her human landlord who lived next door.

  Meera followed the intruder who was violating every inch of her private retreat. He stood before the shuttered front windows as a car drove by, the shadows cut by lines of yellow light.

  She stared at him. “I told you. There’s no one here but me.”

  “And me.”

  Seeing him in her office, surrounded by her carefully collected books and art, turned sorrow and confusion into anger. He’d brought blood and violence to her door, killed a man who needed help. He’d been hounding her, asking intrusive questions, relentlessly searching to unveil her secrets.

  Meera had had enough. “Get out of my house.”

  “Did you hear me? That Grigori killed a man in front of me.”

  “I heard you.” The thought of the dead human made her sick, just like all the violence that soaked their world, but Rhys’s actions had only caused more violence. He healed nothing. “Get out.”

  He stepped away from the windows and his eyes drank her in. It was a shadow, just a glimpse, of the hunger she’d felt from the Grigori.

  “Meera.” His voice was rough.

  She’d been ready for a night in. She was wearing loose cotton pants and a tank top. Her hair was pulled into a bun, and she wore no makeup or jewelry. She felt exposed, stripped of the practiced frivolity she’d worn in his presence.

  There was an open bottle of wine in the kitchen and étouffée cooking on the stove. While it was cooking, she’d been ravenous. Now the air smelled of spice and blood. She wasn’t hungry anymore. It would likely be days before she felt like eating again.

  Rhys stepped closer. “I did what I was trained to do.”

  “I know.”

  “He was a murderer. He would have hurt you.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t have.”

  “What do you mean, they find you, Meera? Does your father know about this? Your mother?”

  “Get out.” She stepped away from the doorway and pointed to the kitchen. “I want you to leave. Now.”

  “What is going on?”

  He didn’t move, and he did not obey her. Meera Bai, the heir of Anamitra, had utter control in all things, but the arrogance of this scribe threatened to rouse her temper past restraint.

  How dare you? she wanted to yell. Do you know who I am?

  He did. That was the problem.

  Meera raised her eyes and lifted her chin. “Shall I make you leave?” She whispered ancient words under her breath, letting the scribe feel a taste of her power. “You won’t like me if I do.”

  His fair skin turned paler, and Meera knew he was feeling the effects of her power. Pain. Nausea. If he didn’t leave her presence, he’d soon be sick.

  The arrogant expression fell away from his face. Rhys put a hand on the doorway to brace himself and bent toward her. “Nice trick.”

  “Don’t ever underestimate me.”

  “I’ve never done that,” he said through gritted teeth, “you infuriating woman.”

  “I’m not the one intruding on your privacy. I’ve asked you to leave three times.”

  “Do you want me to apologize for killing that man? I won’t do it.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  He grunted in pain when she whispered another spell.

  “He killed that man without hesitation. I needed to make sure you were safe.”

  You stubborn ass.

  “Do I look vulnerable, Rhys?” She leaned closer. “Do you really think he could have withstood the amount of pain you’re in right now?”

  Rhys pressed his eyes closed, steadying himself. In any other circumstance, Meera would be impressed by how he withstood magic that brought most men to their knees. But all she could think about was Grigori dust at her gate and the smell of blood in the air.

  “I am not trying to intrude on your privacy,” he said. “I could have found you if I’d tried.”

  “I’m sure you think that.”

  “I know it.” He stepped closer despite the obvious pain he was in. “I know who you are, but don’t underestimate me. You don’t know who I am.”

  Rhys was so close Meera could feel the heat from his skin. His nose started to bleed, and Meera whispered a spell to ease some of the pain.

  She didn’t want his blood on her floor.

  “I know who you are, Rhys of Glast,” she said. “You’re like all the others.”

  “If you really think that, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

  Haven’t I?

  Some deeper instinct pricked her mind, and Meera lifted her shields for a split second before she slammed them down. It wasn’t fast enough to shut out the bell-like clarity of his soul voice.

  No. No no no no no.

  It couldn’t be. It was a trick of her mind brought on by an emotionally trying night. That was all. Meera wouldn’t meet his eyes, so she looked at the lean muscle that crossed his chest. The black-inked talesm scribed over his shoulders were just visible under the white cotton shirt he wore.

  “I’m leaving now.” Rhys straightened his hunched shoulders. “Call me if anyone else comes.”

  “You’re the last person I would ever call for help, you stubborn, intrusive ass. If you tell anyone where I live—”

  He walked toward the door. “I have no interest in telling anyone where you live. I’m not generous enough for that. And I won’t return, not until you invite me.”

  Not if you were the last scribe on earth.

  As if reading her thoughts, Rhys turned. His nose had started bleeding again. “You will invite me.”

  Her house felt empty after he left, even though he’d only been there for a few minutes. The scribe’s presence lingered like the spices from the étouffée she threw in the trash. The scent of his magic haunted her senses, but it was more than that.

  The bell-like timbre of his soul voice had shaken Meera to her core.

  “You must take a mate, Meera Bai, for there is no better protection and counsel than a scribe bonded to you by magic. He will be your one true confidant in the world and your most fervent ally. If you are fortunate as I was, love will be your companion, but do not look for a reshon. That blessing is not for those who hold the memory of our people. To take a reshon means to have your very soul linked to another, and your soul must be only yours, for it is the one thing you will ever truly own. The heir of Anamitra does not belong to herself but to all the Irina and those yet to come.”

  The memory of her great-aunt’s words came to her as they always did, with utter clarity, as if the old singer was still sitting next to her in the gardens of Udaipur. The fountains trickled in the background, the palms rustled in the arid breeze, and Anamitra’s ageless voice filled her mind.

  Most Irin people thought Anamitra had stopped her longevity spells when her mate was lost, but Meera knew the truth. She could only stop her longevity spells once a suitable heir had been born.

  By
tradition, the keeper of memories would come from Anamitra’s own blood. Unfortunately, Anamitra only had one child, a son who had not lived to maturity. But her niece had given birth to a daughter, and that daughter had shown the power of memory before she could speak.

  Meera had been given to Anamitra as her heir. Her birth name, forgotten. She became Meera Bai, heir of Anamitra, keeper of heaven’s songs, living archive of Irina memory and magic. Her rooms were moved to Anamitra’s wing of the fortress, and every moment was spent with the old singer as her great-aunt began lessons that would last two hundred years and occupy every moment of Meera’s life.

  She was a walking repository of Irina memory, a library that lived and breathed, a counselor to kings and queens. As seers saw into the future, Meera could delve into the past, magically accessing the trove of memory Anamitra had woven into her mind.

  “Your soul must be only yours, for it is the one thing you will ever truly own.”

  Anamitra had waited hundreds of years for an heir. She could never allow her life to end because of love. Never would she allow her legacy to fade because her heart was wounded. From the time Meera understood the bond of mates, Anamitra had made it clear that a reshon was a dangerous indulgence Meera was not allowed to have.

  Which meant the sound of Rhys’s soul voice might make him the most dangerous man she had ever met.

  Vasu appeared next to her in his adult form. “You are troubled.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because of the scribe?” Vasu cocked his head and took the pan Meera was washing. He tugged it from her and set it on the tile counter. “Shall I remove him?”

  Meera picked up the pan and reached for a towel to dry it. “No, Vasu. Don’t kill him.”

  “I could take him back to Istanbul.”

  A knot of inevitable dread sat in her belly. “He would come back.”

  “Then I shall kill him if he displeases you.”

  “No.” She dried off the pan and hung it on the hook above the counter. “Did my aunt let you kill people for her?”