“Sometimes.”
Meera froze, but only for a heartbeat. No, that should not surprise her. Though Anamitra was a scholar, she was also ruthless in protecting her family. If a human or Grigori had threatened her, she would have no qualms about allowing Vasu—with his inexplicable loyalty—dispatch him or her.
Her great-aunt would likely have approved Rhys’s actions.
Vasu, bored by Meera’s kitchen chores, sat on the table and put bare feet on her kitchen chair. “There is a dark shadow around you.”
“The scribe killed a Grigori in front of me.”
“Yes, I saw.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
Vasu shrugged. “He wasn’t one of mine.”
“I thought you didn’t have any children left.”
“I have a few.” His eyes drifted to the side. “Human women do not interest me any longer.”
Meera cleared off the counter and hopped up, putting her at eye level with the fallen angel. “Did human women ever interest you? Really?”
The corner of Vasu’s mouth turned up. “Oh yes.”
“When you were young.”
“Was I?” Vasu frowned. “Yes, I suppose.”
“Were you ever a child?”
“Not as you think of one.” He squinted at her. “Why are you asking about me? You know I don’t like answering questions.”
“I’m sad,” she said. “Cheer me up.”
“That scribe is connected to you.”
Meera rolled her eyes. “That is not cheering me up.”
“I can see it. There is a tie between you. Is he your mate?” Vasu stretched out a leg and tapped her foot with his own. “You are displeased by the question.”
“I thought he was a scholar, a man in search of knowledge. But he killed that Grigori without hesitation.”
“You judge others too harshly. The Grigori killed another. Would you have a scholar ignore the mandate of the Creator? The Irin were left on this earth so they could protect humanity.”
Meera couldn’t respond to that because Vasu was right. She was just… tired. Tired of violence and war and the schemes of the powerful to obtain more power. She wanted to find another way. She wanted there to be a different solution.
“Wise Vasu,” she started, “seeker of heaven’s vision. May I ask you a question?”
Vasu’s eyes lit up. He loved discussions like this. “Daughter of heaven, I am listening.”
She asked, “Does one person’s gain always mean another’s loss?”
“In what way, Meera Bai?”
“Is power finite?”
“No, power is infinite.”
“Then must there always be war?”
Vasu raised an eyebrow. “You should ask another question. Will there always be humanity?”
“Can humanity only exist with war?”
“War is about power,” Vasu said. “Once there was balance, but humanity was not satisfied with that. Once a scale is tipped, it must always be in motion. To answer your first question, if a scale goes up, it must again go down.”
Meera swung her legs. “So one person’s gain must mean another’s loss?”
“That is the way of power until there is balance again. You can strive for balance, but until both sides want to achieve it, it is only an idea.”
“So if both sides want balance, then neither loses.”
“But neither gains.”
She smiled. “Or they gain together.”
“You seek to remake the world.”
“If both oxen pull together, then the field is plowed straight.”
“But both must have the same goal.” Vasu shook his head. “I thought Anamitra was ambitious, but you will surpass her.”
“The Irin world has been at war since we were born. War with angels. War with Grigori. We will never win until we redefine what victory means.”
“You’re not going to like this,” Vasu said. “But I’m going to tell you the truth and you must listen to me.”
“What?”
“You need that scribe, Meera Bai. If you seek to redefine what power is, if you seek to change the paradigm, then he must be the one to help you.”
“Why?” she asked. “What makes Rhys of Glast special? There are other scribes more powerful than him, I’m certain of it.”
Vasu’s eyes lit up. “Do you seek power? You, who wants to redefine what power means?”
Meera narrowed her eyes. She hated when Vasu made good points. “You’re avoiding the question. Why Rhys?”
“He owns something more important than power. I have seen him with his brothers and working among those far stronger than he is. I have seen him with Fallen children and those weaker than he is. He does not seek the spotlight, nor is he ambitious for anything other than knowledge.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I have watched him,” Vasu said. “You have not.”
Meera sighed. “Fine. I can accept that you know him better than I do.”
“Rhys of Glast has a willing and flexible mind. He will understand you like few others could. If you want to bring balance, you must have leverage your opponent understands. For the Irin, that means magic. Rhys knows that. If you truly want to bring change, he is the ally you want.”
Three days had passed, but Meera hadn’t heard from Rhys. She escaped New Orleans and went to the haven to think. If there was any place she felt restful, it was in her mother’s home. Patiala might not have been the most maternal of Irina mothers, but with her, Meera always felt safe.
She sat on the porch, staring out at the swaying fields of sugarcane, and Patiala came to sit beside her.
“The fog comes on little fox feet,” her mother said.
“I don’t think that’s how the poem goes.” Meera smiled. “And I don’t see any fog. Or any foxes.”
Patiala shook her head, a frown marring the smooth skin on her forehead. “That’s what Sabine was singing this morning. Over and over again. Roch was trying to calm her, but she refused his touch.”
Meera didn’t take her eyes from the cane fields. “Sabine is exactly as she has always been.”
“No, she’s not. She’s growing worse, which means something might be coming. She may be an earth singer, but she has seer’s blood too. It is my job to look for signs of trouble, and I believe this behavior is a sign. She keeps rambling about the man on the river.”
“The old man?”
Patiala sighed. “We’ve investigated him too many times to count. There’s nothing unusual about him. He has no criminal record. No secret life. There is no sense of magic about the place. It’s her mania. It’s getting worse. Last month she claimed wolves were in the sugarcane, so she couldn’t do her chores.”
Meera’s heart sank. Was it too much to ask that this vibrant and colorful place remain an island of peace in their world? “I can’t help her, Mother. I’ve given every healing song I know to Alosia, but none of them make a difference. What would you have me do?”
“You know what you need to do. Roch will not ask you, but I will. Find the Wolf. Search Sabine’s memories and find her.”
Meera turned to look at her mother. “Do you think I haven’t tried? The woman’s mind is broken; her memories are a maze. I’m convinced Sabine has seen the Wolf, but that means nothing. Not even Roch can make sense of Sabine’s rambling, and he’s the one who knows the bayous best. None of what she has told us makes sense.”
“So talk to the scribe. The one from Istanbul.”
First Vasu, now her mother. “What does he know about the Wolf that you or I don’t? What does he know about the bayous that Roch doesn’t?”
“Did I raise an arrogant woman?” Patiala pursed her lips. “Maybe he knows nothing, but he has eyes. He has a mind. And allies I trust say he has experience finding those who are hidden. Are you so impressed with your own understanding that you would refuse the help of another?”
Meera felt her mother’s disapproval like a blow to her chest. �
��I’m not arrogant.”
“You are so certain of your own knowledge that you will not ask for help, convinced that anyone outside your tiny circle of trust cannot be relied upon.” Patiala rose to her full height and looked down at Meera. “It’s not just Sabine, you know. Something is coming. I’ve seen too many heartbreaks to ignore this knot in my belly, so I called to my friend and asked her for a favor. I asked her to send an ally, and you refuse to work with him. This disappoints me.”
Patiala walked into the house without another word, leaving Meera alone and bruised by her mother’s displeasure.
The next morning Meera drove back to New Orleans. She gritted her teeth and called the number Rhys had given her.
He picked up in three rings. “Hello?”
“Bring your brain and your research to my place tonight,” she said. “Seven o’clock. What do the Americans say? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Done.”
“And bring dinner too. You owe me étouffée. And an apology.”
Chapter Seven
At seven o’clock that evening, Rhys knocked on Meera’s door, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and a bag from Fete au Fete in his hand. Meera opened the door wearing an outfit similar to the one she’d worn the last time he’d seen her. Her shoulders were tan, and she was wearing a bright coral tank top. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a disordered tumble of thick waves.
She scattered his senses without saying a word.
Rhys thrust the bag into her hands. “They didn’t have crawfish étouffée,” he said crossly. “I bought shrimp and grits and crawfish poutine. I hope that’s acceptable.”
Meera took the bag. “Thank you.”
Neither of them moved.
“Étouffée. And an apology.”
He took a deep breath and reminded himself he had been an arse. He’d been high on adrenaline and magic, appalled that the Grigori had been drawn to Meera so precisely, and worried far more than he expected for someone who was, at best, an intriguing new colleague.
Liar. You want to play naked chess with her.
So he’d been an arse.
“I’m sorry I underestimated you,” he said. “I won’t do it again.”
She started to say something, then stopped and took a breath. “Fine. Apology accepted.”
“Good.”
Neither of them moved.
Rhys glanced over his shoulder. “Your garden is lovely. Did you plant it?”
“No. I just enjoy it. My landlord takes care of it since both properties share the backyard.” She pointed to the narrow shotgun-style house beside her own. “I do a little bit here and there.”
Rhys nodded, having exhausted his capacity for small talk. He didn’t want to eat. Didn’t want to talk about gardens. He wanted to find out what Meera knew about the Wolf—
And play naked chess.
No. He had goals. Objectives for the evening. And the woman hadn’t moved from the front door.
She looked down at the bag, then back to Rhys. “As you might have been able to tell the other night, I’m not accustomed to having other people here.”
Her unexpected admission eased his nerves. “No one?”
“Sometimes my father visits. That’s all. I invited my mother once, but she couldn’t relax. She kept eyeing the house’s exit points and muttering under her breath.”
“I’ve met your father.” And your mother sounds equally terrifying. Rhys didn’t say that part.
Meera nodded. “Yes, he mentioned he’d met you.”
“It was an interesting experience.”
“He’s an interesting man.” She stood awkwardly in the doorway for another few seconds before she stepped aside. “Please come in.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you like beer?”
“I do.”
“Have a seat.” Meera put the food on the table, and Rhys sat down while she went to the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles.
The bubbly, confident woman he’d met on the streets of the French Quarter was gone. The comforting woman who’d read his mood and coddled him in the club on the night he’d killed the Grigori in the cemetery was also gone. Her silence annoyed him, and he couldn’t understand why. He wasn’t usually one for chatter.
You like her chatter.
“Meera, stop.” Rhys caught her hand as she walked past him in the small kitchen.
She turned and her eyes were hot. “I didn’t say you could touch me.”
He dropped her hand. “I am sorry I intruded the other night, but I’m not sorry I killed that Grigori.”
“I know you’re not sorry.”
“Why did you call me if you’re only going to glare at me?”
Meera sighed and set the two beers on the table. “We need to work together. More than one person has… admonished me for refusing your help.”
“I’m not going to admonish you. You’re clearly very bright, and you know whether you need help or not. If I’m not needed—”
“You are.”
The simple statement hit him like a punch to the chest.
She’s not talking about you, you idiot. She’s talking about your brain.
“If I’m needed, then I’m happy to help. I know what it is to be discreet. You don’t have to worry about my spreading rumors or revealing private information to the council.”
She busied herself taking boxes and cartons out of the bag. “I’m not worried about that.”
“Then why—?”
“You know who I am.” She opened the boxes of food and moved the empty bag to the counter. She still didn’t look at him.
“Are we finally doing away with the subterfuge? Thank you. Yes, I know who you are. And?”
She said nothing.
Rhys grew irritated. “I’m not a mind reader, Meera. And I don’t know why you find it so annoying that your secret identity has been revealed, but if you think I’m going to defer to you because you’re the heir of Anamitra, then you’ve grossly misunderstood what kind of person I am. I don’t bow, and I’ve been in the presence of elders and seers.”
She didn’t say anything, but she sat down at the table and crossed her arms, a smile touching the corner of her lips.
“You may have been raised like a princess—”
“Did you just call me a princess?”
“—but it’s not my job to worship you. It’s my job to find leverage for the Irina so they can force the old arseholes in Vienna to pay some bloody attention to them.”
The smile touching her lips grew until she was once again the bright and alluring woman who had tormented him his first day in New Orleans. Her brilliant smile, combined with the vibrant orange hue against her skin and her sparkling brown eyes, dazzled Rhys and knocked down the indignant head of steam he’d been building. “What?”
Meera leaned forward and rested her chin in her palm. “I think I like you.”
She wasn’t flirting to distract him. They were beyond that now. Rhys didn’t know quite how to react. He blinked and stammered. “Good. I mean… not that you have to like someone to work with them.”
“True.” She didn’t look away.
“What?” He sighed. “What is it?”
“You can be an ass. You’re cross. A bit surly. And very arrogant.”
“You’re the one who said you liked me.”
“I do.”
His body roused at the tone of her voice, but there was something else. A warmth in his chest he didn’t want to identify. “So you’re willing to—as you said on the phone—show me yours.”
Her eyebrows went up. “I did say that, didn’t I? How forward of me. You brought yours?”
Rhys tapped his messenger bag with the toe of his boot. “I brought everything.”
“And you want me to show you mine?”
Yes!
He let the smile come. “I believe you’re the one who made the proposition, darling.”
“Did I, darling?” She purse
d her lips. “I suppose I did. Though I’m not sure you’re ready to see it all.”
Wariness and animosity had fled. In their place a new awareness was growing along with the playfulness she’d teased him with since their first meeting. They had stripped away their disguises in more ways than one, and the exposure wasn’t strained. It was freeing.
“I’m very difficult to shock.” Rhys couldn’t stop himself from provoking her. “Try me.”
“I’m not trying to shock you, but it’s rare that I reveal myself, especially to a stranger.”
“Are we still strangers? I thought we’d become rather familiar.”
We could become more familiar. I would not object to that.
Meera lifted a sweating beer bottle and reached across to the bottle opener mounted on the counter, revealing an enticing hint of cleavage. She cracked the bottle open and set it in front of Rhys before she opened the second and took a long drink. A bead of perspiration rolled from the bottle down her neck.
“Feed me,” she said. “Then I’ll show you what you want to see.”
“The Uwachi Toma weren’t the only Irin people on this continent, but they were the largest and most dominant group.” Meera’s hand hovered over a map of North America. “The Irin people in the East fled as soon as Norse humans arrived.”
Rhys and Meera were in her office, a large map spread out on a library table in the center of the room.
“It’s a big continent,” he said.
“It is. There were Irin groups in the Great Plains and on the West Coast like the Dene Ghal, but they weren’t as active or organized as those in this region. The only thing close were the Koconah Citlal in Central America.” Meera rolled open another map on the table and placed small weighted bags at the corners. “The Irin from the East moved to the South. They integrated into the existing Irin communities here, which concentrated the population.”
The new map was a closer detail of the Gulf Coast region. Rhys immediately spotted the precise writing in the margins where Meera had made notes. He leaned over to read a notation farther north on the Mississippi River. “The Uwachi Toma were a mound-building culture, correct?”
“Correct. First in the northern Mississippi Valley, then moving south and into the coastal regions. The Uwachi Toma—‘people of the sun’—mostly came from Uriel’s blood, though they looked outside their immediate area when they mated, so bloodlines became very mixed.”
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