“You think you have all the time in the world.” Patiala set her teacup on the table and folded her hands. “But you do not. Every day we live in a world that is not our home. Every day the sons of the Fallen stalk us. This is a good man who is your equal. A man who would stimulate your mind and, if I am reading both of you correctly, every other part of you as well.”

“Mata!”

“Why do you hate my counsel? Why do you rebel like this when I only want what is best for you?”

“Because everyone wants what is best for me!” Meera said. “Everyone thinks they know what I want. Everyone coddles me and guards me and sends for favors from the other side of the world so that I can meet a man you think is right for me!”

“He is right for you!”

“I want to decide that.” She pointed at her chest. “I do. I didn’t even get to pick my first lover. Everything in my life was prescribed. Everything.”

Patiala said, “You had no complaints at the time, and Dalvir was a good friend.”

“This is not about Dalvir.” Meera closed her eyes and tried to banish the memory of her first lover from her mind. “It’s not about that.”

She would never forget his pure joy when he informed Meera that he’d found his reshon among the healing singers of Udaipur. They hadn’t been lovers for over five years—her sexual education had been deemed complete after two—but she’d still felt fondness for him. More, she’d felt jealousy that she would never know the joy that Dalvir and Simrat shared.

She’d never know it because a mate would be picked for her, a mate who was not her reshon but a partner who couldn’t threaten the higher calling of Anamitra’s heir. A partner who would know his place.

“He’s not who you think he is.” Meera stared at the intricate pattern on the table linen. “He’s not someone you can manipulate. Not even with good intentions.”

“I know he’s not,” Patiala said. “He’s a man with his own mind. That’s why I like him for you. He will be a strong ally. Your best ally.” Her mother shrugged. “And he comes from a very good family, but that is secondary.”

Meera swallowed the bitterness in the back of her throat. “His voice…”

“What about his voice?”

Meera remained silent, staring at the intricate swirls of red and blue paisleys.

“What about his voice?” Patiala stood. “What are you talking about?”

Meera looked up and directly at her mother. “What if he is my reshon? Will you like him for me then?”

The quick play of emotions in her mother’s eyes reminded Meera why she loved her parents so fiercely even when she didn’t agree with them.

A quick flash of joy. Then worry. Then calculation. Joy again. Caution.

“How certain are you?” Patiala asked.

“I’ve only allowed myself small pieces. You know how ironclad my shields are. The fact that bits have slipped through tells you how strong his mind is. It’s… different.” Her heart rushed in excitement. “I’ve never heard anything like it. I want to wrap myself in it, if that makes any sense. But I know I can’t. I know that’s not for me.”

“When you are mated,” Patiala said quietly, “your partner’s soul voice becomes your home. Your father may not be my reshon, but there is nothing that centers me like his voice. He is my steady place. My anchor. I want this for you because I know the burden of purpose you carry. I know you have been frustrated with my attempts to find you a mate, but you must understand my reasons.”

“Anamitra—”

“Anamitra was an old and wise singer who loved you very much,” Patiala said. “But she was not your mother.”

“You know she warned against anything that could divide my loyalty.”

“I know.” Patiala sat. “I know she did.”

“The idea of Rhys being more than other scribes—”

“Being your reshon?”

“Don’t use that word,” she said. “I don’t know that. Neither do you. But it makes me wary. I don’t like the idea of others deciding my fate, not even the Creator.”

Patiala smiled. “Rebellious child.”

“I’ll take my rebellion where I can find it,” Meera said. “We both know my life doesn’t belong to me. Not really.”

Her mother’s smile turned sad. “When you are ready to step into your power, you will be revered by elders and rulers. Emperors will pay you tribute, and angels will tremble at your voice.”

“There aren’t many emperors left in the world.”

“There will always be emperors,” Patiala said, “even if they go by different names.”

Meera held out her hand. Patiala stretched her arm out and linked their fingers together.

“When you were born,” Patiala said, “I gave you the name Abha because you were the light of my life. I had been born to scholars, found my true path when I met Maarut as a warrior, but you were the light and joy of my life. And when you showed your gifts, I held on to that, even when your old name became a memory. I knew you were still my light. I knew my purpose to protect you as your mother only became a greater mission as part of your retinue. You have always been my purpose.”

“Mata.” Meera closed her eyes and held on to the warm glow of her mother’s love.

“As your guardian, I must caution you away from any attachment that could divide your loyalties.” Patiala squeezed Meera’s hand. “But as your mother, I only feel joy that the Creator may have given you the gift of a mate designed by heaven just for you. No singer deserves that joy more.”

“I don’t know if that is what Rhys is. I haven’t given him any encouragement.”

“Truly?” Her mother’s eyebrows went up. “That doesn’t seem to affect the way he looks at you.”

She looked up. “How does he look at me?”

“Like a hungry man. Hungry for your attention. Hungry for your words.” She offered a wry smile. “And very hungry for your—”

“Don’t.” Meera held up a hand. “Please.”

Patiala burst into laughter. “You are your father’s daughter! When did I teach you to be so reserved?”

“You taught me to be the opposite,” Meera said. “And embarrassed me at every turn.”

“My poor shy daughter.”

“Not shy. Simply not… rude.”

“I will back off for now,” Patiala said. “Because when you and this man go searching for the Wolf, you won’t have any chaperones. We’ll see what happens when you can’t keep him at a distance.”

As always, Meera was very afraid her mother was correct.

* * *

She found Rhys in the guest cottage, his computer open on the small kitchen table and notebooks spread across the bed.

“I didn’t wait for you,” he said. “I’ve been researching historic birds of Southern Louisiana, and I believe the distinctive call I heard was the whooping crane.”

“Is that helpful?” Meera sat in the other chair, watching him sort through his thoughts at lightning speed. “I don’t know much about birds.”

“The cranes were considered nearly extinct in the wild until recently, but there have been projects that tracked their historic range and new efforts to seed wild populations are following that.” He didn’t look up as he spoke, shuffling through a notebook with one hand while typing with the other. “I’ve found some research projects online that give some interesting clues about the areas where the cranes historically nested in the Atchafalaya Basin. It gives us a starting point.”

“That’s a good lead.”

“Combine that with oral history reports—I want to focus on crying woman or ghost legends—and I believe we can narrow down the geographic area significantly. It’s not as precise as wildlife mapping, but it’s an avenue to explore.”

There was something very seductive about watching a man work at a job he was passionate about, and Rhys had dived into the mystery of finding the Wolf headfirst.

“Your soul must remain your own.”

She was fighting against herself. Part of her wanted to keep her distance—keep a sense of control over her heart—but the other parts…

She’d told her mother the truth: she didn’t like the idea of a predetermined fate. Too much of her life was already predetermined.

But then there was Rhys.

Irritating, persistent, relentlessly curious Rhys with a soul voice that soothed her, a mind that called to her own, and a body that woke parts of her she kept under very strict control.

Desire equaled weakness, which was why she only took it in small doses. Doses she could handle. Men she could control.

She wouldn’t be able to control him.

“Do you have any maps?” He gripped a fistful of hair as he clicked his keyboard, a frown wrinkling the space between his eyebrows. “I need a large map of the basin. Topographical if that’s possible.” He stood and looked around the cottage as if expecting a topographical map of Southern Louisiana to magically appear.

Meera rose and walked across the room. “I don’t have a map.”

“Damn.”

She stepped in front of him and put her palms on his chest.

Rhys froze. “Meera?”

She could feel his heart beating under her right palm, the firm muscles of his chest rising and falling with his breath. He was warm and vibrant with energy. Heaven above, he made her want. She lifted her shields a fraction, just enough for the resonance of his soul voice to hum in the back of her mind.

She closed her eyes and let his voice fill her. The sun poured through the window, warming her skin as a breeze licked along her neck. She lifted her face and leaned into his voice and scent.

Rhys’s lips touched Meera’s, and he was the only thing.

The scribe’s mouth was slow and deliberate. His hand came to the nape of her neck and pulled her closer. He placed a firm hand at the small of her back and pressed in. She was enveloped in his scent and touch and sound. The outside world dropped away, and she was transported to a place of sense and heat.

The slow glide of his mouth against hers didn’t stop as he swung her around and pushed her against a wall. He reached down and wrapped an arm around her waist, lifting her so they were face-to-face. He held her with ease, angling his mouth to taste her more thoroughly.

For the first time in a very long time, Meera didn’t think. She took. She took his hunger as her own, stretching into it as the magic twined between them, amplifying her need into his. It was a crescendo of senses. Rhys reached down and cupped her bottom, pressing her into his body as a low groan left her throat.

There you are.

The thought was unmistakable, thrilling, and alarming, like seeing the flash of a face familiar only in dreams.

There you are.

Reshon.

Meera tore her mouth away from Rhys’s, her breath coming hard and fast. His eyes locked on her mouth, and she recognized the hunger her mother had spoken of. It was written across his flushed lips and the hard set of his jaw.

“I wasn’t finished,” he said roughly.

“I know.” She pushed back and he lowered her to the ground. “We need to stop.”

“Why?”

Meera blinked. “You know why.”

He frowned and tore his gaze from her lips to look into her eyes. “I want you. That doesn’t mean I’m going to let it interfere with this mission.”

“Good.” Meera’s heart was racing. She felt split in two and exposed. “Good. I was…” She didn’t know where to look, but it definitely wasn’t a good idea to look at the arousal evident in Rhys’s trousers. That gave her too many ideas. “I’m… going to—”

“What?”

Meera blinked. “I’m going to get you a map.”

“A map?” He frowned. “Why?”

“Because you were just looking for one. A topographical map of the Atchafalaya Basin. It’s an excellent idea. We definitely need one.”

He looked around the cottage. “A topographical…” He looked back at her. “Right. A map. I needed a map before you…”

“I kissed you.”

“Yes you did.” His eyes turned from hunger to caution. “You said that wasn’t a good idea.”

“It’s not.” Meera walked to the door. “I just decided to do it anyway.”

He caught her arm before she could walk out the door. “Is this lapse in judgment going to happen again?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It wasn’t intended to be.” Damn it, why did she find him charming when he turned stubborn like this?

“I’m being presumptuous,” he said. “Feel free to put me in my place. Use both hands if you like.”

Meera didn’t know whether to scowl or smile, so she tugged her arm away and walked out to the porch without saying a word. Rhys did not follow her.

“I’ll take that as a yes too!” he shouted.

Meera ignored him and kept walking.

Impossible man.

* * *

Meera paged through the maps desk in the library of the main house. The afternoon had heated up, and someone had opened the windows and hung damp sheets on the porch, allowing a cool breeze to waft through the house. The overhead lights and lamps were shut off; only the filtered light that trickled through the oaks illuminated the east side of the mansion where the library was situated.

Blue shadows in the corner coalesced into the shape of a slim, dusky-skinned girl with gold eyes and jet-black hair. “You can’t deny it now. You’re connected to the scribe.”

Meera glanced up but quickly looked away from the perceptive amber gaze. “What are you doing here, Vasu? You know I don’t like it when you come to the haven.”

“That’s why I took this form.”

“You don’t look like a harmless girl no matter how hard you try. If I saw you in a dark alley, I’d still run away.”

“Don’t you recognize me, Meera Bai?”

She looked up, and before her eyes, the girl aged until she’d become the mature woman Meera remembered from childhood with deep-set eyes and grooves where her mouth had laughed.

“Anamitra.”

Vasu shrugged and the young visage of her great-aunt returned. “You didn’t know her when she looked like this, but I did. You didn’t see into her heart.”

Meera sensed a trap, so she returned to shuffling through maps.

“Don’t you want to know what was in her heart?” Vasu asked. He disappeared and reappeared in a blink, hovering over Meera’s shoulder. “Aren’t you curious?”

“Her heart isn’t my business, Vasu. It wasn’t when I was child, and it isn’t now.”

“She was your aunt. Your mentor.”

“She was my teacher.” Meera tried not to react to the now-familiar visage. She could see Anamitra in every line of Vasu’s face now. The angel was doing it on purpose.

Vasu leaned in. “She would say she never met her reshon—that she wouldn’t even want to—but that would be a lie.”

Meera’s stomach dropped.

“She wasn’t mated yet, but he was. He was one of the Tomir warriors, a distant cousin of your father’s. His mating had also been arranged, and he was well-pleased with it. To him, meeting his reshon was a chance event that changed nothing about his life. He was bound and loyal to his woman.”

She couldn’t not ask. “And my aunt?”

“She was furious.”

Meera looked up in surprise. “Furious?”

The girl with Anamitra’s face gave Meera a very Vasu smile. “Long before she met her mate, when Anamitra was a young singer first come into the fullness of her power, she became drunk upon it. She was the heir of heaven’s wisdom. Kings and queens bowed to her counsel. Gold was placed at her feet. In Udaipur, her word was absolute.”

“And she had no mate,” Meera said.

“She had many lovers, as was her right. Men vied to be her beloved, and more than one family offered riches if she would mate with one of their sons. She was beautiful, powerful, and brilliant. She had everything she desired.”

“Except…”

“This warrior. He wasn’t hers. He could not be. Not even Anamitra could break the bond between mates. This Tomir warrior was the one thing that had ever been denied her, and because of that, he was the one thing she wanted above all else.”

“What happened?”

Vasu shrugged. “Nothing. Maarut’s father, your grandfather, saw that the presence of the scribe disconcerted your aunt and assigned the warrior to another post. Anamitra eventually consulted with her parents and her most trusted counselors to choose Firoz, your great-uncle. He was a scholar two hundred years her senior and considered a wise and mature choice. They mated and were wholly devoted to each other until Firoz was killed. I don’t think Anamitra even considered another lover after Firoz returned to the heavens. She loved him very much.”

But he was not her reshon.

“Why are you telling me this?” Meera asked.

“There is nothing that should keep you from what you want,” Vasu said. “If you want the scribe as yours, take him. Anamitra told you a tale that she used to comfort herself. She once told me that if Firoz had been her reshon, the pain of his death would have destroyed her.”

“Wouldn’t it have?”

Vasu cocked his head. “How many scribes and singers live beyond their reshon? Many. The Irin race wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t so. Anamitra told you the lie she made herself believe. There is nothing dangerous about your taking your reshon as your mate. Do you think the Creator makes mistakes?”

No, but she did think Vasu would manipulate her if it suited his purposes. It was possible the angel wanted what was best for Meera. Sometimes he was oddly benevolent. It was equally possible that distracting Meera by dangling a fond wish in front of her suited one of Vasu’s twisted schemes and everything the angel had just told her was a lie.

“I’m going to check what you said,” Meera told him. “I’m going to ask my father.”

“Ask.” Vasu shrugged. “He knows the truth. All the Tomir do.”

“Fine.”

“Good.” Vasu stretched and turned into his more familiar self, complete with tiger-striped hair and bare skin.

“Clothes, Vasu.”

He glanced down. “Oh.” Vasu didn’t rush to accommodate her wishes. “It’s hot.”

“You still need to wear clothes.”

“Are you sure?”

She looked to the porch where a shadow passed. Someone was approaching the library. “Vasu, seriously,” she hissed, “put some clothes on.”

“Don’t you want to—”

“Meera?” It was her father, standing at the door. “Did you need help finding something?”

Since her father hadn’t gone silent in a killing rage, Meera guessed that Vasu had made himself scarce.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just looking for a topographical map of the Atchafalaya.”

“You’ll need to speak to Roch,” Maarut said. “I believe he just checked out every map and guide for the basin we have.”

“Roch?”

“Yes,” her father said. “Didn’t you hear? Rhys convinced him to act as your guide.”