Meera watched the Englishman from behind her sunglasses. She licked powdered sugar from her fingers as he wandered aimlessly around Jackson Square. He tried to avoid the crowds, but it was impossible. She knew he was looking for her, but… she didn’t get beignets anywhere but Café Du Monde. They were sin in pastry form, and Meera believed in indulging.

“You’re a mean woman.” Zephirin reached for a beignet from the paper bag Meera carried.

They were sitting on a shaded bench in a corner of the square. Zep had patrolled all night with no Grigori spotted. Far from satisfied, it left the scribe edgy, like a tiger waiting to pounce. Lazy on the outside with all that coiled energy within. Meera offered him sugar to appease the beast.

“I’m not mean,” she said. “Watching how someone navigates tourist traffic is very telling.”

“So this is a test?”

“Yes.”

“Look at this girl.” He took a bite of the powdered doughnut. “She’s so damn cute. Little bitty thing with all that hair and all those curves, that sweet face…”

“You know you love me.”

“Poor scribe doesn’t know what he’s in for getting within reach of her claws.”

Meera cocked her head. “I’m trying to decide if I’m insulted.”

Zep smiled. “You’re not.”

“You’re right; I’m not.” She watched the man navigate through a crowd of Chinese tourists and claim the corner of a bench. Meera had a clear view of him from her shaded seat. His eyes were covered by dark aviator glasses, but she could see annoyance in the lines around his mouth.

She smiled. “This is so amusing.”

“Why do I like you?” he said.

“Because I am delightful and dangerous.”

Zep shook his head. “Yeah. You are.”

Meera crossed her legs, the flowing coral dress she wore brushing her calves. The sensual brush of fabric and humid breeze off the river enveloped her, feeding her energy like the humans that surrounded them. She was enveloped by humanity, the scent of coffee and the sound of jazz musicians filling the air. Vendors and artists set up their tables, and shopkeepers were opening their doors.

It was all so rich. The first time she’d stepped into Jackson Square four years before, she’d been entranced. Everything about the old French city felt like an indulgence. It was a million miles from the quiet and ascetic compound where she’d lived for the first part of her life as the long-awaited heir of Anamitra, wisest of singers.

Meera closed her eyes and took off her sunglasses, letting the morning sun heat her gold-brown skin. “You didn’t have to stay if you didn’t want to watch me torment him.”

He finished the beignet in two bites. “I came to protect this poor scribe from your wiles.”

“My wiles?” She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “I never use my wiles on hapless scribes.”

He muttered, “Not even when we want you to.”

“You know, when I came to this country, I was told it was a place to be free. To break with traditions and push boundaries.” She finished off her beignet and brushed her hands together before she put her sunglasses back on. “But every scribe I meet just wants to lure me into mating.”

He crossed his arms, the black ink of his talesm swirling over light brown skin. “There something wrong with wanting a mate?”

She almost gave in. Almost. Zephirin was a very handsome man, an attractive blend of Native American, European, and African blood like so many Irin in this part of North America. In addition to his looks, Zep was kind, funny, and respectful. Her father even liked him. When Zep had first asked Meera out to dinner, she’d been tempted.

But only tempted.

Meera bumped his shoulder. “Don’t be cross. I just got out of the haven. I don’t know if mating is right for me.”

“So only human dates until you figure it out?”

“None of your business.” She nodded at the Englishman who was still sitting across the square. “He’s handsome, isn’t he?”

“You’re asking me?”

“You have eyes, don’t you?”

Zep squinted at the other scribe. “He’s thin and pale and looks like a buzzkill. Like a cranky professor.”

“According to my mother, his name is Rhys of Glast. He’s a renowned archivist of Gabriel’s direct line.”

“That sounds… not fun at all.”

Meera pursed her mouth. “I think he looks amusing. And he has beautiful hair.” And lips, but she didn’t mention that. In fact, Meera found the Englishman highly attractive, with a tall, lanky build that caught her eye and a wide, expressive mouth that hinted at sinful things. He had blue-black hair and pale skin, high cheekbones and a sharp jaw.

He looked… severe. But the mouth distracted her. She wanted to muss that dark hair and wrinkle his collar. Knowing he was a “renowned archivist” intrigued her and concerned her, all at the same time.

“He’s pale as shit,” Zep said. “Looks like he never leaves the library.” He stretched his arm across the back of the bench, resting his skin against hers. It was a natural affection Meera had grown to enjoy.

“Well, he’s here now,” Meera said. “So clearly he leaves it sometimes. He’s supposed to be brilliant with computers.”

“That so?” Zep’s interest was piqued. He had an interest in technology, though he was the only one in his scribe house who seemed attracted to it. He idly brushed a thumb over Meera’s shoulder. “Are you going to keep him locked away while he’s here?”

“Maybe.” Meera relaxed at Zep’s touch.

Casual affection between friends in the Irin world was valued and necessary. The contact allowed singers to release energy they gathered from spending time around humans and gave scribes a boost of power. They were people of community, never meant to be isolated or alone, a tricky proposition for someone like Meera who guarded her privacy fiercely.

She glanced back at the new scribe and her breath caught. “Oh, hello.”

The scribe had his eyes locked on Meera. She felt… found. The corner of the man’s beautiful mouth turned up.

Got you.

Meera could almost hear his voice in her mind. She cocked her head and met his gaze behind her dark glasses, resisting the urge to lower her shields. In a place like Jackson Square, she would be quickly overwhelmed by the soul voices that surrounded her. Though she had to admit she was curious.

Who are you, Rhys of Glast?

Meera felt Zep tense beside her, so she put a hand on his knee.

“His instincts are good,” Zep said.

“Maybe not such a recluse after all.” She patted his knee and stood, handing him the empty paper bag. “I should go. I’ve kept him waiting long enough.”

“Want me to come with you?”

She shook her head. “Give me your card.”

Zep reached in his back pocket and handed a business card over.

Meera tucked it in the pocket of her sundress. “I’ll tell him to contact you when he gets a chance.”

“Still guarding your secrets?” Zep looked up. “I’ll find out eventually.”

She laughed a little. “Not if I don’t want you to.”

“Go.” He nodded at the scribe. “It looks like the professor is getting antsy.”

* * *

She crossed the square, watching the man’s reaction as she approached. Meera knew she was an attractive woman. She was petite and rounder than was typical for Irina. Most Irina burned massive amounts of calories surviving in the human world. Their metabolisms were faster than humans.

Meera had been raised to have near-perfect control of her ability to read souls and ironclad control over her shields. It allowed her body to be a bit softer, which many considered an attractive trait in the Irin world. She was aware of the appeal and used it to her advantage whenever possible.

But she was stymied by Rhys. He didn’t rise as she approached. He didn’t offer any acknowledgment at all other than a gaze locked on her face.

Interesting.

“Rhys of Glast,” she said.

“And you are Meera,” he said. “That’s all Sari told me. She didn’t say you’d be with anyone.”

“I wasn’t planning to be. Zep just happened to be patrolling the Quarter last night.”

“Anything interesting?”

“You’d have to ask him.” She handed over Zep’s card. “He wants you to call him later. He’s very friendly, but he’s protective.”

“Understood.”

He was still sitting. Meera didn’t know if he intended to be rude, but her father and mother would have found the man’s lack of deference insulting.

As if reading her mind, he said, “I thought you’d had your fill of watching me. So it’s my turn.”

Meera cocked her head. “Are you always so easily perturbed?”

It was then that he rose, stepped toward her, and Meera felt the full effect of the scribe’s physicality. It caused an intriguing curl of interest in her belly. This was no mere scholar. He moved with practiced grace and control, not like Zep’s lazy tiger, more like a stalking leopard. He might be an archivist, but he was a warrior too.

“I don’t like people,” Rhys said.

Meera angled her head up to meet his eyes. She could see them faintly behind his sunglasses when he was close. They were thick-lashed, another fiendishly sensual detail in an otherwise impassive face.

“You’ll like me.” She gave him a smile she knew would show her dimples. “I’m delightful.”

He reached up, his expression unchanging, and stroked a thumb over the corner of her mouth.

Her smile fell away. It was everything Meera could do not to shiver. “What do you—?”

“You had powdered sugar on your lip,” he said. “It was distracting.”

“The best things usually are.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Sari didn’t say what you do here in New Orleans. Are you attached to the scribe house?”

“They wish. My parents are in charge of a haven in this area. I’m sure you understand why I can’t be more specific.”

“So you moved to be close to them?”

“Hmmm.” They still hadn’t moved from the middle of the square. Meera could feel the morning sun on her shoulders. She didn’t mind the warm weather—she relished it—but she could see Rhys beginning to sweat. “Should we move into the shade?”

Only a slight softening around his mouth told her he was grateful. He held out a hand, motioning toward the bench where she and Zep had been sitting, but it was already occupied. Zep had disappeared and more and more humans were pouring into the square.

“Hmm. I know a place that’s quieter,” she said. “Would you like to grab a coffee?”

“Tea,” he said. “I drink tea.”

“How English.”

“Or Indian.” He shrugged when she glanced over her shoulder. “I’m assuming from the accent.”

“It would be a mistake to assume anything about me.” Meera turned and walked into the oncoming tourist traffic. “But I do drink tea. Follow me.”

* * *

The courtyard of the hotel was quiet save for the trickle of a fountain. Though they were only steps from Bourbon Street, the stone walls enveloped them and kept the crowds and the heat at bay. It was one of Meera’s favorite hidden spots in the French Quarter, an intensely crowded neighborhood filled with small private corners.

She adored it.

Rhys lifted a teapot delicately, his long fingers arranging the teacups just so before he poured. There was something highly attractive about a man who handled fine things with care.

“Do you take milk or sugar?” he asked.

“Neither, thank you. If they come back, I’ll ask for honey.”

He glanced up as he passed her a teacup. He’d taken off his sunglasses as she had, but Meera could tell he was uncomfortable without them.

Fuss, fuss, fuss.

“You’re very tidy.” She cupped her chin and leaned her elbow on the table. “Aren’t you? I’m betting your suitcase is strictly organized.”

“I live in an old house with three couples and two unruly children.” His mouth curved just a little. “I have to be tidy.”

He liked the children even though they were “unruly.” It was the first hint of softness she’d seen from him, and it made her like him more. But he avoided looking at her, choosing to glance around the courtyard and examine every person who came in sight. He was definitely a soldier. Zep and his brothers all acted the same.

But Zep and his brothers didn’t avoid looking directly at her.

Hmmmm.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” Many scribes were awkward around Irina, but he’d mentioned living with couples. Then again, perhaps he didn’t approve of Irina living in the scribe house. Perhaps Rhys of Glast was one of those Irin who wanted to keep all Irina locked in the havens, only visiting to breed children or consult on ancient songs.

“You don’t make me uncomfortable.” He stirred his tea.

“Are you sure?”

“Not knowing who you are or what you do makes me uncomfortable. Why did Sari send me to you, and what do you know about Irina martial magic? What is your role?”

“Aren’t you direct?” Her mother would have said rude. “In your world I don’t have a role.”

His gaze stopped wandering around the courtyard and locked on her. “In my world I live with three highly skilled singers who work with the scribes in our house in all manner of ways, from healing to patrolling to mental combat. So perhaps it’s a mistake to assume anything about me either.”

“Fair.” What to give him? Just enough. “Like you, I am an archivist.”

“Do you have a specialty?”

If only you knew… “I’m currently focused on Irina magic in North America. Like many of the indigenous human languages in the western hemisphere, local Irina traditions are in danger of being lost. As an archivist, it is my job to study these traditions and preserve them.”

“So you are a librarian.”

She replied cautiously. “Of a specialized sort. I was told you were also an archivist, so I assume you understand.”

“I think I’m starting to.” He sat back and watched her.

Again, Meera had the distinct feeling of being stalked by a great cat. “As I’m sure you know, there are many singers like me around the world. What I do isn’t unique.” Best not to sound too humble. She didn’t pull off humble well. “Though unlike some of my more traditional peers, I also utilize a limited amount of technology in my study and preservation.”

“Technology?”

“Recording technology. Digital.” She turned to look around the restaurant. “Where is our server? My tea is going cold.”

Rhys blinked. “Are you saying you record Irina songs?”

“Only with permission.” Meera was pleased by his surprise; she did hate being predictable. “Do you see our server?”

“Singers allow this?”

“When they trust me, they sometimes allow it.” Her recordings numbered in the hundreds of hours at this point, but there was no reason for the scribe to know that. The files were safe, and the backup drive was impossible to hack. “I really would like to drink my tea.”

“Have some sugar?” He passed her the caddy with tiny paper packets.

Meera made a face. “No, thank you.”

“You’re quite particular yourself. Do you have a geographic emphasis?”

“For honey?”

He frowned. “For your research.”

“I’ve focused on the closest Irina communities, most of which are remnants. Communities along the Gulf of Mexico whose human blood came from Mississippian peoples.”

“I don’t know much about North American linguistic groups,” Rhys said. “My training was in manuscripts from the British Isles, though I’ve been more focused on Western and Central Asian manuscripts since I’ve been in Istanbul.”

“My training didn’t match my current emphasis either.” She smiled. “But I found the challenge refreshing. It’s been too long that the Irina have neglected preservation in North America, though we excel in it other places.”

“What is the scribe tradition like here?”

“You’d have to ask your brothers here, though there are no major libraries in this area that I know of. I believe the emphasis has traditionally been on talesm as a means of magical preservation rather than manuscripts.” She’d been aching for months to talk with someone who would understand how interesting her findings were, but she still didn’t trust him. Couldn’t trust him. “But the Irina here were incredibly influential. Oral tradition surpassed written by far.”

“It sounds fascinating. And very promising considering the current political environment.”

“Yes.” Meera forced herself to be pragmatic. “I don’t want to understate the challenge. My work is often frustrating. Many rumors. Few certainties.”

“And those rumors are where you heard about the Wolf?”

And the hunting leopard pounced.

Meera controlled her reaction. The scribe didn’t need to know about the Wolf. Her work was knowledge that belonged only to the Irina. What would scribes do with singers’ history? Write it in some dry scroll, convinced that the recording of a thing equaled its understanding?

No. Not with her research.

She set her cold tea to the side and leaned forward. “I love following stories like those of the Serpent and the Wolf. So fascinating, don’t you think? They provide good context for academic exploration.”

“Stories?” Rhys frowned. “I don’t understand. You think the Serpent and the Wolf are stories?”

“Of course.” She had to change the subject. “Like the wonderful legends surrounding Glast. I’m sure you know of them. How Gabriel planted the hawthorn tree and the great library grew from the roots—”

“I know the legends of Glast.” His expression had annoyance written all over it. “Are you saying you haven’t found evidence of the Wolf?”

Meera shrugged. “Can we define evidence? The hawthorn in the Glast legend, for instance—”

“Is a hawthorn tree,” Rhys interrupted. “Only a story. A library can’t be built from hawthorn wood.”

“Why not? Is it not suitable for building? I don’t know much about carpentry.”

“No, it’s a hardwood, but the trunk—” He shook his head. “Why are we talking about carpentry?”

“I don’t know anything about it, but you seem to. Is it something you learned from your father or mother? I was never taught to work with my hands, and I think I should have been. It was a failing of my training.” Meera ran a finger along the edge of her teacup. “I think some kind of art or craft should be part of a well-rounded education. I always had an interest in ceramic art, but I was never given instruction. I think that’s a shame, don’t you?”

Rhys blinked. “I… don’t have an opinion on that.”

“That surprises me. You strike me as the kind of person who has an opinion about everything.”

“And you strike me as the type of person who likes to avoid questions.” He swiped a hand over his forehead. “I was called here because there were reports that the Wolf had been found. If that’s not the case, why did you summon me?”

“Do you think I summoned you?” She cocked her head. “That’s interesting.”

Rhys said. “Who then?”

Meera sighed. “You’re very persistent, aren’t you?”

“Very.”

It hadn’t been Meera who’d told Sari of Vestfold to send a nosy scribe. Meera had listened to the stories and rumors and told her mother of her suspicions, her mother had told her old friend Orsala, and Orsala had passed the information on to Sari, the granddaughter mated to the praetor of Mikael’s line.

That tended to be the way information was passed between havens. The poor scribes just hadn’t gotten used to it yet.

“I didn’t summon you,” she said. “I can’t tell you who did.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Won’t.”

Rhys sat back, crossing his arms over his chest, and Meera clinked a teaspoon against her delicate cup, hoping honey would magically appear before her tea went completely cold.

Alas, they had been forgotten. It might have been the stormy expression on Rhys’s face that kept the servers away.

“You didn’t summon me,” he muttered. “But someone passed a message along to Sari. Someone she trusted.”

“How much does Sari like you?” Meera picked up her teacup and sipped the cold, unsweetened tea. Then she set it down. Awful. “She might have simply enjoyed sending you on a chase.”

“No… Well yes, she would enjoy that. But my watcher wouldn’t be pleased to lose me for no good reason. So whoever told Sari must be someone connected to the havens.”

“Why do the scribes have any interest in these legends? Don’t you have enough killing magic of your own?”

“We don’t need the magic; the Irina do.”

“If you’re so convinced of that, why don’t you leave the gathering of that magic to singers?”

“Why shouldn’t we help? Strong singers mean strong scribes.”

“So this is about scribes.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Rhys had moved from irritation and was headed toward angry. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Didn’t you say you moved here to be close to your parents?”

She smiled calmly. “I didn’t say that. That might have been another one of your assumptions.”

“I don’t think so.”

Danger, danger, danger.

Meera’s eyes rose to his and she set her cup down. “I think we need some new tea. This pot is cold. And honey.”

He blinked. “Honey?”

“Yes. I told you I don’t like sugar in my tea.”

“Sugar is just as sweet.”

“But it’s not honey, is it?”

She’d rendered him speechless again. Rhys of Glast, imminent archivist, was staring at her with a mix of confusion, indignation, and fascination. Meera was extraordinarily pleased. It was the best reaction she could have hoped for.

“You want more tea?” he asked.

“Are you offering to get it?” Meera smiled. “Thank you.”

Rhys sat back in his seat. “You won’t tell me who summoned me here, you’re dismissing the legends of the Serpent and the Wolf as simple stories, and you want more tea?”

“I absolutely want more tea. After all, you’ve barely touched yours, and I think you might still be a bit jet-lagged. Are you? I’m really thinking of you.”

He stood. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’ll… get more tea.”

“Excellent. And Rhys?” She looked directly into his eyes.

“Yes?”

“There’s nothing simple about stories.”