“The woman is maddening!” Rhys yelled into the phone. “I spent five hours with her today and received nothing except a tour of the French Quarter, a disjointed lecture on the different properties of honey, and more food than I usually eat in an entire day. In five hours!”

Damien coughed as if trying to suppress a laugh. Sari, as usual, suppressed nothing. They had Rhys on speakerphone, and Rhys could hear her laughter bounce off the stone walls of their castle in Rěkaves.

“Oh Rhys,” she said. “I wish I could see your face. I’ve never met Meera in person, but I like her already.”

“Who the hell is this woman?” Rhys asked. “Other than a demon in Irina clothing.”

“Trust me,” Sari said. “She’s more than your equal in learning, but I can’t share her secrets or I’d lose her trust, and I absolutely cannot do that. She’s too important.”

Important how? Rhys was mystified. Damien’s mate wasn’t awed by much.

“Besides, Rhys, why must you be so impatient?” Damien asked. “It sounds like a pleasant afternoon. I’ve always wanted to visit New Orleans.”

“So have I,” Sari said. “The gardens. The music. The food. It sounds like you had a wonderful guide.”

“Who told me nothing!” He resisted kicking the wall. “I had dozens of questions, and she managed to deflect every one. I would think I was getting somewhere, then she’d distract me by diverting the conversation to jazz musicians or azalea cultivation or different properties of American whiskey. Five hours with the woman and I know nothing more about the Wolf than when I arrived. I’m completely turned around.”

“A woman has out-clevered Rhys?” Sari asked. “I never thought I’d live to see this moment, but if anyone could do it, it would be Meera.”

“Indeed. An opponent with equal cunning,” Damien said. “He’ll either fall in love with her or murder her.”

“I would not take that bet, my darling.”

Rhys closed his eyes. “I’m glad you find all this so amusing. I don’t like it here, and at this rate, I have no idea how long this mission will take.” He was ignoring the crack about falling in love. Damien and Sari had reunited after a long estrangement. Mated pairs were notorious for thinking everyone wanted to be as they were.

“How can you not like New Orleans?” Sari asked. “It’s probably warm. The temperature here dropped below freezing last night. In April! And it’s supposed to rain later this week.”

“Sounds lovely.” Rhys sighed. He did miss gloomy weather. “It’s humid and hot. When it rains, the streets flood and the mud smells.”

He knew he was just griping.

“The mud smells?” Damien chuckled. “Rhys, you’ve only been there a few days. How is the woman supposed to trust you? Give it time. Get to know her.”

“And that does not mean hack her computer or surveil her apartment,” Sari said. “Try using charm.”

Rhys curled his lip. “She’s not interested in charm.” Well, not unless she was charming him. And she had. He hated to admit it, but the woman was intriguing. She was curious. Bright. Brilliant, in fact. If he weren’t on assignment, he would wander through her fascinating mind for hours. It was part of the reason it had been so easy for her to distract him.

Add to that the dark orange dress with the strap that fell down her shoulder, the shining black hair piled on her head in a tousled knot, the curve of her leg teasing him as she walked, and…

He was on assignment—an important assignment—and she was a subject to interview.

One that seemed solely focused on stymying him.

“Can you call someone?” he asked. “Sari, did you vouch for me? Can you—?”

“I have vouched for you,” Sari said. “She wouldn’t have even agreed to a meeting if I hadn’t. But Meera keeps her own council. She’s liable to take her time making up her mind.”

“Honestly, what is the rush?” Damien asked. “This is a fact-finding mission. New Orleans doesn’t have a Grigori problem.”

“Yet.” Rhys narrowed his eyes. “And has anyone asked why? Doesn’t that seem suspicious to anyone else? The Grigori I killed in Houston mentioned Bozidar’s name. Said the Fallen were rising.”

Damien grunted. “Yes, they love saying things like that. Melodramatic, every one of them.”

“I thought Bozidar was in Saint Louis.”

“Originally he was in Chicago,” Damien said. “You can ask Malachi about him. He was routed from Chicago and is currently in the Saint Louis area, but the scribe house there is secretive and quiet. Bozidar is smart. He doesn’t cause enough trouble to attract attention from the council.”

“Saint Louis”—Rhys mulled it over—“is also on the Mississippi River, isn’t it?”

“It’s a long way from Saint Louis to New Orleans, my friend.”

“Maybe,” Rhys said. “But I’m going to ask around. I’ll try to contact this Zep person Meera mentioned. The one she was with in the square.”

“I’ll pass the word through official channels if that’s what you’re asking,” Damien said. “Do you want to clue them in to why you’re really there?”

“For now leave it as it was in Houston,” he said. “I’m a visiting scholar, researching North American tattooing practices. They don’t need to know I’m in contact with the haven here. They’ll report any activity with Irina to the council in Vienna.”

And right now the scribes’ council didn’t have the best interest of the Irina at heart. They were old and entrenched power brokers who were clinging to influence with every breath, not servants working for their people.

“Fine,” Damien said. “Let us know if you need any more help.”

“I’ll try sending another message,” Sari said. “But Rhys?”

“Yes?”

“Take a breath. Put up your feet. You’ve been working like a madman for five years now. Maybe it’s time you let an attractive woman distract you.”

“I didn’t say she was attractive,” Rhys snapped.

“Trust me,” Damien said. “You did.”

* * *

The next afternoon, Rhys met Zephirin—Zep, as he introduced himself—at the entrance to Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 in the Garden District. The New Orleans scribe house was only a few blocks away, and Zep was keeping close to home that rainy morning, waiting for the sky to clear and the tourists to flood the French Quarter.

“They come here too,” the young scribe explained. “But not as much this time of year. Parade season? It’s a madhouse.”

Stormy skies hung low over the strange hamlet of grey and black marble graves in various states of disrepair. Ferns and moss peeked from exposed stones while many graves bore fresh bouquets and evidence of care.

Rhys sidestepped a puddle that had formed in the middle of an alley between the graves. “But even with all the tourism, there are relatively few Grigori attacks?”

Zep glanced at him sideways. “There’s more than what our watcher in Houston wants to acknowledge. We’ve been asking for additional men for years now—and a level of independence—but they’re reluctant to send more.”

“Do you know why?”

“No.” Zep shrugged. “Some of the brothers here say pressure from the haven keeps scribe numbers low.”

Rhys frowned. “You mean Meera’s haven?”

“Nah.” Zep hopped over a larger puddle. “She’s never lived there. Doesn’t claim it. Her parents are another story.”

“They’re the guardians, correct?”

“Indeed they are. About four years now.”

“You’ve met them?” Rhys avoided the question of Meera for the moment. He’d noticed the scribe became closemouthed about the mysterious Irina, and Rhys didn’t want to push his luck.

A man under an umbrella crossed the alley in the distance, sidestepping the growing puddles as rain continued to fall. He flashed across Rhys’s line of sight, then disappeared behind another line of graves.

Zep continued. “I’ve met her daddy. Who is one scary fucker, I might add.”

“How so?”

“You know the quiet type that sits in the corner and you barely notice ’em until they stand up and you realize just lookin’ at ’em they could kill everyone in the room and not blink?”

Rhys chuckled quietly. “My former watcher is exactly like that.”

“That’s Meera’s daddy. And I hear her mama is just the same.”

“So Meera’s parents are both warriors, but she became a librarian?” It was just another confusing facet to an already confusing singer.

“Meera’s a softer type.” Zep smiled. “She’s plenty powerful, but I ain’t ever seen her pick up a knife.”

Zep’s expression revealed his admiration, and Rhys felt an unexpectedly territorial objection to it.

“So she’s soft,” he challenged.

The other scribe narrowed his eyes. “Not soft. Just… not a soldier. She doesn’t have to be. She’s under our protection here.”

“Of course.” Rhys forced a smile. “It’s clear she feels very safe here. She must live near the scribe house.”

“She lives close enough. None of your business where she lives.”

You don’t know any more than I do. Rhys backed off. “I would never intrude on her. I’m simply curious. It’s not typical for Irina to live independently.”

Unless it was Renata or Ava or any number of the Irina Rhys knew. Opinions about Irina independence diverged wildly among younger scribes. Rhys hadn’t managed to read Zep yet.

“There ain’t much typical about Meera.” Zep stepped to the side to let a couple of rain-soaked visitors with fresh flowers in hand pass them, wandering farther back into the graveyard. “She’s unique.”

That’s what I’ve heard. Rhys said, “I look forward to consulting with her on my research. She’s clearly a brilliant woman with a much deeper knowledge of the native Irin of this region than I have.”

Zep smiled at Rhys again. “You know, I am from around here. Just sayin’ if you’re looking for local sources, I can hook you up.”

Rhys had already guessed that from the scribe’s accent. “Then I suppose I’ll be interviewing you as well.”

“But you gotta buy me dinner first,” Zep said. “I ain’t some cheap date.”

“Done.” Rhys’s eyes watched the humans turn left at the end of the graveyard. “I’ll even buy you a beer.”

“Buy me dessert and I might make myself pretty.” Zep glanced over his shoulder. “You see that other fellow exit yet?”

“No.”

“This is a small graveyard,” Zep murmured, “but it’s full of corners that ain’t so obvious.”

“Did you see him carrying a camera or a backpack?”

“No. You?”

“Neither.” If the man was a tourist, he’d have some kind of bag with him. Lafayette No. 1 was a walled graveyard with two entrances; Rhys had researched it prior to meeting Zep. “The Sixth Avenue entrance?”

“He mighta gone out there,” Zep said. “But why cross the cemetery at all?”

“Visiting a relative?”

“Maybe. This is a working graveyard. It’s possible.”

Rhys brushed a thumb over his talesm prim, trying to enhance his senses and gauge the air, but all he perceived was the scent of rain and mud, moss and rot, and a hint of the lilies the humans had been carrying.

“Lily,” Rhys said quietly. “I’ll follow the humans.”

“And I’ll try to find our mysterious visitor.” Zep turned left at the next corner.

Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 was laid out in four quadrants, each with alleys of trees and numerous graves, most of which were far taller than Rhys. He walked swiftly, following the scent of the lily blossoms and ignoring the wet splash of his boots through the mud. He trailed the scent to the back corner where the lilies were carefully placed on a ledge under a small mausoleum marked Dours. Half the plaque was covered in a volunteer fern that obscured the rest of the name, but the bright lilies remained, a token of care and remembrance.

The humans were nowhere in sight.

Rhys followed a pair of muddy footprints until they dead-ended in another puddle. He hopped across it and tuned his ears to the ambient noise.

The distant rumble of a streetcar on Saint Charles Avenue and passing traffic as it zipped through rain-soaked streets. A pair of laughing tourists on the other side of the wall, walking down the sidewalk on Prytania Street. Zep’s furtive footfalls turned into a run.

Rhys changed direction and followed the sound.

He leapt over fallen stones and shuffled through narrow alleys between graves before he came to the far side of the deserted graveyard where he saw Zep standing over two limp figures as the man with the black umbrella parried with him.

Rhys ran toward them, only to see the Grigori spot him over Zep’s shoulder and swing the umbrella in a final blow that knocked the young scribe on the temple. Zep spun around, clutching his temple.

“Down!” Rhys yelled, and Zep dropped to his knees in the mud. Rhys leapt over him to pursue the fleeing Grigori. “Get help!”

Rhys left Zep with the fallen humans and gave chase.

The Grigori was obviously more familiar with the cemetery than Rhys was. He ran straight toward the wall and, using the trees and fallen stones to brace himself, shimmied up and over the cemetery wall before Rhys could catch up. He followed the path of the Grigori, scraping his hands as he climbed and hoping no one noticed the soaked Englishman perched on the historic walls of the cemetery as he scanned the streets.

There.

The Grigori was running toward a dripping group of students with backpacks and plaid umbrellas who looked as if they were part of a tour. He shoved them out of the way, ignoring the indignant shouts and curses thrown at him, only to dodge a truck that nearly ran him over as he crossed the street.

Rhys followed him, running around the students and turning left at the intersection. He paused, nearly cursing his luck when he thought he’d lost the Grigori.

Then he spotted a muddy, blood-tinged handprint on the corner of the yellow house.

He jumped the wrought iron fence and crouched down, listening for his quarry. He stayed low, ducking under the windows as he walked between the two brightly painted houses with rocking chairs on the porch. He could hear panting in the garden.

Rhys crept on silent feet, hoping the Grigori had given up or mistakenly believed he’d lost his pursuer. The man was sitting, hunched over, his head in his hands. He sat on a dripping wrought iron chair pulled away from a bistro table under a wisteria arbor in a shared garden between the two houses. The wall on either side was at least seven feet, covered in vines and fragrant with flowers.

“Are you going to kill me?”

Rhys froze.

“I can hear you,” the Grigori said. “I’m not running. Are you going to kill me or not?”

“Do you want me to kill you?”

The man looked over his shoulder and frowned. “You’re not one of the local scribes.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Why are you here?”

“Research.”

The man’s shoulders shook but his laughter was hollow. “A professor? That’s who finally caught me?”

The walls were high but not insurmountable, especially for the Grigori who’d led Rhys on such a merry chase.

“Why aren’t you running?” Rhys asked.

“I’m tired.” The words were spoken in a growl. “I shouldn’t have run in the graveyard. Should have let you kill me there. But I suppose running is instinct at this point. Fighting. Hunting.”

The man finally looked up, and Rhys stopped dead in his tracks at the haunted expression. “Who are you?” he asked.

“A child of the devil. A killer. You know who I am, scribe. ‘You’re all the same.’ Haven’t I heard that from more than one of you?”

“Who is your father?”

The Grigori gave him half a smile. “You’ll find out soon enough. It’s coming.”

What is? Rhys wanted to ask, but something in the wild and desolate expression in the man’s eyes told him no straight answer would be forthcoming. “You’re dying, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” The man rolled his neck and shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t want to fall to dust in my sleep. Figured I’d rather go out in a fight.”

Rhys drew a silver dagger and glanced over his shoulders, but the windows of the two old houses were shuttered and no lights shone behind them. He walked slowly toward the Grigori, mindful of a trap, but the weariness of the man’s expression was unmistakable.

Unless given new life by their sires, the natural life span of a Grigori was usually only around one hundred fifty years from their births. They didn’t show signs of age or weakness. They simply turned off, like a light bulb burning out. This Grigori had reached the end of his life and felt his final hours approaching.

“Tell me who your sire is,” Rhys said. “And I will kill you quickly. Don’t tell me, and I’ll give you pain. I won’t kill you at all. I’ll wait.”

The man’s eyes burned. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

The Grigori lunged toward Rhys in a burst of raw fury, but Rhys slipped to the side and locked the man in a headlock before he could get away. The Grigori’s body twisted as his feet tried to find leverage in the slippery mud.

Rhys said, “I can wait like this a long time.”

The Grigori turned and tried to sink his teeth into his arm, but Rhys knocked him with a blow to the temple, shoved him to the ground, and pressed his face into the mud.

He twisted the monster’s head to the side. “This won’t kill you, son of the Fallen. But tell me the devil who sired you, and I promise I’ll give you a quick death.”

“Dieudonné,” the man spit out.

“Wrong,” Rhys said. “There is no angel by that name in the Americas.”

“And you know them all?” He cackled. “I promise you don’t.”

Rhys shoved his face in the mud. “Try again.”

He spit mud from his mouth. “Teodoros.”

“No.”

The man began to laugh, the sound tinged with hysteria. “He’s the gift of the Creator, don’t you know? The celestial father. The glorious one!”

“Is that what he told you?”

“We are the sons of heaven,” the Grigori screamed, “not a mongrel race of supplicant dogs!”

Rhys was worried about attracting attention. He’d overpowered the Grigori, and he was fairly sure the houses were deserted, but the monster’s voice was getting louder every time he responded. It was only a matter of time before someone braved the downpour to see what the commotion was.

“Tell me your father’s name,” Rhys said through gritted teeth. “Don’t you want to die?”

“You pathetic eunuchs have to steal our women now.” The creature couldn’t stop laughing. “Steal ours because we killed all yours.”

Rhys snapped. He pressed the Grigori’s face into the mud and plunged the dagger into the man’s spine. The body wavered beneath him before it dissolved.

Enough. Goading Rhys was one thing. Dredging up the horror of the Rending…

Rhys saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Zep was standing between the two houses, water dripping down his face, watching the Grigori’s dust melt into the mud as the rain washed it away.

“Will his soul rise?” Zep asked.

“Yes.” Rhys tried to wipe the rain from his eyes but only succeeded in smearing himself with more mud. “He’ll face his judgment, brother.”

Zep looked him up and down. “Come with me. You can clean up at the house. The humans were fine after a few minutes. You, I’m not so sure about.”

* * *

Rhys sought anonymity on Frenchmen Street that night, sitting at a back corner table at a club, drinking a bottle of red wine as a man played piano and a woman sang about lost love. He’d showered, changed, and dried off, but he could still feel the grit of the Grigori’s dust under his fingernails, still feel the mud caked into his palms as he held the man down.

Dieudonné.

Teodoros.

God’s gift.

Which Fallen considered themselves the Creator’s gift? It hadn’t occurred to him during the struggle, but the answer was obvious. He went by various names, depending on geography. Darko. Boško. Dado.

Bozidar.

The divine gift of heaven.

He was an archangel with an inflated sense of purpose and an ego considered monumental, even by Fallen standards.

“You’ll find out soon enough. It’s coming.”

There was always something coming. Some horrible threat. Some catastrophe.

He couldn’t rest. He couldn’t stop. Not when he’d been one of the survivors. Until the Irina regained everything they’d lost—until hope wasn’t just a dream in their world—he couldn’t be distracted.

Rhys felt a hand slide up his arm before someone sat across from him. He turned to protest the intrusion only to find Meera sitting across from him, her eyes locked on the singer at the front.

“I love her voice,” Meera said. “She’s a regular here.”

“How did you find me?” How did you know I wanted to be found?

She turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “The city’s not that big, Rhys.”

He could only stare at her. He was worn out. Tired. He had the absurd instinct to lay his head on her breast, close his eyes, and sleep for hours.

He shoved the impulse aside. He barely knew the woman. She was beautiful, yes, but so were countless other women. There was nothing particularly compelling about Meera.

Liar.

There was something about her—a glow, a depth—that drew him in, and he had no idea why. He was past the reflexive awe at Irina presence. He’d lived with females of his race for years now.

It wasn’t awe. It was… attraction.

As if she could read his thoughts, her mouth turned up at the corner in an impish smile. “Have you eaten?”

Rhys barked out a laugh. “No.”

“Going without dinner is a crime in this city.” Meera waved over a waitress. “If you’re looking for comfort food, you can’t go wrong with the red beans and rice.”

He was in the mood to be coddled, and Meera seemed to be offering. “Why not?” he asked. “Sounds good.”

“I heard you had a day today.” Meera paused and gave the waitress their order. Red beans and rice for Rhys. Gumbo for her. Another glass for wine.

Rhys couldn’t take his eyes off her. “Yes. I had a day.”