Meera looked at him, the prowling cat lying in wait. From the moment she’d sat across from him, his eyes hadn’t left her. His gaze raked her skin like claws teasing her flesh. It was unnerving. And… arousing.

“Do days like this happen to you often?” she asked. “I thought you were a scholar.”

“I am.”

A scholar with battle-hardened eyes. Meera saw the same shadows her own father bore. When Zep had called her that afternoon and told her they’d met a suicidal Grigori in the Garden District, Meera’s heart had hurt. For the Grigori and for the scribe who had killed him.

Meera said, “I don’t often meet scholars quite so good at hunting Grigori in my world.”

“Sounds like a narrow world.”

“Yes, it was.” She poured water from the carafe at the table, ignoring the slight tremor in her hands. “Until recently.”

His eyes sharpened. “So you did live in a haven once.”

“Not a haven.” Meera didn’t know what had caused her to lower her guard. Maybe it was the darkness in the club or the music or the pained look in his eyes. She wanted to comfort him, and that was a dangerous impulse. “I’ve been asking about you.” She glanced over at him. “Rhys of Glast, son of Edmund and Angharad the Sage, heir of Gabriel’s library.”

“I see I’m not the only scholar at the table.” Rhys set down his drink and leaned toward her. “Why were you asking about me?”

“Because you’ve been asking about me.”

“That’s fair.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smile, and it was far more tempting than it should have been.

“Zep thinks you’re here doing academic research. But I know…” She leaned forward. “…the scribes’ council doesn’t send scribes like you to do academic research.”

“I am no errand boy for the council. If you asked about me, you know who sent me.”

Sari of Vestfold, one of her mother’s oldest friends and mate of Damien, praetor of Rěkaves and former Watcher of Istanbul. Damien came from a military tradition much like her father’s, and Meera knew how that tradition engendered loyalty beyond politics.

According to her mother, Rhys’s allegiance was to Damien and his current watcher in Istanbul, not the Elder Council. But Sari had also sent Rhys without telling him anything about who Meera was.

She didn’t know what to think about that.

Rhys was staring at the singer on the stage, his wineglass dangling from graceful fingers. “So, my fellow scholar,” he drawled, “which of the Fallen would refer to the Irin as a race of mongrel dogs?”

“Mongrel dogs? That’s a new one.” She tapped her lip. “Is this Fallen here in the Americas?”

Rhys nodded.

“Who has a healthy ego and no respect for the Forgiven?” Meera mused. “My guess would be Bozidar.”

“Right in one.” He lifted his wineglass. “You are as clever as they say.”

“Do they say that? I’ll have to thank them.”

“You know you’re clever.”

“Do I?”

“I’d lose patience with you if you didn’t. I’m not a patient man.”

Meera let the matter drop. She knew the scribe wasn’t the patient sort. His restless energy didn’t fit with other academics she’d known. Was it the setting, the assignment… or was it her?

“Bozidar.” She waited for the waitress to set down another glass. “Is that who he belonged to? The Grigori today?”

“I think so.”

“Interesting.”

Rhys poured a generous serving into Meera’s glass. “Interesting is one word for it.”

“He’s been moving closer every year. Tiny steps, but consistent ones.”

“Why aren’t the scribe houses more concerned?”

She shrugged. “They judge Fallen presence by the number of Grigori attacks. They’re old-fashioned that way.”

“But not you.”

“Oh, I’m very old-fashioned.” She smiled. “About some things.”

Bozidar didn’t concern her. Maybe he should have, but Meera had dealt with Fallen antagonists her whole life. The heir of Anamitra had always been a target of the Fallen.

“Mongrel dogs,” she murmured. “That’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because we are. Mongrels, anyway.”

The flash of Rhys’s eyes told her he didn’t like the label.

She continued, “All but a few of us are an odd mixture of various angelic lines and human blood.” She sipped the dry red wine, another new taste since leaving Udaipur. “The Grigori, in their own twisted way, are more purely angelic than we are.”

“Do you think that makes them more powerful?”

“Yes and no. I do think it would give them some advantages if they knew what to do with it. And I think the prospect of that should terrify the Fallen.”

“Free Grigori rising up in an army against the angels who made them?” Rhys made a face. “I was hopeful once. In my experience, free Grigori willing to discipline themselves are few and far between.”

“But their numbers are growing every day,” Meera said. “Free Grigori and kareshta. With every Fallen angel we send back to heaven, more Fallen children are free. Surely that is better than endless war.”

“You’re an idealist. Endless war is a reality. Even when we wish it wasn’t.”

Meera felt a twinge of disappointment. She had hoped—she didn’t know why—that this scribe might have been different. That he might have seen clear to envisioning a third way beyond victory or defeat.

The waitress brought their food, and Meera kept Rhys company as he slowly peeled off the layers of the day. When his gaze grew heavy, she reached over and brushed his hand, offering him a taste of the energy she gathered in the club. By the time they’d finished the wine and the food, the shadows had lifted a little. His belly was full and his soul was a little lighter.

“Thank you.” He rose when she did.

“For what?”

“You know.”

They walked out of the club when the musicians changed. Rhys held the door as Meera wrapped a scarf around her shoulders. The clouds had come back and the air had chilled.

Rhys took a deep breath. “It smells like rain.” His sensual lips spread into a wide smile. It was the first time Meera had seen him truly happy, and the effect was breathtaking.

She said, “You’re handsome when you smile.”

He blinked. “I’m not.”

Meera laughed. “I don’t think you get to decide if you’re handsome or not.”

“You think I’m handsome?”

“I think… I like your smile. Anyone would like your smile. It’s a nice smile.”

His trapped her with his eyes. “I’m not asking about anyone.”

Meera turned and started walking up Frenchmen Street, away from the entrance to the club and the inconvenient scholar with poetic lips.

“Meera!” Rhys called.

She stopped and turned. “Yes?”

Rhys opened his mouth. Frowned. “I should walk you home.”

“No, you shouldn’t. I don’t want you to.”

He looked around. “This neighborhood can be dangerous after dark.”

“I know.”

“But—”

“Rhys.” She stepped toward him and let the magic rise in her voice. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Go home and sleep. You need to sleep.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue, then he shook his head and cleared his throat. “I don’t think—”

“I’m fine.” Damn him, he was strong-minded. She wasn’t surprised, but it was still irritating. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“A few days?”

A jazz band started on the corner, distracting him, and Meera stepped into the shadows, whispering a spell to avert his gaze. While he’d be able to see her from the corner of his eye, he wouldn’t be able to focus on her.

“Meera?” He looked away. Looked back. The annoyed expression had returned. “Damn it, woman.”

She bit her lip to stop from laughing and slipped away while he was turning in the street. A crowd gathered around him, and Meera kept to the shadows, slipping out of sight while he was distracted. She worked her way away from the river and farther into the Faubourg Marigny, heading toward the shotgun house that was her home.

She stayed in the shadows, avoiding the drunks whose voices echoed in the quiet residential streets. Within three blocks, the music from Frenchmen died down and she walked in silence back to the alley that led to her garden.

As if he’d been waiting up for her, the dark angel stepped out of the shadows the minute Meera latched the garden gate.

“Vasu?” She sighed. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been expecting it. It was out of character for him to stay away as long as he had. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” The shadow compressed into a smaller form, and a little boy with gold eyes and dark hair stomped up to her, his hands fisted on his hips. “Why are you in America, Meera Bai?”

Meera walked over and sat on the porch steps, bracing her chin in her hand. “Don’t be cross. And don’t pout.”

The child transformed into an eerily handsome young man with long black hair and a trimmed beard. His hair shone with reddish-gold stripes not unlike a tiger’s coat, and the arms he crossed over his bare chest were covered in raised talesm the same golden ochre of his skin. Unlike Irin scribes, Vasu’s magic was inherent. The spells were part of him, not tattooed on but rising from beneath the surface.

It was not an unfamiliar figure. Meera guessed this form was as close to his truest self as Vasu ever showed in human presence.

“I’m not pouting,” he said.

“You are.”

“The last time I saw you, you were in your aunt’s compound where you belong.”

Parrying with Rhys had taken too much out of her. “It’s not for you to say where I belong. And the last time you saw me was four years ago.”

Vasu frowned. “No.”

“Yes, Vasu. Four years. A lot has changed.”

“I know. That’s why you should be back in Udaipur.”

“I have work to do here.” Knowledge to find. Peace to pursue.

“Is four years a long time?” He cocked his head. “You don’t look older. Are you going to get old like Anamitra? That was a choice, you know. I didn’t approve of that.”

The Fallen angel truly didn’t understand time. Meera often wondered if Vasu still saw her as the child he’d played with so long ago within the fortress walls of Udaipur.

He’d speak of things a hundred years before as if they’d happened yesterday, and he’d speak of the morning as if eternity was contained within hours. Anamitra had told her once that Vasu was a child and an ancient contained in the same body.

“Can you just…?” Meera sighed. She was soul-deep exhausted from her time with Rhys, and she needed to drive to the haven in the morning. “I need to sleep.”

Vasu crouched in front of her, unperturbed by silly human conventions like personal space. “You’re tired?”

“I’m weary.”

He touched her temple, and Meera felt the penetrating flood of his presence in the delicate touch. “You are weary. I’ll stay.”

“Not necessary.”

He ignored her. Before she could register it, he had transformed again, this time into a large house cat with dense black fur and amber eyes. He waited at her door as Meera retrieved her key and opened the house before he slipped into the darkness.

As always when Vasu was nearby, Meera slept like a rock.

* * *

She started early the next morning, leaving the city before rush hour traffic started. Vasu had disappeared in the night. She might see him in an hour or it might be three years. Both were equally likely.

It was simply the way he was.

“He’s not like the others,” Anamitra had told her when Vasu had first appeared. “He never will be. He was newly born when the angels fell. His home is earth, not heaven.”

For centuries, Vasu had a relationship with Meera’s aunt. She couldn’t say it was an alliance—that would imply Anamitra had some influence or sway over Vasu. It would be closer to say that Vasu considered Anamitra—and Meera by extension—a loved and familiar pet. An amusement and comfort. Anamitra kept Vasu’s secrets… to an extent. And she never revealed her knowledge of him to any singer or scribe until Meera had been presented to her as an heir.

Meera never forgot it. She never forgot anything Anamitra had told her. That was her gift and her curse. Her memory was a perfectly formed prism stretching back centuries, long before she’d been born. Anamitra had spent hundreds of years conveying the knowledge of Irina power and history to Meera before she’d surrendered to the heavens.

Anamitra’s power belonged to Meera; one day she would pass it on to another. A daughter. A niece. A singer of her own blood. The heir of Meera Bai.

She felt the weight of history and legacy bearing down on her as she spotted the old house in Saint James Parish that sat in a bend of the river and marked the edge of haven land. For as long as anyone could remember, that house had existed. No one lived there but an old man who usually sat on the edge of a small dock, hanging a fishing line into the water. No matter what time of day she arrived, no matter what the weather, he always seemed to be sitting there. Something about the old man always struck Meera as odd, but no one, not her mother, her father, or any of the other Irin at the haven, could find anything unusual about him.

There are mysteries and peculiarities everywhere, she mused. Not only in the Irin world.

Mysteries like a scholar who moved like a warrior, or a singer who was friendly with an angel.

She turned off the main road and back into the twisting tracks leading to the back of the haven. Dense foliage grew thicker. Cypress and pine gave way to rolling lowlands filled with sugarcane where the air hung heavy and sweet. She turned left at the first live oak.

An alley of trees guarded the front of Havre Hélène, the great Creole house that past singers had saved from ruin, but the entrance Meera used came in from the farm. The property stretched south from the river, guarded by high fences and thick foliage cultivated by labor and strong earth magic. Sugar was what had run the plantation when it had belonged to humans. Sugar kept their new farm running still.

Meera felt the wards welcome her as she crossed the threshold of the haven. The old overseer’s home had been ripped out when the land was bought, and a new guardhouse had been built in a style matching the house. A mated couple, both of her father’s clan, lived in it now with their young child. When Meera had decided to leave India, her father, Maarut, had called them and they’d followed without question.

Because everything must be done without question.

Meera drove slowly down the dirt road leading to the second largest home on the property. It had once belonged to the matriarch of the family, but that human was long dead and the rambling home had been turned into rooms for unmated singers.

When the plantation had been taken over nearly one hundred years before, it had been near ruin and the shacks that had been the slave quarters were crumbling and rotting.

The singers who first came had burned the remnants of the cottages, singing laments and prayers of healing for the human souls who had suffered, while digging deep to find the roots of family, strength, and survival they had sowed in the land.

The ruins became places for meditation and teaching, with gardens growing around them. The plantation that had once been a place of horrible pain became a farm where the vulnerable could find refuge and survivors could grow. New cottages were built for mated singers and the scribes who had fled with them from the Rending. Everyone worked together.

It was a self-sustained ecosystem now guarded by Patiala and Maarut, her own parents, who had taken over from the previous guardian and her mate.

When Meera had told her parents she wanted to leave the great library at Udaipur after Anamitra’s death, they had thought she was joking. She was not.

Meera had moved without asking her parents—her first act of rebellion but not her last—and she’d chosen a place that had fascinated her for personal and academic reasons. As a child, she’d been enthralled by the legends and stories of the powerful singers across the sea. She’d listened to the songs that told about great battles, vast landscapes, prosperity, and centuries of peace.

When the opportunity had arisen to break free from the boundaries of her childhood, she grabbed it.

She parked the car behind the main house where her parents made their home. Her father oversaw the farm and organization of the compound. Her mother oversaw the security of the haven and communication with other guardians around the world.

In the history of unbreakable bonds, theirs was one of the most ironclad, all the more amazing to Meera because their mating had been strictly arranged by their families.

“Meera!” Patiala waved from the back porch and jogged down the steps. “I didn’t know you’d be here so early.” She hugged her daughter in a tight embrace. “Nanette is making lunch for us right now.”

“That sounds amazing.”

Patiala flashed a smile. “It’s so good to see you.”

“It’s only been three weeks.”

She was short, like Meera, but there was nothing soft about her. Her skin was darker than her daughter’s, tanned from a love of the outdoors, and her loose cotton pants and shirt hid the lean muscles of a world-class archer. Meera’s father might have looked more forbidding, but her mother was the force in the family.

Anamitra’s niece had been trained early as an archivist, like all the singers in their family were, but it had become clear early on that Patiala took after her warrior father. It was only fitting that her mate came from the same clan of Tomir warriors pledged to guard the fortress in Udaipur.

Patiala had found a ready and welcoming home among them and astonished everyone when her child had been the one to exhibit the extraordinary magic necessary for Anamitra’s heir.

“Your father is in the fields,” Patiala said. “I think he was expecting you later as well.”

“I wanted to beat the traffic.”

Patiala laid her head on Meera’s shoulder. “And how is my joy this morning? Your shoulders look heavy.”

“They are.” Meera glanced at her mother. “Maybe you can explain how a very persistent scribe who sees far more than he should has managed to find me all the way from Istanbul.”

Patiala lifted her head. “Well, he arrived much more quickly than I’d anticipated.”

* * *

“How could you tell him where I was?” Meera rubbed her temples, wishing Nanette’s excellent gumbo and fresh trout could rid her of the headache that had started the minute she’d brought up Rhys of Glast. “You told him my name!”

“You can’t remain completely anonymous,” Patiala said. “I refuse to give you an assumed name when requesting advice from allies. We didn’t specify which Meera you are, and clearly Orsala and Sari didn’t tell him. There are lots of Meeras in the world. He has no way of knowing which one.”

“Do not underestimate this man. When you told me he wanted to meet, I thought I was going to meet with a normal scholar who’d have a few questions and then be on his way when I didn’t want to have dinner with him. This one is entirely too persistent. And too perceptive.”

Maarut frowned. “You said you needed help. That you were certain Atawakabiche was living but that you needed help to find her. This man is a scholar of very good reputation, and he is trustworthy. And he’s a warrior who fought in the Battle of Vienna. What is wrong with him?”

“When I said I needed help, I thought you’d send Roch to help me,” Meera said, pointing at the fair-skinned man with sandy-blond hair sitting next to her father. “He’s the one who’s most familiar with the bayous.”

“Roch can’t leave the haven for that long,” Patiala said. “Meera, you can’t possibly think that’s an option. What about this Zep that you’ve spoken of?”

She shook her head. “I don’t want Zep knowing any more about me than he already does. He’s a good soldier, and he’d report on me to his watcher without a second thought. The scribes in New Orleans don’t know what my role is, and I don’t want them to know. Plus I don’t need Zep getting ideas because I confided in him. And he would. Roch wouldn’t get ideas because he’s already in love with Sabine.”

“That I am,” Roch said with a slight smile. “But you also know there’s no way I can leave her here alone. She’d go off the rails if I disappeared.”

Logically, Meera knew Roch was right, but it still annoyed her that the scribe was tied to the haven by a singer who wasn’t even his mate.

Not that she wouldn’t be if she was in her right mind. Roch was devoted to Sabine as deeply as Maarut was devoted to Patiala, but the singer’s mind had been broken during the Rending, and all attempts at healing had failed.

“Roch, I would like you to ask around about increased Grigori activity. Rhys and Zep ran into a Grigori that led them to believe Bozidar might be making moves south.”

“I can do that,” Roch said. “I’ll talk to some of the loners up the river. See what they have to say.”

“So Rhys of Glast has already given you information about Fallen activity,” Patiala said. “I consider that a positive sign. Don’t you, Maarut?”

“Very positive.”

Patiala said, “He sounds like a very bright young man.”

Meera felt a headache brewing. “That has nothing to do with Atawakabiche or—”

“He will be an excellent collaborator.” Patiala nodded decisively. “I’ve spoken to Sari about this. And Orsala. She has great respect for the young man. Not only is he highly learned and trustworthy, he uses the same kind of… machines you do. Computers and things.”

Meera shook her head. “Computers and things?”

“I’m just saying he probably wouldn’t think it was an abomination to record Irina magic,” Patiala said. “Some might.”

“You mean like you do?”

“Anamitra’s legacy cannot be preserved on gigabytes!” Patiala waved her hand in a shooing gesture. “Or whatever it is you use to record them.”

Her mother might have looked the same age as Meera, but they were generations apart regarding modern technology. Meera still had to help her mother use email. “Mata, it’s not… Never mind.” She turned to her father. “You haven’t even met this man, but you’re comfortable with him pestering me?”

Maarut narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like any scribe pestering you. I’d rather we were back in Udaipur where we know what the dangers are.”

“Father, please,” Meera said. “We’re not doing this again.”

Her father flared his nostrils. “Yes, Meera Bai.”

“Don’t do that.” She was still uncomfortable with the fact that, technically, her parents were under her authority now that Anamitra was gone.

She couldn’t even have an old-fashioned argument with them anymore. In the end, it was their duty to submit to her wishes. She’d used that power to her advantage when it came time to move to the United States, but it still felt wrong and unnatural.

“I’ll consider this Rhys,” she said, relenting, “but I still want to have some time to get to know him. And Father, if you had time to visit the city and meet him, that would set me at ease.”

Her father’s expression softened. “I’d be happy to do that.”

She quirked her mouth into a smile. “I know you’re missing my pullout couch.”

“I’ll be sleeping on the porch if that couch is my only option,” Maarut said. “Wooden boards are more comfortable than metal bars.”

Roch and Patiala started laughing, but Meera caught the satisfied glance that passed between her parents.

What are you up to?

* * *

“I don’t like it.”

Meera glanced over to see Vasu standing near the window in her room, staring out at the oak trees in the moonlight.

“Don’t barge in on me, Vasu.” Meera was reading in bed. “What if I were getting dressed?”

“I saw you born. I saw you take your first steps. I have seen your death.” Vasu turned and cocked his head to the side, examining her. “But it embarrasses you to think I might see you without clothes?”

“Yes. You don’t have rights to me or my body. Don’t assume them just because you are an angel.”

“And don’t assume I would take them.” He slumped into the corner chaise. “All my lovers came willingly to me. Not that you will ever be my lover. You are too important for that.”

Meera frowned. “You have such a twisted sense of sexual relationships.”

“And you don’t? Your first lover was chosen by your great-aunt to educate you in magical sexual practices. The humans you’ve chosen since—”

“I’m not discussing this with you.” It struck Meera that Vasu knew more about her than any living being. Which was slightly depressing. Then again, she didn’t have normal friends. She didn’t have normal relationships. Not even her parents treated her as they would treat a typical daughter.

“The only slightly normal relationships I have,” she mused, “are with people who don’t know who I am. And… you.”

“I know. You’re very lucky.” He lifted a lock of his hair and started braiding it. “I don’t like it.”

“Don’t like what?”

“You. Here. Why did you leave the fortress?”

Meera took a moment to think before she responded. “I think it’s because the only normal relationships I have are with people who don’t know who I am and you.”

“You can’t have normal relationships. You’re the heir of Anamitra. You will always be different.”

“I can try.”

“You need a mate.” He continued braiding. “Anamitra was much happier once her parents chose a mate for her.”

Meera knew Vasu was right. A mate would be her one true confidant, the person who would be wholly and completely her equal no matter what role she played in the Irin world.

And she knew that all she had to do was snap her fingers and her parents would choose a suitable scribe for her, as Anamitra’s had chosen for her. They would mate. Their magic would bond. Their love would grow. She would probably be supremely happy.

She didn’t want it.

“I want…” She set her book to the side. “I don’t know what I want.”

“That much is obvious.” Vasu looked up. “The son of Glast visits you.”

“Who? Rhys?” She frowned. “You know Rhys of Glast?”

Vasu looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Try truthfully?”

“I know of him, but I would not call us friends. He’s tried to kill me a number of times.”

Meera’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“He is always cross when I appear unannounced near Jaron’s daughter.”

“I have no idea what that means. Who is Jaron’s daughter?”

“His watcher’s mate.”

Meera pressed her palms to her eyes. “Vasu. Just… stop. You’re not making any sense.”

“I don’t know why not.” He rose from the chair and crawled next to her in the four-poster bed. “The son of Glast belongs to the Istanbul house where Jaron’s daughter is mated to the watcher. I told Jaron I would watch over her, and I do not break promises to friends.”

“So you visit her.”

“Obviously.”

“And Rhys tried to kill you for that?”

“When I appear, he throws daggers at me.” Vasu shrugged. “He never hits me. I think he enjoys being cross with me.”

“Yes, I can actually see that.” Her irritation fled. She usually couldn’t stay mad at Vasu for long. “So you know Rhys of Glast. Do you think I should trust him?”

Vasu pursed his lips as he thought. “He is very loyal to his friends and far more intelligent than most warriors. He should be a sage, but he is like you.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s avoiding his responsibilities.”

“I’m not…” Meera sighed. “Okay, I am avoiding responsibilities, but only for a short time.”

“He thinks the same.” Vasu turned a thousand-yard stare toward her. “But like you, his future will not be what he expects.”

“Will you stop speaking in riddles?”

“No,” he said simply. “If I shared my true thoughts, you would go mad. Riddles and stories are the only way to convey truth to those locked in human minds.”

She ignored the insult. Vasu was Vasu. “But you think I can trust Rhys?”

“Perhaps.”

“Vasu!”

“You have to decide for yourself.” His corporeal form started to dissolve. “It’s not my job to solve your puzzles for you.”