Rhys was sipping tea and waiting for breakfast in the courtyard of the hotel where Meera had taken him his first day in New Orleans. He had returned several times in the week since he’d been in the city. He liked the cool solitude of the courtyard and the tall, trickling fountain.

He didn’t hear her enter the courtyard. He only saw her when she pulled back a wrought iron chair.

How did she keep sneaking up on him? And sneaking away? It had to be some kind of magic. His situational awareness was too keen for any other explanation.

Blasted woman.

“Do you mind if I join you?” She sat down before he could answer.

“Am I going to be able to stop you?” He set down the newspaper he’d been reading.

She was wearing a bright green sundress that morning and her hair was knotted on top of her head. A few errant curls fell to shoulders that looked like they’d had a few days of sun since the last time he’d seen her.

Where have you been?

What have you been doing?

Who have you been doing it with?

Asking any of those questions would be impertinent and frankly too revealing of how much he’d been thinking about her. “Good morning, Meera.”

“I’m glad you came back here.” Meera waved over a server. “They don’t get as much business as some of the more obvious restaurants.” She ordered coffee and pastry.

“I like it here.” Rhys sipped his tea. “The kitchen is fast and the servers remain aloof.”

“You like aloof servers?”

“Yes. This city is relentlessly friendly. It’s exhausting.”

Meera threw her head back and laughed. “Relentlessly friendly. Yes, that describes New Orleans quite well. I wouldn’t call it exhausting though.”

“That’s your prerogative.” He itched to tuck the fallen curls back into the knot she wore. As if that would contain her. “You’ve been gone for a few days.”

“Yes, at the haven.”

“Your parents’ haven.”

She smiled softly. “It doesn’t belong to them. They only came here a few years ago.”

“From where?”

Meera said, “Did you order breakfast? I think you’re too thin. You must eat more. Surely I’m not the first person who’s told you this. Isn’t your mother alive? What about your sisters in Istanbul?”

He didn’t give in to the subject change. “Why are you so cagey about who you are? I’ve told you my identity. I’ve been completely open with you, and yet you continue to evade any questions about who you are and what your qualifications might be. How am I supposed to trust you?”

“You’re asking for my help,” Meera said. “I’m not asking for yours, remember? I never called for you, so why is it my responsibility to make you trust me?”

He hated that her point had merit. The fact that she could so easily spar with him was both maddening and quickly nudging his preoccupation toward obsession.

Who are you, Meera?

The question had kept him up over half the previous night.

“Someone—someone who knows exactly who you are—called me. They asked me to come here.”

“Yes.” She pursed her lips. “Someone did. Without my knowledge.”

“Who knows who you are? Your parents, of course. The ones who run the haven.” He quickly ran through everything he knew about North American havens and who their guardians might be. It wasn’t knowledge that was readily available to most scribes, but then Rhys wasn’t most scribes.

“Did your parents come to this place for you? Where were you before?” Rhys sorted through bits of information, tossing one option to reexamine another, trying to piece the puzzle of her identity together in his mind.

Her accent was clearly Northern Indian. Who were Sari’s contacts in Northern India? Whom did she trust? Only one person fit all the necessary criteria.

Oh. Oh.

“Patiala lives in India,” he mused. “Patiala of Udaipur. More accurately, she did live in India.”

Only a flicker in Meera’s eyes gave her away.

“Patiala disappeared after the death of Anamitra,” Rhys said. “Orsala told me they hadn’t heard from her in years.”

“Orsala of Vestfold? You know many people,” Meera said. “Of course, the library of Glast is considered one of the greatest in Europe. I’m sure you’ve met hundreds of scribes and singers. Glast is the most prominent combined library still in existence, I believe.”

Patiala. Northern India.

Meera?

Why hadn’t he seen it before? Rhys’s heart picked up. Not Meera. Meera Bai. “Glast is a great library,” he said, “but it is nothing like the ancient library in Udaipur.”

Heaven above, it was so obvious.

The server brought coffee, and Meera added cream before she responded. “Yes, the library of Udaipur is one of the greatest in the Irina world. But don’t be so dismissive of Glast. Combined libraries are rare. Did you grow up there?”

Meera Bai. He was sitting across from Meera Bai.

Rhys refused to be distracted. “Udaipur is the singers’ library, filled with the wisdom of millennia. Led by Anamitra, most ancient and wise of Irina.”

Meera placed her cup carefully in the saucer. “Anamitra is dead.”

“But her heir lives.” Rhys could feel the rush of blood as his pulse pounded.

Gabriel’s fist. Not here!

Not in this strange, hot backwater on the other side of the world. Why would she come here? Why would she live on her own in this place with so little protection? Why would she expose herself to danger? What could possibly be worth that kind of risk?

“Meera,” he whispered. “Why are you here?”

She sipped her coffee. “I’m having breakfast with you.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I’ve told you, I’m doing research into Irina—”

“Meera Bai.”

She looked up with a level gaze. “Who?”

Chess matches with this woman would be epic.

Naked chess would be better.

Damn his libido. He didn’t need to be distracted by that mental picture.

“Meera Bai was a sixteenth-century human mystic from Rajasthan,” Rhys said carefully, “who was so admired by the Irina that the wisest and most learned singer in all the Eastern world vowed she would name her heir after the woman, therefore giving her eternity, not only in the human world, but in the heavens.”

A smile flirted around the corner of Meera’s mouth. “What a beautiful story.”

Rhys tapped the edge of his teacup. “Isn’t it? And it’s true. Every single word. You’re Meera Bai. You’re not a friend or associate of Patiala. You’re her daughter, the heir of Anamitra.”

“That is quite a leap. I’m flattered.”

“It’s not a leap. It’s a theory supported by evidence. If Patiala called Sari with information, that information would be trusted immediately. Without question.”

He waited for her to respond—to give him some kind of reaction—but she gave him nothing.

Naked chess is a must.

Focus.

“This is not a game,” he whispered. “My mother knelt at the feet of Anamitra and begged for her training, and you are her heir. Your mother must have known that Sari and Damien would send me without thinking twice because if the heir of Anamitra had found the Wolf, then it meant the sage of Irina sages had found a reservoir of lost magic.”

“A reservoir of lost magic?” Meera’s eyebrows went up, but her placid smile stayed in place. “My goodness, the elder scribes would love to get their hands on that, wouldn’t they?”

“Is that why you don’t trust me?” His heart raced again. “Gabriel’s bloody fist, I am not their lackey! Why are you here? Why are you alone? You have no protection—”

“I don’t need protection.”

“The scribe house in the city doesn’t even know who you are.”

“Don’t they?” She leaned forward, and her mask of amused indifference slipped. “Well, I don’t know you.”

“I’m trying to change that.”

“Why? So you can accumulate more magic like a greedy boy hoarding his toys?”

He set down his teacup before it cracked in his hand. “You’re impossible.”

“I could say the same about you.”

How could Patiala allow it? How could Patiala’s mate? Meera Bai’s father was rumored to have come from the Tomir warriors, dedicated to protecting the wisdom of Udaipur. If Meera was the heir, she should be living in a fortress, surrounded by a hundred warriors who could protect her and the treasures in her mind.

Instead, she sat across from Rhys at a wrought iron bistro table, sipping her coffee while a fountain bubbled in the background, wearing a colorful dress and bangles on her wrists like she was an ordinary woman with not a care in the world.

She had lived in a fortress.

His anger dimmed. Meera Bai had lived in the fortress of Udaipur and spent her entire life receiving the knowledge of the Forgiven and the histories of the Irina. Their magic. Their heartbreak. Their power and their struggle. She’d been protected and sheltered.

Hidden.

The child who would become the heir of Anamitra would have been kept from anything that could hurt her. Probably treated like an object of curiosity instead of a person. Awesome to everyone around her, including her family.

“Not a haven.”

A prison.

Rhys spoke softly. “I have no interest in exposing you. I came to help.”

“Then leave me alone.” She stood, tossing a ten-dollar bill on the table. Her fingers were shaking. “Go back to Istanbul, Rhys. Go back to your books and your scrolls and leave me alone.”

* * *

He called Damien as soon as he arrived back at the guest house.

“Rhys—?”

“Tell me what is going on. Do you know who this woman is? Why am I here? So I can find the Wolf? What the hell is really going on?”

Damien was quiet.

“Damien?”

“I’ve told you as much as I can tell you about Meera. And as far as I know, your assignment is exactly what was told to you: find the Wolf and record her magic in whatever way you can so it can be shared and spread to martial singers around the world.”

Rhys tried not to grind his teeth. How to get more information?

“Okay, tell me about Patiala.”

Damien released a breath. “She’s a friend. One of Sari’s closest friends, though they’ve never met in person. Patiala went into hiding with Anamitra for some time after the Rending. They weren’t in Udaipur when the Grigori attacked, which is why the fortress was lightly guarded and so many singers were killed. Eventually they reemerged, and the library resumed its former activities, though Anamitra, her family, and the Tomir order never left its walls again. They weren’t hidden like other havens were, but they as good as disappeared.”

“And her mate?”

“Maarut of the Tomir. He wasn’t drafted into the order. Like me, he is the heir of its commander.”

“Mikael’s line?”

“No. The Tomir descend directly from Uriel. Their talesm traditions are different than Mikael’s, though no less martial. There are very few records of their battles because they don’t fight many.”

“With a reputation like they have, that’s surprising.”

“They have a different mindset. The Tomir believe that if a battle must be fought, a failure has already occurred. Though they never shrink from protecting those under their guard, they prefer to work in stealth, and negotiation is always their first tactic. Their relationship to the singers of Udaipur is long-standing.”

“Bodyguards?”

“It’s more than that. They are symbiotic, a hidden community within a hidden community. Very, very secretive. The Tomir don’t train in Udaipur—their historical home is in Kashmir—but they all serve Udaipur for part of their life. It’s considered a very high honor, and most of the singers of Udaipur take their mates from the Tomir scribes.”

“Like Patiala and Maarut, Meera’s parents.”

“Yes. I’m fairly sure that Patiala and Maarut’s mating was arranged, though Sari says they are completely devoted to each other. If you encounter Maarut, don’t treat him like a warrior; he is a guardian. The Tomir revere Anamitra and her line. Their prime directive the past two thousand years has been her protection. And of course that protection would extend to her heir.” Damien paused. “And… that’s all I can tell you about that.”

Translation: Sari is listening and I’m not allowed to spill any more secrets.

“Understood,” Rhys said.

* * *

The next night, Rhys was tapping away on his laptop, answering email inquiries regarding the Istanbul library while he enjoyed the cool evening in the courtyard of the guesthouse. He’d just finished answering the last message when he sensed another scribe approaching.

The magic was strong and it was not familiar.

The scribe made no attempt to conceal his power, and his magic heralded his arrival like a forward guard sounding trumpets. Rhys felt it approaching from beyond the gate, and the two humans lingering in the courtyard moved away, back into the rooms that surrounded them, without a single word.

The scribe who walked into the courtyard was not only magically impressive but physically imposing. He was as tall as Rhys but broad at the shoulder with a heavy beard and long dark hair braided down his back. His talesm were wrought with immaculate precision on his forearms, neck, and collar, and Rhys knew a warrior of this man’s power would likely have spells inked from his neck to his knees, if not farther down his legs.

Rhys met the man’s eyes and didn’t look away.

Seeing Maarut made Rhys twice as glad he’d already spoken to his watcher. If he hadn’t known anything about the Tomir order, he would have assumed the scribe was coming to kill him, that was how intimidating the man felt. After all, if Rhys was right and Meera was the heir of Anamitra, he’d been badgering the woman with questions and intruding on her privacy.

The Tomir were charged with Meera’s protection, and if Rhys’s suspicions were correct, this particular warrior was Meera’s father. But though Maarut’s expression revealed nothing, his magic didn’t feel aggressive. It announced his power and nothing more.

He sat across the table as Rhys shut the laptop and moved it to the side.

The imposing scribe nodded at the laptop. “My daughter likes this kind of technology as well.”

“I can assume you’re Meera’s father?”

“You can.”

“She was telling me she’s been able to record some Irina songs.”

A stern eyebrow rose. “Her mother does not approve.”

“But Meera has a mind of her own.”

A slight smile. “That she does.”

“I am Rhys of Glast,” he said. “Archivist of the Istanbul house, watched by Malachi and sent by Damien and Sari of Rěkaves. I came here to assist your daughter in any way she needs as our house was told that Atawakabiche, last leader of the Uwachi Toma, may be living. I wish to conceal nothing from you, your mate, or your daughter.”

Maarut stared at Rhys with his arms crossed across his massive chest. “Are you always so formal?”

Rhys let out a breath. “No. But I spoke to Damien yesterday; he told me who you are. I think he was attempting to scare the arrogance out of me.”

“Did it work?”

“According to my brothers, nothing will.”

Maarut smiled. “We are not so formal here. In Udaipur, it was easy to follow protocol. Here, things are different. Life is softer.”

“Is that why Meera likes it?”

“You’d have to ask her that question.”

“I will.”

“But will you listen?” Maarut asked. “That is the problem, you see. Too many in her life give deference, but they only pretend to listen.”

“Who wouldn’t listen to the heir of Anamitra?”

Maarut narrowed his eyes. “If the heir of Anamitra speaks, the whole world listens. But I am speaking of my daughter.”

Rhys frowned. “With all respect, can we dispense with the subterfuge? I’m not trying to be invasive, but at this point I am quite sure that Meera is Meera Bai, the heir of Anamitra. You are her father, Maarut of the Tomir and mate of Patiala, who is a dear friend of Sari. I’m trying to help. I’m not here to expose you.”

“You’re young,” Maarut said. “You will learn, or she will dismiss you.”

“If Meera did not request help, then I’m quite certain Patiala did. I don’t enjoy wasting time.”

Maarut’s friendly expression didn’t waver. “You are impatient.”

“Always.”

“Acknowledging your faults doesn’t excuse them, brother.”

Rhys leaned forward. “I’m here to help. I promise that. If you’re interested in that help, then let me assist you. If not, then I will leave.”

“No, you won’t. You’re too much of a hunter. I can see it in your eyes. You’re curious now. You won’t be able to leave it alone.” Maarut rose. “I will tell Patiala I have met you and share my impressions with her. You are correct. She is the one who called you.”

“Why?” Rhys rose to look Maarut in the eye. “It’s quite clear her daughter doesn’t want me here.”

“Mothers and daughters.” Maarut gave an enormous shrug. “They are a mystery. Patiala will want to meet you.”

What on earth? It was clear Maarut and Patiala weren’t overprotective of Meera if they let her live in New Orleans on her own. Why did Meera’s mother care whom she worked with?

“Do you at least know where Meera lives?”

The scent of Maarut’s magic changed and an aggressive note filled the courtyard. He was no longer smiling. “Why do you ask?”

“Because the scribes at the house here have no idea. I have no idea. I’d like to be sure at least someone knows where she is living if there’s a threat. She seems to have no sense of self-preservation at all.”

Maarut’s magic dropped back to an easy tenor. “You are… not what I expected. It’s certainly not obvious what she was thinking, but this may work after all.”

“You’re being cryptic on purpose now.”

“I know.” Maarut gestured to Rhys’s face. “I quite enjoy that tic you get near your eye. It’s amusing.”

“Maarut—”

“Don’t worry. I know where Meera lives because I listen to her. But trust me, despite what her mother and you think, she has more of a sense of self-preservation than anyone you know. And plenty of ways to protect herself. Goodbye.”

The scribe’s magic eased to almost nothing. The essence of it dissipated, and the humans wandered back to the courtyard as Maarut left by the garden gate.

* * *

“You’re right,” Rhys said to Zep the following night. “Meera’s father is… how did you put it? A scary fucker.”

“Right?” Zep laughed. “I nearly pissed my pants the first time I met the man.”

They were walking down Bourbon Street, but despite the hubbub and confusion, neither of them had sensed any Grigori. They’d caught the scent of sandalwood on one corner, but it had simply been a smoke shop, not any supernatural predators.

“You know,” Zep continued, “I thought a warrior who’d follow his mate into a haven would be…”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” Zep shrugged. “A little softer? Wanting to hide away like that, abandon your house, you’d have to be a little softer, right?”

“Not if you had a mate or children to protect.” You immature idiot.

Zep said, “I guess.”

Rhys tried not to overreact. He’d run into Zep’s attitude before, the idea that living in the scribe houses and fighting Grigori was somehow more important than guarding women and children.

“If I were running from Grigori and felt targeted as the Irina did,” Rhys said, “I have a feeling I’d feel very safe with a scribe like Maarut protecting my haven. And trust me, Irina warriors are plenty scary on their own. We have more than one living in the Istanbul scribe house.”

“I heard that.” Zep smiled. “I’d like to see a few more here. See a few more kickass ladies.”

I’m sure you would.

“And Meera’s dad? He’s all right. If I had a daughter, I’d be protective too.”

Rhys stopped dead in his tracks on the sidewalk. A tourist bumped into his shoulder and cursed under his breath, but Rhys didn’t move.

Gabriel’s fist, he was an idiot. Maarut hadn’t visited him the previous day because he’d been asking questions about the heir of Anamitra. He’d been questioning the man who was spending time with his daughter.

He listened to his daughter, the woman behind the legacy. The woman who loved color and music and life beyond fortress walls. Rhys thought about where he’d run into Meera and where she’d found him. Thought about tiny clues she’d dropped and directions she looked when she wasn’t paying attention to who was watching her.

Then he smiled. “Zep, you don’t need me here do you?”

Zep shrugged. “Not if you’ve got things to do.”

“I have an idea I want to check out. For… my research.” Rhys turned around and started walking back toward Ursuline Avenue. “I’ll see you. Call me if you need anything.”

“Later.”

Rhys didn’t turn to look as Zep continued down Bourbon, following the tourist traffic. He walked the opposite way, heading toward the Esplanade and the Faubourg Marigny. He was almost sure it was where Meera lived.

He ignored the annoying voice in his mind asking him why he needed to know where she lived.

Naked chess.

Not naked chess. This wasn’t about his libido. It wasn’t. Meera was living anonymously in a city that could be dangerous. She needed his protection.

Rhys crossed the Esplanade and turned right on Kerlerec Street before he cut across to Frenchmen. The music and the crowd wasn’t as loud as Bourbon Street, but the street was filled with tourists. It was so packed he could hardly see anything.

The fourth time he was shoved off the sidewalk by a group of revelers, he nearly gave up. What had he been thinking? The city was small, but not that small. And he didn’t know Meera that well. Just because he was drawn to this neighborhood didn’t mean she was. He’d run into her because she was looking for him.

Rhys leaned against the wall near the Three Muses and listened to the singer who’d sung to him and Meera earlier in the week. He watched the crowds flow around him, his senses tuned to detect anything angelic.

Nothing.

Then he remembered the way Meera had concealed herself in shadow and wondered if she was watching him in that moment. He could feel a faint prickle on his neck. Was it his own imagination or something else?

Where are you, Meera Bai?

He wandered over to the art market and walked through stalls selling everything from wire sculptures to earrings made of spoons. There were delicately painted teacups, screen-printed T-shirts, and watercolors of the city.

She likes this. She likes life and color and variety. She likes the chaos and humanity.

Her life had probably been ordered beyond what he could imagine. While his own schooling had been more rigorous than most young scribes, Rhys had also been a boy who grew up with a class of other small troublemakers around him. He’d acted out and been punished harshly, but he’d acted out. He’d had his rebellion.

This place is hers.

The thought made Rhys smile. He left the art market and wandered back up Frenchmen Street, heading toward the sound of trumpet and clarinet. A jazz band was playing on the corner, and tourists crowded around them, shouting encouragement and tossing coins and dollars in the bucket they passed.

A red flash from the corner of his eye made him turn, but it was a human woman in a bright red dress. She looked nothing like Meera, but she was short and laughing on the arm of a man who led her away from the crowd.

Just a man?

Rhys followed them for a block until they turned into a club and he was sure it was nothing more than a human couple out for a date.

He was paranoid, seeing threats where none existed. He’d been in unfamiliar territory for too long without a mission he could sink his teeth into. He had no direction, no goal, no—

Sandalwood in the air.

His heart leapt at the scent of Grigori drifting from the shadows. Rhys turned and followed the trail down an alley and toward a residential area.

The Grigori was walking alone, his hands in his pockets. He didn’t appear to be hunting, but he did look like he was searching for something. He was a handsome man with light brown skin and dark curly hair that reminded Rhys of the Grigori in Istanbul. He was of medium height and build. Like all Grigori, humans would have found him attractive.

The Grigori had been on Frenchmen; why hadn’t he taken a human?

A faint hope sprang up in Rhys’s chest that this was a free Grigori. Perhaps this man was the reason New Orleans was mostly free of attacks. Maybe there were free Grigori in the city who had claimed the space for their brothers and had forced the Fallen sons to run.

The strange Grigori stopped in the middle of the road, shook his head, then turned a different direction. Walked down another alley, then back again.

What was going on?

Rhys followed the Grigori north and east of Frenchmen, deeper into the Marigny. The man stopped and closed his eyes.

A homeless man on the corner shouted at him. “Hey buddy, you got a buck?”

The Grigori turned and stared at the man. “What did you say to me?” His voice dripped with disdain.

“Just asking for a buck, man.”

The Grigori stared at the human and walked over, drawing a hand from his pocket. Rhys was expecting a dollar to emerge, not a stiletto.

“Stop!” he shouted, but it was too late. The knife plunged into the human’s neck. The man seized, his arms and legs flailing before he went suddenly limp.

The Grigori didn’t even turn. He took off jogging back toward Frenchmen Street.

No!

Rhys ran over and bent down to the human, but the human was dead, his blood pouring into the gutter where the Grigori’s blade had slit his throat.

Rhys took off after the murderer. He touched his talesm prim as he ran down the road, following the man into the shadows and activating the magic that acted like living armor. The Grigori was fast, but Rhys was faster. He leapt over a garden fence and through a backyard, following the scent. He could see the Grigori in the distance. The man was standing frozen in the middle of a residential street, then he walked into another alley as if he was in a trance.

Rhys silently followed.

The alley was bound by a brick house on one side and darkened garden gates on the other. The Grigori walked to a gate and paused. He pressed his hands to the gate and fell to his knees just as the gate creaked open.

Meera stood in the gate, the bloody Grigori fallen at her feet.