Another one had found her.

Before Meera could register the weeping Grigori at her feet, a deadly figure flew from the darkness and pulled the man away.

“Rhys?”

He pushed the Grigori up against the brick wall and pulled his dagger on the struggling man.

Meera shouted, “No!”

Her words rang hollow in the dark alley. Rhys plunged his silver knife into the back of the Grigori’s neck. The man’s back arched before he fell to the ground; his body curled into a fetal position before it began to dissolve.

Rhys turned back to her. “Meera?”

“Why did you do that?” She felt the tears welling in her eyes. Angry tears. “He wasn’t attacking me.”

The scribe stepped closer. “How did he know where you live?”

She shook her head and felt the tears hot on her cheeks. “You didn’t have to do that. He wouldn’t have hurt me.”

Rhys raised his hands. They were covered in blood. “He murdered a harmless man in front of me. The human asked him for a dollar and instead got a knife to the throat, so tell me again, Meera, how did he know where you live?”

She slumped against the gate. “They find me. They always have. But I can send them away. All I have to do is talk to them and they leave me alone.” She turned and walked back into her garden, ignoring the scribe who followed her.

Meera’s heart hurt. She could still feel the torment of the Fallen son who had found her. He’d been young. Sometimes she could ease their emptiness. Sometimes she could give them peace. She would touch them and whisper a spell, easing some of the relentless soul hunger that plagued all their kind. Most of them never returned.

She heard the gate close behind her and Rhys’s footsteps on the path. He strode past her, walking toward the house.

“Stay back,” he ordered.

“There’s no one else here,” she said woodenly. “Just me.”

He ignored her, walked up the steps and through the kitchen door. Meera followed him into the cozy house that had become her refuge. Rhys kept his dagger drawn as he swept through the kitchen and past the antiques and eclectic collection of furniture in the living room, his head swinging every direction.

Despite his size and speed, he didn’t make a sound. His magic permeated the air, drawing up the dark hair on her arms and making her skin prickle.

“Rhys, there’s no one here.”

He acted as if he didn’t hear her, poking his head in the bathroom before he walked through her bedroom, scanned it quickly, and went back to her office. It was the room that faced the street, the front of the shotgun house lovingly restored by her human landlord who lived next door.

Meera followed the intruder who was violating every inch of her private retreat. He stood before the shuttered front windows as a car drove by, the shadows cut by lines of yellow light.

She stared at him. “I told you. There’s no one here but me.”

“And me.”

Seeing him in her office, surrounded by her carefully collected books and art, turned sorrow and confusion into anger. He’d brought blood and violence to her door, killed a man who needed help. He’d been hounding her, asking intrusive questions, relentlessly searching to unveil her secrets.

Meera had had enough. “Get out of my house.”

“Did you hear me? That Grigori killed a man in front of me.”

“I heard you.” The thought of the dead human made her sick, just like all the violence that soaked their world, but Rhys’s actions had only caused more violence. He healed nothing. “Get out.”

He stepped away from the windows and his eyes drank her in. It was a shadow, just a glimpse, of the hunger she’d felt from the Grigori.

“Meera.” His voice was rough.

She’d been ready for a night in. She was wearing loose cotton pants and a tank top. Her hair was pulled into a bun, and she wore no makeup or jewelry. She felt exposed, stripped of the practiced frivolity she’d worn in his presence.

There was an open bottle of wine in the kitchen and étouffée cooking on the stove. While it was cooking, she’d been ravenous. Now the air smelled of spice and blood. She wasn’t hungry anymore. It would likely be days before she felt like eating again.

Rhys stepped closer. “I did what I was trained to do.”

“I know.”

“He was a murderer. He would have hurt you.”

“No.” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t have.”

“What do you mean, they find you, Meera? Does your father know about this? Your mother?”

“Get out.” She stepped away from the doorway and pointed to the kitchen. “I want you to leave. Now.”

“What is going on?”

He didn’t move, and he did not obey her. Meera Bai, the heir of Anamitra, had utter control in all things, but the arrogance of this scribe threatened to rouse her temper past restraint.

How dare you? she wanted to yell. Do you know who I am?

He did. That was the problem.

Meera raised her eyes and lifted her chin. “Shall I make you leave?” She whispered ancient words under her breath, letting the scribe feel a taste of her power. “You won’t like me if I do.”

His fair skin turned paler, and Meera knew he was feeling the effects of her power. Pain. Nausea. If he didn’t leave her presence, he’d soon be sick.

The arrogant expression fell away from his face. Rhys put a hand on the doorway to brace himself and bent toward her. “Nice trick.”

“Don’t ever underestimate me.”

“I’ve never done that,” he said through gritted teeth, “you infuriating woman.”

“I’m not the one intruding on your privacy. I’ve asked you to leave three times.”

“Do you want me to apologize for killing that man? I won’t do it.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

He grunted in pain when she whispered another spell.

“He killed that man without hesitation. I needed to make sure you were safe.”

You stubborn ass.

“Do I look vulnerable, Rhys?” She leaned closer. “Do you really think he could have withstood the amount of pain you’re in right now?”

Rhys pressed his eyes closed, steadying himself. In any other circumstance, Meera would be impressed by how he withstood magic that brought most men to their knees. But all she could think about was Grigori dust at her gate and the smell of blood in the air.

“I am not trying to intrude on your privacy,” he said. “I could have found you if I’d tried.”

“I’m sure you think that.”

“I know it.” He stepped closer despite the obvious pain he was in. “I know who you are, but don’t underestimate me. You don’t know who I am.”

Rhys was so close Meera could feel the heat from his skin. His nose started to bleed, and Meera whispered a spell to ease some of the pain.

She didn’t want his blood on her floor.

“I know who you are, Rhys of Glast,” she said. “You’re like all the others.”

“If you really think that, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

Haven’t I?

Some deeper instinct pricked her mind, and Meera lifted her shields for a split second before she slammed them down. It wasn’t fast enough to shut out the bell-like clarity of his soul voice.

No. No no no no no.

It couldn’t be. It was a trick of her mind brought on by an emotionally trying night. That was all. Meera wouldn’t meet his eyes, so she looked at the lean muscle that crossed his chest. The black-inked talesm scribed over his shoulders were just visible under the white cotton shirt he wore.

“I’m leaving now.” Rhys straightened his hunched shoulders. “Call me if anyone else comes.”

“You’re the last person I would ever call for help, you stubborn, intrusive ass. If you tell anyone where I live—”

He walked toward the door. “I have no interest in telling anyone where you live. I’m not generous enough for that. And I won’t return, not until you invite me.”

Not if you were the last scribe on earth.

As if reading her thoughts, Rhys turned. His nose had started bleeding again. “You will invite me.”

* * *

Her house felt empty after he left, even though he’d only been there for a few minutes. The scribe’s presence lingered like the spices from the étouffée she threw in the trash. The scent of his magic haunted her senses, but it was more than that.

The bell-like timbre of his soul voice had shaken Meera to her core.

The memory of her great-aunt’s words came to her as they always did, with utter clarity, as if the old singer was still sitting next to her in the gardens of Udaipur. The fountains trickled in the background, the palms rustled in the arid breeze, and Anamitra’s ageless voice filled her mind.

Most Irin people thought Anamitra had stopped her longevity spells when her mate was lost, but Meera knew the truth. She could only stop her longevity spells once a suitable heir had been born.

By tradition, the keeper of memories would come from Anamitra’s own blood. Unfortunately, Anamitra only had one child, a son who had not lived to maturity. But her niece had given birth to a daughter, and that daughter had shown the power of memory before she could speak.

Meera had been given to Anamitra as her heir. Her birth name, forgotten. She became Meera Bai, heir of Anamitra, keeper of heaven’s songs, living archive of Irina memory and magic. Her rooms were moved to Anamitra’s wing of the fortress, and every moment was spent with the old singer as her great-aunt began lessons that would last two hundred years and occupy every moment of Meera’s life.

She was a walking repository of Irina memory, a library that lived and breathed, a counselor to kings and queens. As seers saw into the future, Meera could delve into the past, magically accessing the trove of memory Anamitra had woven into her mind.

Anamitra had waited hundreds of years for an heir. She could never allow her life to end because of love. Never would she allow her legacy to fade because her heart was wounded. From the time Meera understood the bond of mates, Anamitra had made it clear that a reshon was a dangerous indulgence Meera was not allowed to have.

Which meant the sound of Rhys’s soul voice might make him the most dangerous man she had ever met.

Vasu appeared next to her in his adult form. “You are troubled.”

“Yes.”

“Because of the scribe?” Vasu cocked his head and took the pan Meera was washing. He tugged it from her and set it on the tile counter. “Shall I remove him?”

Meera picked up the pan and reached for a towel to dry it. “No, Vasu. Don’t kill him.”

“I could take him back to Istanbul.”

A knot of inevitable dread sat in her belly. “He would come back.”

“Then I shall kill him if he displeases you.”

“No.” She dried off the pan and hung it on the hook above the counter. “Did my aunt let you kill people for her?”

“Sometimes.”

Meera froze, but only for a heartbeat. No, that should not surprise her. Though Anamitra was a scholar, she was also ruthless in protecting her family. If a human or Grigori had threatened her, she would have no qualms about allowing Vasu—with his inexplicable loyalty—dispatch him or her.

Her great-aunt would likely have approved Rhys’s actions.

Vasu, bored by Meera’s kitchen chores, sat on the table and put bare feet on her kitchen chair. “There is a dark shadow around you.”

“The scribe killed a Grigori in front of me.”

“Yes, I saw.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

Vasu shrugged. “He wasn’t one of mine.”

“I thought you didn’t have any children left.”

“I have a few.” His eyes drifted to the side. “Human women do not interest me any longer.”

Meera cleared off the counter and hopped up, putting her at eye level with the fallen angel. “Did human women ever interest you? Really?”

The corner of Vasu’s mouth turned up. “Oh yes.”

“When you were young.”

“Was I?” Vasu frowned. “Yes, I suppose.”

“Were you ever a child?”

“Not as you think of one.” He squinted at her. “Why are you asking about me? You know I don’t like answering questions.”

“I’m sad,” she said. “Cheer me up.”

“That scribe is connected to you.”

Meera rolled her eyes. “That is not cheering me up.”

“I can see it. There is a tie between you. Is he your mate?” Vasu stretched out a leg and tapped her foot with his own. “You are displeased by the question.”

“I thought he was a scholar, a man in search of knowledge. But he killed that Grigori without hesitation.”

“You judge others too harshly. The Grigori killed another. Would you have a scholar ignore the mandate of the Creator? The Irin were left on this earth so they could protect humanity.”

Meera couldn’t respond to that because Vasu was right. She was just… tired. Tired of violence and war and the schemes of the powerful to obtain more power. She wanted to find another way. She wanted there to be a different solution.

“Wise Vasu,” she started, “seeker of heaven’s vision. May I ask you a question?”

Vasu’s eyes lit up. He loved discussions like this. “Daughter of heaven, I am listening.”

She asked, “Does one person’s gain always mean another’s loss?”

“In what way, Meera Bai?”

“Is power finite?”

“No, power is infinite.”

“Then must there always be war?”

Vasu raised an eyebrow. “You should ask another question. Will there always be humanity?”

“Can humanity only exist with war?”

“War is about power,” Vasu said. “Once there was balance, but humanity was not satisfied with that. Once a scale is tipped, it must always be in motion. To answer your first question, if a scale goes up, it must again go down.”

Meera swung her legs. “So one person’s gain must mean another’s loss?”

“That is the way of power until there is balance again. You can strive for balance, but until both sides want to achieve it, it is only an idea.”

“So if both sides want balance, then neither loses.”

“But neither gains.”

She smiled. “Or they gain together.”

“You seek to remake the world.”

“If both oxen pull together, then the field is plowed straight.”

“But both must have the same goal.” Vasu shook his head. “I thought Anamitra was ambitious, but you will surpass her.”

“The Irin world has been at war since we were born. War with angels. War with Grigori. We will never win until we redefine what victory means.”

“You’re not going to like this,” Vasu said. “But I’m going to tell you the truth and you must listen to me.”

“What?”

“You need that scribe, Meera Bai. If you seek to redefine what power is, if you seek to change the paradigm, then he must be the one to help you.”

“Why?” she asked. “What makes Rhys of Glast special? There are other scribes more powerful than him, I’m certain of it.”

Vasu’s eyes lit up. “Do you seek power? You, who wants to redefine what power means?”

Meera narrowed her eyes. She hated when Vasu made good points. “You’re avoiding the question. Why Rhys?”

“He owns something more important than power. I have seen him with his brothers and working among those far stronger than he is. I have seen him with Fallen children and those weaker than he is. He does not seek the spotlight, nor is he ambitious for anything other than knowledge.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I have watched him,” Vasu said. “You have not.”

Meera sighed. “Fine. I can accept that you know him better than I do.”

“Rhys of Glast has a willing and flexible mind. He will understand you like few others could. If you want to bring balance, you must have leverage your opponent understands. For the Irin, that means magic. Rhys knows that. If you truly want to bring change, he is the ally you want.”

* * *

Three days had passed, but Meera hadn’t heard from Rhys. She escaped New Orleans and went to the haven to think. If there was any place she felt restful, it was in her mother’s home. Patiala might not have been the most maternal of Irina mothers, but with her, Meera always felt safe.

She sat on the porch, staring out at the swaying fields of sugarcane, and Patiala came to sit beside her.

“The fog comes on little fox feet,” her mother said.

“I don’t think that’s how the poem goes.” Meera smiled. “And I don’t see any fog. Or any foxes.”

Patiala shook her head, a frown marring the smooth skin on her forehead. “That’s what Sabine was singing this morning. Over and over again. Roch was trying to calm her, but she refused his touch.”

Meera didn’t take her eyes from the cane fields. “Sabine is exactly as she has always been.”

“No, she’s not. She’s growing worse, which means something might be coming. She may be an earth singer, but she has seer’s blood too. It is my job to look for signs of trouble, and I believe this behavior is a sign. She keeps rambling about the man on the river.”

“The old man?”

Patiala sighed. “We’ve investigated him too many times to count. There’s nothing unusual about him. He has no criminal record. No secret life. There is no sense of magic about the place. It’s her mania. It’s getting worse. Last month she claimed wolves were in the sugarcane, so she couldn’t do her chores.”

Meera’s heart sank. Was it too much to ask that this vibrant and colorful place remain an island of peace in their world? “I can’t help her, Mother. I’ve given every healing song I know to Alosia, but none of them make a difference. What would you have me do?”

“You know what you need to do. Roch will not ask you, but I will. Find the Wolf. Search Sabine’s memories and find her.”

Meera turned to look at her mother. “Do you think I haven’t tried? The woman’s mind is broken; her memories are a maze. I’m convinced Sabine has seen the Wolf, but that means nothing. Not even Roch can make sense of Sabine’s rambling, and he’s the one who knows the bayous best. None of what she has told us makes sense.”

“So talk to the scribe. The one from Istanbul.”

First Vasu, now her mother. “What does he know about the Wolf that you or I don’t? What does he know about the bayous that Roch doesn’t?”

“Did I raise an arrogant woman?” Patiala pursed her lips. “Maybe he knows nothing, but he has eyes. He has a mind. And allies I trust say he has experience finding those who are hidden. Are you so impressed with your own understanding that you would refuse the help of another?”

Meera felt her mother’s disapproval like a blow to her chest. “I’m not arrogant.”

“You are so certain of your own knowledge that you will not ask for help, convinced that anyone outside your tiny circle of trust cannot be relied upon.” Patiala rose to her full height and looked down at Meera. “It’s not just Sabine, you know. Something is coming. I’ve seen too many heartbreaks to ignore this knot in my belly, so I called to my friend and asked her for a favor. I asked her to send an ally, and you refuse to work with him. This disappoints me.”

Patiala walked into the house without another word, leaving Meera alone and bruised by her mother’s displeasure.

* * *

The next morning Meera drove back to New Orleans. She gritted her teeth and called the number Rhys had given her.

He picked up in three rings. “Hello?”

“Bring your brain and your research to my place tonight,” she said. “Seven o’clock. What do the Americans say? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Done.”

“And bring dinner too. You owe me étouffée. And an apology.”