Meera clutched the steering wheel tighter the closer they got to the haven. It was against every instinct she owned to bring a stranger to that place, even if her parents had given Rhys permission to visit. In fact, they had insisted he come. Rhys had packed his things quickly, checked out of his guest house, and returned the car he’d rented that morning. They were on the way to the haven by nine o’clock.

Rhys was a calm, steady presence in the seat beside her. “You can explain your relationship with Vasu later. Tell me what to expect when we get there.”

“Vasu is… complicated,” Meera said, her nerves on edge. “Don’t mention him to my parents. Anamitra and I are the only ones who interact with him. As for Sabine, Alosia sang her to sleep. I don’t know what time she would have woken this morning, but she is usually up with the sun, like most of the haven. It’s a working farm, so it runs on a very old-fashioned schedule.”

“I understand.”

“Sabine cycles in her episodes. When she descends like this, it’s usually very predictable. She’ll have a series of days with sullen behavior before she begins to be destructive in her cottage. We can’t have any fire near her, because her magic is elemental. She can amplify fire.”

“So she’s an earth singer.”

“Yes, which is why she is usually happiest working on the farm. The earth magic in the place is old and keeps her more stable.”

“How often do these episodes come? How long do they last?”

“They come a few times a year. It seems to be related to seasonal change. Even though the seasons here are very subtle, they do exist. She spirals. She’s destructive. She’s remorseful. Then she has these startling hours of clarity on the upswing. Those moments are when I’ve been able to get the most information from her. For a day—sometimes only a few hours—you get a glimpse of who she must have been before the Rending. So if you want to question her, now is the right time to visit.”

Meera could feel his compassion reaching for her. Rhys’s blood might have come primarily from Gabriel, but there was a strong vein of Chamuel’s power in his magic. Meera found herself wanting to curl up in his warmth and take a deep breath.

“Who was she before the Rending?” he asked.

“She’s black Creole and still speaks mostly French. She understands English but turns her nose up at it. She’s related to the Irin who originally owned the land where the haven is now. That family abandoned the farm after the Rending.” Meera smiled. “Her family was very wealthy and was in charge of the trading house in New Orleans where Irin families sold their sugar before the Rending. They interacted freely with humans.”

“Did they own slaves?” Rhys asked.

Her eyes went wide. “The Irin? Of course not.”

“But the humans did.”

Meera nodded. “There was a lot of debate among Irin elders about how to deal with humans who owned slaves. Older Irin and younger didn’t agree. Human slavery was so common in the ancient world that many older Irin viewed it as a human sickness we had no hope of curing, so we should ignore it. Younger Irin saw things very differently. Of course, after the Rending happened, that topic became moot. The Irin who didn’t flee became even more insular. They completely withdrew from the human world.”

“But they came back. When?”

“The scribes trickled back from over the border in Texas. The Irina have never officially come back, but some Irina bought and restored the farm and the house in the nineteen sixties. It’s been a haven ever since.”

“Right under the noses of the scribes in Houston and New Orleans.”

“There are wards,” Meera said. “You’ll feel them even with me singing us through. You won’t remember exactly how we got to the farm. I can’t do anything about that. It’s my mother’s magic.”

“Is she the reason you can influence other’s thoughts?” Rhys asked quietly. “Even those with angelic blood?”

She glanced at him nervously. She hadn’t intended to let that ability slip. “It’s not a popular power. I don’t use it often.”

“Except on Grigori,” he said. “And anyone who gets too close.” He cleared his throat. “Like, perhaps, scribes who innocently offer to walk you home at night?”

She looked at him from the corner of her eye. He appeared to be more amused than put out. “Point taken.”

“At least tell me I’m not an easy mark.”

“You?” She glanced over. “No, you have very good natural shields and a strong mind.”

“Which you won’t test again, because you won’t be manipulating my mind. Ever.” Rhys narrowed his eyes when he spotted the old house that marked the haven boundary. “What is that?”

“Just an old house. An old man lives there with his dog. Likes to fish.”

“Are you sure?”

“Scribes are so suspicious.” Meera spotted a palmetto tree that marked the beginning of the haven grounds. “We’re almost there.”

“Meera, that wasn’t an— Oh heaven above.” Rhys nearly doubled over as Meera began to sing.

She opened her mouth and let her magic fill the car, shielding Rhys as much as she could from the brutal supernatural fences her mother had erected around the haven.

“I’m almost afraid to meet your mother,” Rhys forced through gritted teeth, “if this is a taste of her magic.”

“She’s very good,” Meera said. “For a pacifist, I do not come from peaceable people.”

“Do you take after your father?” Rhys grunted and put his head in his hands. “Headache.”

Meera sang louder, weaving the magic around Rhys until she saw his shoulders relax. They were turning into the oak alley of the haven grounds. “Look up, Rhys. If you can.”

He looked up and she saw the wonder even through the pain. The twisted, towering oaks rose on either side of them, gnarled guardians of the old Creole home. Bright blue and red trim made the yellow house glow in the diffused light of the morning, and birds called from every side.

“Welcome to Havre Hélène.”

The wards eased off as soon as they passed the second oak, and Rhys sat back and rolled his window down. The cool morning air filled the car, suffused with the scent of jasmine and rich earth. It was long before cane harvest season, so Meera suspected they were turning the kitchen garden.

“Beautiful,” Rhys said. “Not at all what I was expecting from a Southern plantation.”

“Be careful with those expectations. This is Creole Louisiana. It’s guaranteed to confound you.”

* * *

Meera parked around back and immediately walked to Sabine’s cottage where she could hear a ruckus. A window was broken and two silk-upholstered Louis XV chairs lay in the front garden. Her father was picking them up as Meera approached.

Maarut frowned. “I thought you were bringing the scribe?”

Meera stopped and looked over her shoulder, only to see Rhys in the distance, examining the current construction project behind the main house. Her parents were reconstructing the outdoor kitchen to be used communally.

“Rhys!” she called. “Be curious later.”

“You know,” Maarut said, “I thought he was like you, but I underestimated how right your mother would be. Don’t tell her I said that.”

“It shall never pass my lips.” She squinted up at her father. “What do you mean, how right Mother would be?”

Maarut’s face went blank. “Just that Sari and your mother thought the two of you would work well as… research partners.”

Meera’s eyes narrowed. She was sensing a hidden agenda. “Father.”

“Yes?”

“Research partners?”

His eyes went round and innocent. “Of course.”

“Research partners?”

“Yes, that is what I said.” Maarut refused to look at her.

Oh no. Meera glanced at Rhys, who was ambling their direction, still stopping every now and then to examine a new thing or take a picture or type a note with his mobile phone. Then she looked back at her father. Then back to the house where she could see her mother on the back porch, watching all of them.

“She is trying to set me up with him!” Meera hissed at her father. “She’s trying to matchmake, isn’t she?”

The look on his face revealed everything. Her father might have been a stoic warrior to hundreds of Tomir warriors, but to his daughter, he was an open book.

“My Meera—”

“I told her she was not allowed to do this. I told her—”

“You can tell her whatever you want,” Maarut said. “Do you really think she’ll pay attention to you? Yes, she’s part of your retinue, but she’s also your mother. You’re nearly four hundred years old, and she wants to see you settled. She wants grandchildren.” He crossed his arms. “We had an arranged marriage, and look how happy we are.”

“I am not you. This is not… six hundred years ago. I came here so I could—”

A shout from the cottage put their argument to rest. Meera shot her father one more dirty look over her shoulder before she rushed up the porch and into the fray of one of Sabine’s “episodes.”

“I hate you!” Sabine screamed in French. “You pig! Give me the wine bottle, for I will beat you with it. You cannot do this to me. Send for my carriage and leave me alone!”

“Cher, you know I can’t do that,” Roch replied in his smooth accent. “And I’m not going to give you a wine bottle. It’s too early for wine. How about some lemonade? I made some fresh coffee and you only spilled a little bit, but we can get you something else if you don’t want the coffee.”

His tenderness stayed any lingering resentment Meera felt. She could see both the love and torment in the scribe’s face.

Meera leaned against the doorjamb. “Good morning, Sabine.”

Sabine looked her direction. “Who are you? Did we get a new servant? Who is she, Roch?”

“I’m your friend Meera, remember?” Meera felt Rhys at her back and reached behind to take his hand. “I brought a gentleman to call with me today. I hope you don’t mind. Mother said you wanted me to come for breakfast.”

Sabine’s light brown cheeks blushed. “Meera, why didn’t you tell me you were bringing a gentleman to visit?” She stopped struggling and turned in Roch’s arms. It was as if a switch had flipped. She moved from anger to hospitality in a blink. “Mon ange, can we have one of the servants set up a table in the garden? We should make sure Meera’s friend is welcome, and the garden is so nice right now.”

“A beautiful idea,” Roch said. “I’ll ask Maarut for help, shall I? And I’ll leave you with Meera to introduce you to her friend.”

Sabine was wearing a silk robe over her nightgown that morning, and she clutched the robe together at her breast. “I’m so sorry. Let me go change my clothes.” Her laugh lit up the sitting room. “I don’t know why I’m still dressed for sleeping.”

As soon as she retreated to the bedroom, Meera turned to Rhys. “She’s a flirt and she loves compliments. I should have known bringing a handsome man to the house would help her mood.”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “You think I’m handsome?”

Meera rolled her eyes. “False modesty is irritating, Rhys.”

“So you do think I’m handsome. Good to know.” He wandered over to look at a vintage gramophone in the corner. “Does it work?”

“It does, and she loves to dance.”

Rhys flipped through the stack of records on the table beside the gramophone, picked one out, and put it carefully on the turntable before he cranked the lever to start the music.

Meera smiled at the cheerful tune that played. “What is it?”

“It’s called ‘Cuban Moon.’” He held out his hand. “How about you? Do you dance?”

The sight of him holding out his hand was tempting. He was handsome. Handsome, intelligent and—when he wanted to be—very charming. She liked his gruff moods and his relentless curiosity. She liked his intensity, even his arrogance.

Then there was his voice…

Meera remembered her mother’s machinations. “Sorry. I’ve never danced to anything that sounds like this.”

The bedroom door opened and Sabine emerged in a summer-yellow dress that reached her knees. “Oh, I love this song!” She glanced at Meera. “Don’t you, Meera?”

“I don’t know it.” She moved to the window to track her father and Roch’s progress. They were debating something in the garden with Roch looking overwhelmed and frustrated and Maarut looking like he was counseling the younger scribe. He had a hand on Roch’s shoulder. The two chairs were upright, but nothing else had been moved.

“Sabine,” Meera said in cheerful voice, “why don’t you and Rhys dance?”

“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t be interested in dancing with me.” Sabine played the reluctant partner, but Meera could tell she wanted to dance with Rhys. “He’s your friend.”

“But we’re here to visit you,” Rhys said smoothly. “I’d be delighted if you danced with me, Miss Sabine.” Rhys had slipped into French with ease. “We can show Meera what she’s missing.”

Sabine giggled, her energy buoyant. Rhys held out his hand and she went to him. They danced a fast-stepping number in the space where the breakfast area had once been before Sabine threw the table and two chairs out the front door. Roch and Maarut were turning the table upright from its precarious perch on the front porch as Rhys and Sabine danced and chatted about favorite songs and places to dance.

Rhys played along with the talk of balls and socials that must have happened before the Rending, exhibiting a light charm Meera had never seen from him before. Sabine spoke of humans long dead and a city that mostly existed in history books.

“So I said to the governor that he must not do it, but you know human men always ignore their women.”

“Are you saying the governor ignored you entirely? How rude.”

“Entirely! He sent troops to those people, and all because he was angry with the English.” She spit out the word English. “Who likes the English, I ask?”

Rhys smiled. “I certainly don’t.”

“Tout à fait. But what do the native people have to do with it?”

“Nothing at all, I’m sure.”

“Nothing,” Sabine said firmly. “You are correct, nothing. But they sent the soldiers and…” A stricken look crossed Sabine’s face. “No, that wasn’t how it happened.”

Meera moved closer, sensing a shift. “Sabine?”

She shook her head, frowning. “It wasn’t humans, was it? It was our people they killed.”

Rhys held Sabine lightly. The flirtatious woman had disappeared. Something dark swam behind her eyes.

“It wasn’t them,” she whispered. “It wasn’t the humans who died.”

Meera had witnessed this many times. The turn was coming. Sabine would cycle from anger to frivolity to mania rapidly, but then at some point—usually the third day of an episode—the melancholy would come. And with the melancholy came memory and grief.

Then… clarity.

Roch must have sensed Sabine’s shift in mood, because he came running in the house just as she slumped against Rhys’s chest.

“Roch?”

He grabbed her from Rhys’s arms. “Come with me. I have you. Come now.”

“Roch, they’re all gone.” The raw pain in Sabine’s voice was enough to tear Meera in two. It was as if Sabine was remembering the death of her family for the first time, over and over again. “They’re gone,” she sobbed. “They’re gone, and there is no one left. The house was burning and they were all gone.”

“I know.” He kissed the top of her head. “I know they’re gone, but I’m here.”

“Don’t leave me.” She gripped his shirt. “Don’t ever leave me.”

“I promise I won’t.”

Roch led a weeping Sabine into the bedroom while Rhys stood helpless, watching them from the center of the room as the gramophone switched to the next song. It was another fast dancing number, but there was no more joy in the cottage. Meera moved to the turntable and removed the record. Then she picked another from the table and put it on.

“Debussy,” she said softly. “She likes this one when she’s sad.”

“What do we do? Are there spells you know? Have Roch and your father—”

“We wait.”

“How?” He was incredulous. “She was in terrible pain. Surely there is something—”

“We have tried all the magic we know. And I know a lot. Some broken things cannot be mended, Rhys.”

He shook his head. “That’s not acceptable.”

“Come with me.” She took his hand and led him out to the garden. “We’ll make some tea and wait for her in the garden.”

* * *

The woman who emerged from the cottage looked older than Sabine usually did. She carried the weight of memory in her eyes. It was both painful and welcome. It likely wouldn’t last long, but for the next few hours, maybe even a few days, Meera could see Sabine as a peer and a friend.

“Meera.” Sabine sounded exhausted as she sat with Roch next to her. “Roch told me you were here with a friend.”

“Thank you for seeing us,” Meera said. “This is Rhys. He’s an archivist from Istanbul.”

“Istanbul.” Her eyes lit up. “How exotic. I’ve never been out of Louisiana, though my father often talked about my going to Paris before he died. Have you been?”

Rhys nodded. “It’s a beautiful city. You would love it.”

Her smile was sad. “Roch said it wasn’t so bad this time.” She gripped Roch’s hand like a lifeline. “Was he being honest or kind?”

“Honest,” Meera said. “It wasn’t so bad. Nothing broken.”

Sabine looked at Rhys. “I can always depend on Meera to be honest. She’s good at honesty. I hope you appreciate that.”

“I do,” Rhys said.

“You trying to say I lie to you?” Roch teased.

“No, but you’re too kind.” She squeezed his hand. “I saw the window. You should leave me. This isn’t any kind of life for you, taking care of me like this.”

He shook his head. “Only life I want.”

Sabine closed her eyes and shook her head tightly.

“Stop,” Roch said. “We’re not talking about this right now. I think Meera has some ideas about finding her.”

“Who?”

“The Wolf,” Roch said. “Rhys is helping her.”

Sabine frowned. “I thought he was coming to be her mate. Did I misunderstand what Patiala said?”

Rhys’s eyebrows went nearly halfway up his forehead, but he said nothing.

“I must have misheard.” Sabine laughed. “I’m sorry. This is awkward. My memory is so bad.”

“It’s fine,” Meera said. Dammit. Now she’d have questions to answer later. “But Rhys does have some questions about the Wolf.”

“She saved my life,” Sabine said. “Most of the time I’m grateful, but not always. After the Grigori attacked, I ran from the city, but none of the villages I knew had anyone left alive. I’m sure you know why. I took a boat out to the bayou.”

“What kind of boat?”

“A pirogue. What the fishermen use. I didn’t know much about the swamp—I was raised in New Orleans—but I’d heard the older people talking and knew that there were still Irin in the swamps. I thought maybe…” Sabine shrugged. “It was probably a foolish idea, but what else was I to do? No one was left. I didn’t fear death, I only feared being alone. If there were Irin anywhere, I was determined to find them.”

“But you didn’t,” Rhys said.

“I did. But I found someone else first.”

Meera offered, “The Wolf?”

“No.” Sabine shook her head. “There was someone else.”

Meera sat up straight. This was new information. “Who, Sabine?”

“Humans.” The word came in a painful whisper. “Men. They were human and they took me farther into the swamp. I lost track of where I was. They put a gag in my mouth and they…” Tears rolled down her face. “They didn’t know what I was. Eventually they took off the gag. The minute I could speak, I killed them, every one of them. I’m not sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Rhys said. “Don’t ever be sorry.”

“I’m not. But I was really lost then. I was in a shack in the bayou. A hunting shack, I think. Completely turned around. I knew the rivers a little, but nothing about the swamps. I took one of their boats and some supplies, but I wandered for days, singing out every night and hoping to hear something back. I think I went a little mad.”

And then it had only gotten worse. Meera’s heart hurt for Sabine, but other than the new information about abusive humans, there was no new information. Meera tried not to be frustrated, because it looked like this episode of clarity would pass with no new answers.

But then Meera hadn’t counted on Rhys.