Page 1 of The Seeker
Chapter One
Houston, Texas
Rhys of Glast, only son of Edmund of Glast and Angharad the Sage, Irin scribe and archivist of Istanbul, was not impressed by the biscuits and gravy at the diner on Kirby Drive. The biscuits were passably flaky, but the gravy tasted too much of flour and was thick enough to stand a fork in. Fortunately, the chocolate cream pie had redeemed the meal.
The waitress walked around the counter and down to Rhys’s booth with a steaming pot of coffee. “Warm-up?”
Rhys quickly put a hand over his mug, an edge of ash-black ink peeking from the long-sleeved linen shirt he wore. “Tea.”
Her brown eyes widened. “Pardon me, sugar?”
“Tea,” Rhys said again. “I’m drinking tea, not coffee.”
She smiled. “That’s right. Can I get you some more hot water?”
“Please. And another bag of tea.”
“You got it.” She walked away with a natural sway to her wide hips, dodging with practiced grace the server coming at her.
There were two waitresses working in the diner that night, the older black woman with greying hair and quick reflexes and a younger white woman Rhys suspected was just starting her job. She looked to the older woman almost constantly for cues and lingered at a table in the back corner near the toilets where a brown-haired young man smiled and flirted with her.
Rhys catalogued the diner in detail. Fading incandescent bulbs reflecting off dated gold-veined mirrors provided ample visibility of every angle in the restaurant. The red vinyl booths squeaked whenever patrons moved, and an old-fashioned bell over the door alerted him to any new entry.
In addition to the waitresses, there were seven other patrons. Three students who had taken over a round booth, a middle-aged couple who appeared to be quietly fighting, an older man lifting coffee to his mouth with shaking hands, and the Grigori flirting with the young waitress.
Rhys sipped his tea as he watched the Grigori. It was plain black tea, nothing like the symphony of teas he was accustomed to in Istanbul. There one could find tea blended with spices from all over the world in countless varieties and subtle variations. Love of tea had redeemed Istanbul for Rhys.
Pie was on its way to redeeming Houston.
The Grigori glanced at Rhys and opened his newspaper, pointedly ignoring the scribe who watched him. A newspaper meant the Grigori had to be over sixty, early middle age for one of the Fallen children. Though his face was young and attractive to the humans around him, he could pose a slight challenge if he chose to confront Rhys.
The air-conditioning blasted in the restaurant, even in the middle of the night, forcing the hot, wet air of the Bayou City to cold condensation that ran down the windows and scattered the light of the passing traffic on Kirby Drive.
The Grigori glanced up, then looked down again. Despite the air-conditioning, Rhys could see a gleam of perspiration at the man’s temples.
Rhys of Glast had spent his formative years in the cool, rolling hills of Somerset in southern England, but for some reason known only to the Creator, his entire adult career had been spent in various places that baked and steamed.
Spain. Morocco. Istanbul.
And now he was being sent to New Orleans, Louisiana, by way of Houston, Texas.
Hot and hotter.
The waitress returned with a battered metal pot with a red-and-yellow packet wedged on the side. “You want another piece of pie?” She motioned to the near-empty plate. “Sure didn’t seem like you liked the biscuits and gravy much.”
“I didn’t.”
The woman didn’t look offended; her pink-painted mouth turned up at the corner. “More pie, Mr. Bond?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The waitress glanced over her shoulder before she turned back to Rhys. “Fancy British guy eating pie and drinking tea at two in the morning on a Wednesday night? Sitting in the corner booth with one eye on the door and the other on that flirty fella in the booth by the bathroom?” She wrote something down on her order pad. “If I didn’t know you weren’t carrying, I’d be worried.”
Rhys sat up straighter. “Not that you’re wrong, but how do you know I’m not carrying a firearm?”
The tilted smile turned into a grin. “Sugar, I’ve been waiting tables in Texas for thirty-five years. I know when someone’s got a gun.”
“Fair enough.” He made a mental note not to discount the waitress.
