Page 114 of The Seeker
“Bozidar,” they said in unison. The chorus of voices made Meera’s skin crawl. Their audible voices were vibrant and smooth, at horrible odds with their soul voices, which scraped against her mind like nails on slate.
“Why are you here?”
“The city is ours,” one said.
“The city is ours,” another echoed.
“Fresh hunting.”
“Rich with souls.”
“We will drive out the other.”
Who was the other? Was Rhys right? Was this about Vasu?
Rhys spoke when Meera lost her voice. “When is Bozidar coming?”
“Our father is here,” they said together.
One of them added, “Our father will take what the great Nalu lost.”
“Bozidar wants to take over North America,” Meera said. “He wants to control it the way Nalu did.”
“Nalu?” one of the Grigori asked.
“The archangel killed by the Wolf.”
“The Wolf no longer hunts,” one of the kneeling Grigori said. “We are the hunters now.”
Rhys stepped toward one. “Tell me where your father hides.”
The Grigori looked up at Meera. His face was pained. She knew he was fighting a strong compulsion.
“Tell me where your father hides,” Meera repeated, reaching for the man’s outstretched hand. “Tell me and I will give you some of my power.”
The man let out a long breath. “He hides on the river where the water bends to—”
A shot rang out and a spray of blood puffed near the Grigori’s eye a moment before he fell to the ground.
Meera turned to the left to see Rhys already lunging toward the fifth Grigori on the edge of the room. She was distracted and almost didn’t hear the metallic cocking of the gun to her right.
She turned, dropped to the ground, and shouted, “Ya fasham!”
Meera heard the Grigori and the gun clatter to the ground, but the spell holding the three remaining Grigori around her had been broken. The men shook their heads and blinked as if coming out of a dream.
Meera crawled between the pews toward the Grigori with the gun. She’d unbalanced him, but the spell only lasted so long. She needed to get the gun.
She heard quiet scuffling on the other side of the church and a strangled cry before the scuffling went quiet. Meera didn’t stop to think or look. Rhys was a skilled warrior. Four Grigori were probably very little trouble for him, but Meera wasn’t accustomed to so many surrounding her at once without guards. She could hear one scrambling along the pew next to her. She spotted the gun sitting on the tattered carpet just as she saw a hand reaching down toward her.
She rolled to her back, grabbed the arm and pulled it toward her, slamming the Grigori’s nose into the back of the pew before she sank her teeth into the man’s forearm.
“You bitch!”
She reached for the handgun, and the cool metal touched her fingertips. She hooked her finger around the trigger guard and spun the gun into her hand, sweeping her arm up and pointing it at the Grigori whose blood was spraying over her from a broken nose.
Without hesitation, Meera aimed the gun at the center of the man’s chest and pulled the trigger. The shot hit her target and he fell forward, his shoulders hanging over the back of the old wooden bench.
Meera scooted under the pew, rolling toward the incapacitated Grigori before she pushed herself up and peeked over the benches.
