Page 13 of The Seeker
“How can you not like New Orleans?” Sari asked. “It’s probably warm. The temperature here dropped below freezing last night. In April! And it’s supposed to rain later this week.”
“Sounds lovely.” Rhys sighed. He did miss gloomy weather. “It’s humid and hot. When it rains, the streets flood and the mud smells.”
He knew he was just griping.
“The mud smells?” Damien chuckled. “Rhys, you’ve only been there a few days. How is the woman supposed to trust you? Give it time. Get to know her.”
“And that does not mean hack her computer or surveil her apartment,” Sari said. “Try using charm.”
Rhys curled his lip. “She’s not interested in charm.” Well, not unless she was charminghim. And she had. He hated to admit it, but the woman was intriguing. She was curious. Bright. Brilliant, in fact. If he weren’t on assignment, he would wander through her fascinating mind for hours. It was part of the reason it had been so easy for her to distract him.
Add to that the dark orange dress with the strap that fell down her shoulder, the shining black hair piled on her head in a tousled knot, the curve of her leg teasing him as she walked, and…
He was on assignment—an important assignment—and she was a subject to interview.
One that seemed solely focused on stymying him.
“Can you call someone?” he asked. “Sari, did you vouch for me? Can you—?”
“I have vouched for you,” Sari said. “She wouldn’t have even agreed to a meeting if I hadn’t. But Meera keeps her own council. She’s liable to take her time making up her mind.”
“Honestly, what is the rush?” Damien asked. “This is a fact-finding mission. New Orleans doesn’t have a Grigori problem.”
“Yet.” Rhys narrowed his eyes. “And has anyone asked why? Doesn’t that seem suspicious to anyone else? The Grigori I killed in Houston mentioned Bozidar’s name. Said the Fallen were rising.”
Damien grunted. “Yes, they love saying things like that. Melodramatic, every one of them.”
“I thought Bozidar was in Saint Louis.”
“Originally he was in Chicago,” Damien said. “You can ask Malachi about him. He was routed from Chicago and is currently in the Saint Louis area, but the scribe house there is secretive and quiet. Bozidar is smart. He doesn’t cause enough trouble to attract attention from the council.”
“Saint Louis”—Rhys mulled it over—“is also on the Mississippi River, isn’t it?”
“It’s a long way from Saint Louis to New Orleans, my friend.”
“Maybe,” Rhys said. “But I’m going to ask around. I’ll try to contact this Zep person Meera mentioned. The one she was with in the square.”
“I’ll pass the word through official channels if that’s what you’re asking,” Damien said. “Do you want to clue them in to why you’re really there?”
“For now leave it as it was in Houston,” he said. “I’m a visiting scholar, researching North American tattooing practices. They don’t need to know I’m in contact with the haven here. They’ll report any activity with Irina to the council in Vienna.”
And right now the scribes’ council didn’t have the best interest of the Irina at heart. They were old and entrenched power brokers who were clinging to influence with every breath, not servants working for their people.
“Fine,” Damien said. “Let us know if you need any more help.”
“I’ll try sending another message,” Sari said. “But Rhys?”
“Yes?”
“Take a breath. Put up your feet. You’ve been working like a madman for five years now. Maybe it’s time you let an attractive woman distract you.”
“I didn’t say she was attractive,” Rhys snapped.
“Trust me,” Damien said. “You did.”
The next afternoon,Rhys met Zephirin—Zep, as he introduced himself—at the entrance to Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 in the Garden District. The New Orleans scribe house was only a few blocks away, and Zep was keeping close to home that rainy morning, waiting for the sky to clear and the tourists to flood the French Quarter.
“They come here too,” the young scribe explained. “But not as much this time of year. Parade season? It’s a madhouse.”
