Page 147 of The Seeker
“Why are you here, Fallen?” Ata asked. “Do you have a message from Bozidar?”
Vasu lounged back on an embroidered cushion, looking like a lazy noble waiting to be served. “Yes. He’s coming tomorrow. He said thank you ever so much for opening the wards and he looks forward to killing you all.”
“Really?” Rhys asked.
Vasu shrugged. “Okay, he didn’t say thank you, but he is looking forward to killing you all. You should expect his Grigori tonight.”
Damien and Sari were still waiting by the fire. Damien rose and held out his hand for Sari. “We’ll alert the haven,” he said. “Meera, rest. I’ll let your mother know you need some tea.”
“With honey please.” She felt like she would crumble at any moment. “Vasu, are you staying?”
“Of course. I can’t let Bozidar do anything to you, can I? What would I do for fun?”
Rhys said, “I’m assuming you could just kill him yourself. Why don’t you?”
“Could I?” Vasu cocked his head. “I don’t know. Probably? Yes, I likely could. But I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
Meera muttered, “He’s still keeping a low profile. He has bigger targets in mind.”
Vasu winked at her. “Clever girl.”
“I hate him,” Ata said with a grimace. “And I want to stab him.”
“And yet you are too weak. How amusing.” Vasu disappeared without another word.
“He’ll be back,” Rhys said. “For now, both of you need to rest and recuperate. And Ata, this will likely not make any difference in your plans, but I agree with my mate. You’re full of shit, and there are many singers who would be your ready pupils should you choose to share your wisdom.”
“I don’t care what you think.”
“I didn’t think you would.” He lifted Meera in his arms. “Now get out of our tent. My mate needs her rest, and you have to challenge an angel tomorrow.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The morning dawned cold and foggy, unlike anything the humans in Saint James Parish had come to expect. But they shrugged and went about their day, blind to the supernatural conflict brewing around them. No one had noticed when the sons of the Fallen stole into the country. No one connected the old people who hadn’t woken from their beds or the transients who had disappeared.
Humans could be so blind.
The old man sat on the dock at the bend of the river, watching the forest of trees that lined the old Delaure plantation. If he were only an old man, he would have seen nothing but an overgrown mess and a crumbling house fenced off from the road.
But he was not an old man, he was an ancient one.
The raven had come to him three days before, speaking in the Old Language of heaven’s sons, tempting him and teasing him with the promise of a feast. He’d smelled the echoes of fragrant meat roasting beyond the wards, smelled the spices drifting on the breeze with the scent of river mud and bayou rot.
They mock you,the raven said.They rise again, defiant in their celebration. Who are they to think they own the earth?They were mongrel dogs;hewas the glory of heaven.
The old man plucked a twisting fish from the line and opened his mouth wide, swallowing the slithering creature whole. He coughed up the bones and flicked them to his hound.
His sons waited on the banks of the river, looking up at him in adoration, waiting for scraps.
“Go,” he whispered to them. “The wards will not stop you now. Your feast is within.”
The first Grigoricame from the river. The Tomir sentry raised the alarms and the Koconah Citlal warriors descended on them, four warriors against two dozen. Even with those odds, it was no contest. The Koconah Citlal were an ancient clan who had never lived under a golden age. There was no peace between the Irin and the Fallen in the south. They swept down on Bozidar’s Grigori with no mercy, their blades swift and silent in the morning fog.
The long, curving blades of the southern warriors took the heads of the Grigori. They thumped on the ground like falling rocks, and gold dust mixed with the cold, drifting fog.
Runners ran to other watch points.
