Page 15 of The Seeker
“Done.” Rhys’s eyes watched the humans turn left at the end of the graveyard. “I’ll even buy you a beer.”
“Buy me dessert and I might make myself pretty.” Zep glanced over his shoulder. “You see that other fellow exit yet?”
“No.”
“This is a small graveyard,” Zep murmured, “but it’s full of corners that ain’t so obvious.”
“Did you see him carrying a camera or a backpack?”
“No. You?”
“Neither.” If the man was a tourist, he’d have some kind of bag with him. Lafayette No. 1 was a walled graveyard with two entrances; Rhys had researched it prior to meeting Zep. “The Sixth Avenue entrance?”
“He mighta gone out there,” Zep said. “But why cross the cemetery at all?”
“Visiting a relative?”
“Maybe. This is a working graveyard. It’s possible.”
Rhys brushed a thumb over histalesm prim,trying to enhance his senses and gauge the air, but all he perceived was the scent of rain and mud, moss and rot, and a hint of the lilies the humans had been carrying.
“Lily,” Rhys said quietly. “I’ll follow the humans.”
“And I’ll try to find our mysterious visitor.” Zep turned left at the next corner.
Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 was laid out in four quadrants, each with alleys of trees and numerous graves, most of which were far taller than Rhys. He walked swiftly, following the scent of the lily blossoms and ignoring the wet splash of his boots through the mud. He trailed the scent to the back corner where the lilies were carefully placed on a ledge under a small mausoleum markedDours. Half the plaque was covered in a volunteer fern that obscured the rest of the name, but the bright lilies remained, a token of care and remembrance.
The humans were nowhere in sight.
Rhys followed a pair of muddy footprints until they dead-ended in another puddle. He hopped across it and tuned his ears to the ambient noise.
The distant rumble of a streetcar on Saint Charles Avenue and passing traffic as it zipped through rain-soaked streets. A pair of laughing tourists on the other side of the wall, walking down the sidewalk on Prytania Street. Zep’s furtive footfalls turned into a run.
Rhys changed direction and followed the sound.
He leapt over fallen stones and shuffled through narrow alleys between graves before he came to the far side of the deserted graveyard where he saw Zep standing over two limp figures as the man with the black umbrella parried with him.
Rhys ran toward them, only to see the Grigori spot him over Zep’s shoulder and swing the umbrella in a final blow that knocked the young scribe on the temple. Zep spun around, clutching his temple.
“Down!” Rhys yelled, and Zep dropped to his knees in the mud. Rhys leapt over him to pursue the fleeing Grigori. “Get help!”
Rhys left Zep with the fallen humans and gave chase.
The Grigori was obviously more familiar with the cemetery than Rhys was. He ran straight toward the wall and, using the trees and fallen stones to brace himself, shimmied up and over the cemetery wall before Rhys could catch up. He followed the path of the Grigori, scraping his hands as he climbed and hoping no one noticed the soaked Englishman perched on the historic walls of the cemetery as he scanned the streets.
There.
The Grigori was running toward a dripping group of students with backpacks and plaid umbrellas who looked as if they were part of a tour. He shoved them out of the way, ignoring the indignant shouts and curses thrown at him, only to dodge a truck that nearly ran him over as he crossed the street.
Rhys followed him, running around the students and turning left at the intersection. He paused, nearly cursing his luck when he thought he’d lost the Grigori.
Then he spotted a muddy, blood-tinged handprint on the corner of the yellow house.
He jumped the wrought iron fence and crouched down, listening for his quarry. He stayed low, ducking under the windows as he walked between the two brightly painted houses with rocking chairs on the porch. He could hear panting in the garden.
Rhys crept on silent feet, hoping the Grigori had given up or mistakenly believed he’d lost his pursuer. The man was sitting, hunched over, his head in his hands. He sat on a dripping wrought iron chair pulled away from a bistro table under a wisteria arbor in a shared garden between the two houses. The wall on either side was at least seven feet, covered in vines and fragrant with flowers.
“Are you going to kill me?”
