Page 17 of The Seeker
He spit mud from his mouth. “Teodoros.”
“No.”
The man began to laugh, the sound tinged with hysteria. “He’s the gift of the Creator, don’t you know? The celestial father. The glorious one!”
“Is that what he told you?”
“We are the sons of heaven,” the Grigori screamed, “not a mongrel race of supplicant dogs!”
Rhys was worried about attracting attention. He’d overpowered the Grigori, and he was fairly sure the houses were deserted, but the monster’s voice was getting louder every time he responded. It was only a matter of time before someone braved the downpour to see what the commotion was.
“Tell me your father’s name,” Rhys said through gritted teeth. “Don’t you want to die?”
“You pathetic eunuchs have to steal our women now.” The creature couldn’t stop laughing. “Steal ours because we killed all yours.”
Rhys snapped. He pressed the Grigori’s face into the mud and plunged the dagger into the man’s spine. The body wavered beneath him before it dissolved.
Enough. Goading Rhys was one thing. Dredging up the horror of the Rending…
Rhys saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Zep was standing between the two houses, water dripping down his face, watching the Grigori’s dust melt into the mud as the rain washed it away.
“Will his soul rise?” Zep asked.
“Yes.” Rhys tried to wipe the rain from his eyes but only succeeded in smearing himself with more mud. “He’ll face his judgment, brother.”
Zep looked him up and down. “Come with me. You can clean up at the house. The humans were fine after a few minutes. You, I’m not so sure about.”
Rhys soughtanonymity on Frenchmen Street that night, sitting at a back corner table at a club, drinking a bottle of red wine as a man played piano and a woman sang about lost love. He’d showered, changed, and dried off, but he could still feel the grit of the Grigori’s dust under his fingernails, still feel the mud caked into his palms as he held the man down.
Dieudonné.
Teodoros.
God’s gift.
Which Fallen considered themselves the Creator’s gift? It hadn’t occurred to him during the struggle, but the answer was obvious. He went by various names, depending on geography. Darko. Boško. Dado.
Bozidar.
The divine gift of heaven.
He was an archangel with an inflated sense of purpose and an ego considered monumental, even by Fallen standards.
“You’ll find out soon enough. It’s coming.”
There was always something coming. Some horrible threat. Some catastrophe.
“You’ve been working like a madman for five years now. Maybe it’s time you let an attractive woman distract you.”
He couldn’t rest. He couldn’t stop. Not when he’d been one of the survivors. Until the Irina regained everything they’d lost—until hope wasn’t just a dream in their world—he couldn’t be distracted.
Rhys felt a hand slide up his arm before someone sat across from him. He turned to protest the intrusion only to find Meera sitting across from him, her eyes locked on the singer at the front.
“I love her voice,” Meera said. “She’s a regular here.”
“How did you find me?”How did you know I wanted to be found?
She turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “The city’s not that big, Rhys.”
