Page 18 of The Seeker
He could only stare at her. He was worn out. Tired. He had the absurd instinct to lay his head on her breast, close his eyes, and sleep for hours.
He shoved the impulse aside. He barely knew the woman. She was beautiful, yes, but so were countless other women. There was nothing particularly compelling about Meera.
Liar.
There was something about her—a glow, adepth—that drew him in, and he had no idea why. He was past the reflexive awe at Irina presence. He’d lived with females of his race for years now.
It wasn’t awe. It was… attraction.
As if she could read his thoughts, her mouth turned up at the corner in an impish smile. “Have you eaten?”
Rhys barked out a laugh. “No.”
“Going without dinner is a crime in this city.” Meera waved over a waitress. “If you’re looking for comfort food, you can’t go wrong with the red beans and rice.”
He was in the mood to be coddled, and Meera seemed to be offering. “Why not?” he asked. “Sounds good.”
“I heard you had a day today.” Meera paused and gave the waitress their order. Red beans and rice for Rhys. Gumbo for her. Another glass for wine.
Rhys couldn’t take his eyes off her. “Yes. I had a day.”
Chapter Four
Meera looked at him, the prowling cat lying in wait. From the moment she’d sat across from him, his eyes hadn’t left her. His gaze raked her skin like claws teasing her flesh. It was unnerving. And… arousing.
“Do days like this happen to you often?” she asked. “I thought you were a scholar.”
“I am.”
A scholar with battle-hardened eyes. Meera saw the same shadows her own father bore. When Zep had called her that afternoon and told her they’d met a suicidal Grigori in the Garden District, Meera’s heart had hurt. For the Grigori and for the scribe who had killed him.
Meera said, “I don’t often meet scholars quite so good at hunting Grigori in my world.”
“Sounds like a narrow world.”
“Yes, it was.” She poured water from the carafe at the table, ignoring the slight tremor in her hands. “Until recently.”
His eyes sharpened. “So you did live in a haven once.”
“Not a haven.” Meera didn’t know what had caused her to lower her guard. Maybe it was the darkness in the club or the music or the pained look in his eyes. She wanted to comfort him, and that was a dangerous impulse. “I’ve been asking about you.” She glanced over at him. “Rhys of Glast, son of Edmund and Angharad the Sage, heir of Gabriel’s library.”
“I see I’m not the only scholar at the table.” Rhys set down his drink and leaned toward her. “Why were you asking about me?”
“Because you’ve been asking about me.”
“That’s fair.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smile, and it was far more tempting than it should have been.
“Zep thinks you’re here doing academic research. But I know…” She leaned forward. “…the scribes’ council doesn’t send scribes like you to do academic research.”
“I am no errand boy for the council. If you asked about me, you know who sent me.”
Sari of Vestfold, one of her mother’s oldest friends and mate of Damien, praetor of Rekaves and former Watcher of Istanbul. Damien came from a military tradition much like her father’s, and Meera knew how that tradition engendered loyalty beyond politics.
According to her mother, Rhys’s allegiance was to Damien and his current watcher in Istanbul,notthe Elder Council. But Sari had also sent Rhys without telling him anything about who Meera was.
She didn’t know what to think about that.
Rhys was staring at the singer on the stage, his wineglass dangling from graceful fingers. “So, my fellow scholar,” he drawled, “which of the Fallen would refer to the Irin as a race of mongrel dogs?”
