Page 7 of The Seeker
It was all sorich. The first time she’d stepped into Jackson Square four years before, she’d been entranced. Everything about the old French city felt like an indulgence. It was a million miles from the quiet and ascetic compound where she’d lived for the first part of her life as the long-awaited heir of Anamitra, wisest of singers.
Meera closed her eyes and took off her sunglasses, letting the morning sun heat her gold-brown skin. “You didn’t have to stay if you didn’t want to watch me torment him.”
He finished the beignet in two bites. “I came to protect this poor scribe from your wiles.”
“My wiles?” She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “I never use my wiles on hapless scribes.”
He muttered, “Not even when we want you to.”
“You know, when I came to this country, I was told it was a place to be free. To break with traditions and push boundaries.” She finished off her beignet and brushed her hands together before she put her sunglasses back on. “But every scribe I meet just wants to lure me into mating.”
He crossed his arms, the black ink of histalesmswirling over light brown skin. “There something wrong with wanting a mate?”
She almost gave in. Almost. Zephirin was a very handsome man, an attractive blend of Native American, European, and African blood like so many Irin in this part of North America. In addition to his looks, Zep was kind, funny, and respectful. Her father even liked him. When Zep had first asked Meera out to dinner, she’d been tempted.
But only tempted.
Meera bumped his shoulder. “Don’t be cross. I just got out of the haven. I don’t know if mating is right for me.”
“So only human dates until you figure it out?”
“None of your business.” She nodded at the Englishman who was still sitting across the square. “He’s handsome, isn’t he?”
“You’re asking me?”
“You have eyes, don’t you?”
Zep squinted at the other scribe. “He’s thin and pale and looks like a buzzkill. Like a cranky professor.”
“According to my mother, his name is Rhys of Glast. He’s a renowned archivist of Gabriel’s direct line.”
“That sounds… not fun at all.”
Meera pursed her mouth. “I think he looks amusing. And he has beautiful hair.” And lips, but she didn’t mention that. In fact, Meera found the Englishman highly attractive, with a tall, lanky build that caught her eye and a wide, expressive mouth that hinted at sinful things. He had blue-black hair and pale skin, high cheekbones and a sharp jaw.
He looked… severe. But the mouth distracted her. She wanted to muss that dark hair and wrinkle his collar. Knowing he was a “renowned archivist” intrigued her and concerned her, all at the same time.
“He’s pale as shit,” Zep said. “Looks like he never leaves the library.” He stretched his arm across the back of the bench, resting his skin against hers. It was a natural affection Meera had grown to enjoy.
“Well, he’s here now,” Meera said. “So clearly he leaves it sometimes. He’s supposed to be brilliant with computers.”
“That so?” Zep’s interest was piqued. He had an interest in technology, though he was the only one in his scribe house who seemed attracted to it. He idly brushed a thumb over Meera’s shoulder. “Are you going to keep him locked away while he’s here?”
“Maybe.” Meera relaxed at Zep’s touch.
Casual affection between friends in the Irin world was valued and necessary. The contact allowed singers to release energy they gathered from spending time around humans and gave scribes a boost of power. They were people of community, never meant to be isolated or alone, a tricky proposition for someone like Meera who guarded her privacy fiercely.
She glanced back at the new scribe and her breath caught. “Oh, hello.”
The scribe had his eyes locked on Meera. She felt… found. The corner of the man’s beautiful mouth turned up.
Got you.
Meera could almost hear his voice in her mind. She cocked her head and met his gaze behind her dark glasses, resisting the urge to lower her shields. In a place like Jackson Square, she would be quickly overwhelmed by the soul voices that surrounded her. Though she had to admit she was curious.
Who are you, Rhys of Glast?
Meera felt Zep tense beside her, so she put a hand on his knee.
