“Will you show us the way, darlin’?”

The woman dimpled. “Of course. Please follow me.” As they walked behind the older woman, Ashwini jabbed Janvier with her elbow. “Do you have no shame?”

“None whatsoever.”

An instant later they were being shown through doors large enough to accommodate an angel’s wings. The maid whispered away after letting them in, and while Ashwini’s hunter senses would never let her ignore the woman’s exit, it occupied only a very small part of her mind. Because Nazarach was waiting for them.

And if he was only a midlevel angel, then she was damn grateful she’d never been, and likely never would be, in the presence of an archangel.

The Atlantan angel was about Janvier’s height, with gleaming black skin and eyes of such a direct, piercing amber, it was as if they were lit from within. That illusion of light was power, of course, the power of an immortal. The incredible force of it lay like a shimmering film in his eyes, on his skin, and most magnificently, on his wings.

“You like my wings,” the angel said, and his voice was deep, holding a thousand voices she tried not to hear, tried not to know.

“It’d be impossible to do otherwise.” She held those ghostly voices at bay with a will honed by a lifetime of fighting for her sanity. “They’re beyond beauty.” A burnished amber, Nazarach’s wings were not only unique, but so exquisitely formed, each feather so perfect, her mind had trouble accepting they existed. When he flew, she thought, he’d look like a blinding piece of the sun.

Nazarach gave her a small smile, and perhaps there was warmth in it, but it was nothing human, nothing mortal. “As it is impossible to do anything but appreciate you, Guild Hunter.”