We walk past the protection of a building to cross a street, and I’m back to being whipped mercilessly by the wind. Wind tunnels have nothing on the streets of San Francisco.
“Try not to look so cold.”
I stand up straight even though I’m dying to curl into myself. At least my skirt isn’t long enough to whip up.
The opportunity to ask more questions dries up as we approach the crowd. The whole scene has a surreal feel to it. It’s as though I’m walking out of a refugee camp into an exclusive supper club, complete with tuxedos, women in formal wear, expensive cigars and jewelry.
The cold doesn’t seem to bother any of the angels who lazily breathe cigar smoke into the wind. Not in a million years would I have imagined angels smoking. These guys look more like gangsters than pious angels. Each one has at least two women lavishing attention on them. Some have four or more crowded around them. From the snippets of conversations I catch as we walk by, all of these women are trying their darndest to get an angel’s attention.
Raffe walks right past the milling crowd toward the door. There are two angels standing on guard but Raffe ignores them and keeps walking. His hand is on the crook of my elbow and I just go where he goes. One of the guards eyes us as though his Spidey sense is sending alarm signals about us.
There’s a moment when I’m sure he’ll stop us.
Instead, he stops two women trying to get in. We walk past the women, leaving them to convince the guards that their angel had merely forgotten them outside and that he’s expecting to meet them inside. The guard firmly shakes his head.
Apparently, you need an angel as your ticket into the aerie. I let out a breath as we glide right through the doors.
CHAPTER 28
Inside, the two-story vaulted ceiling and Art Deco touches give the impression that the foyer was meant to welcome people of good breeding. A curved, gilded staircase dominates the area, creating a picture-perfect setting for couples with long dresses and tuxes, tasteful accents and pedigrees. Ironically, chubby cherubs look down at us from the frescoed ceiling.
To the side stands a long, marbled counter that should have had several attendants asking us how long we intend to stay. Now it’s just an empty reminder that this building used to be a posh hotel only a couple of months ago. Well, not entirely empty. There is a single attendant looking very small and human among all that marble and angelic grace.
The lobby is spotted with small groups chatting and laughing, all dressed in evening clothes. Most of the women are human with only an occasional female angel circulating the foyer. The men are a mix of human and angel. The human men are servants carrying drinks, picking up empty glasses, and checking in coats for the few lucky women who have them.
Raffe hesitates only briefly to survey the scene. We drift along the wall down a wide corridor with marbled floors and velvet wallpaper. The lighting in the foyer and hallway is more atmospheric than practical. This leaves much of the walls in soft shadows, a fact that I’m sure didn’t escape Raffe’s notice. I can’t say that we’re sneaking through the building, exactly, but we’re certainly not calling attention to ourselves.
A steady stream of people flow in and out of a pair of oversized leather doors accented in brass. We’re headed in that direction when three angels push through it. They’re all wide and solid, every graceful move, every casual bulge of muscle declaring them to be athletes. No, athletes isn’t quite right. Warriors is the word that rattles around in my brain.
Two of them stand head and shoulders taller than the crowd. The third is more compact, more lithe, more like a cheetah to their bears. They all carry swords dangling along their thighs as they walk. I realize that other than Raffe and the guards, these are the first angels I’ve seen with swords.
Raffe ducks his head toward me, flashing a smile as though I had just said something funny. He bends his head close enough to mine that I think he’s going to kiss me. Instead, he simply touches his forehead to mine.
To the men walking by, Raffe would look like a man being affectionate. But they can’t see his eyes. Despite the smile, Raffe’s expression is one of pain, the kind you can’t stop with aspirin. As the angels walk by us, Raffe subtly turns his body so that his back is to them at all times. They laugh at something the cheetah says, and Raffe closes his eyes, steeping in some bittersweet feeling I can’t begin to understand.
His face is so close to mine our breaths mingle. Yet he’s far away from me in a place where he’s buffeted by emotions deep and unkind. Whatever he’s feeling, it’s very human. I have this strong compulsion to try to pull him out of this mood, to try to distract him.
I place my hand on his cheek. It’s warm and pleasant. Maybe too pleasant. When his eyes don’t open, I tentatively touch my lips to his.
At first, I get no response and I consider backing off.