Okay, the clothes don’t all look 1920’s. There is the occasional ’70’s or science fiction futuristic outfit, like a costume party where a few of the guests didn’t understand what a 1920’s outfit should look like. But the room and furniture are Art Deco, and most of the angels are in old fashioned long-tailed coats.
The room glitters with gold watches, shiny silks and sparkling jewels. The angels are dining and drinking, smoking and laughing. Through it all, an army of white-gloved human servers carry trays of champagne glasses and hors d’oeuvres under the winking chandeliers. The band members, the servants, and most of the women look human.
I feel an unreasonable blast of disgust for the humans in the room. All traitors like me. No, to be fair, what they’re doing is nowhere near as bad as what I did by not disclosing Raffe at Obi’s camp.
I want to dismiss them all as gold diggers, but I remember the woman with the husband and hungry kids hanging onto the fence as she walked toward the aerie. She is probably that family’s best hope of getting fed. I hope she made it in. I scan the crowd, hoping to see her face.
Instead, I see Raffe.
He leans casually against the wall in a shadowy corner, watching the crowd. A brunette in a black dress with skin so white she looks like a vampire leans into him suggestively. Everything about her oozes sex.
I’m inclined to go anywhere but to Raffe right now, but I have a mission and he’s a crucial part of it. I’m certainly not going to give up the chance to find Paige just because I feel socially awkward.
I steel myself and walk over to him.
The brunette puts her hand on his chest, whispering something intimately. He’s watching something across the room and doesn’t seem to hear her. He grips a glass of amber liquid that he tosses back in one swig. He places the empty glass in a row of other empty glasses on a nearby table.
He doesn’t look at me as I lean against the wall beside him, but I know he sees me, just like he sees the girl who is now giving me a death-glare. As if her message isn’t already clear, she drapes herself onto Raffe.
He grabs another drink from a passing waiter who holds a tray full of various drinks. Raffe tosses that one back as well and grabs another before the waiter leaves. He’s downed four drinks in the short time it took for me to get myself together and find him. Either he’s shaken by something or he’s falling off the wagon hard and fast. Great. Just my luck to be partnered with an alcoholic angel.
Raffe finally turns to the brunette who gives him a dazzling smile. Her eyes sparkle with an invitation that makes me embarrassed to watch.
“Go find someone else,” says Raffe. His voice is distracted, indifferent. Ouch. Even though she gave me that murderous glare, I still feel a pang of sympathy for her.
But then again, he only told her to go away. At least he didn’t tell her he doesn’t even like her.
She pulls back from him slowly, as if giving him a chance to say he was just kidding. When he goes back to people watching, she shoots me one last scathing look and leaves.
I scan the room to see what Raffe is watching. The club is cozy and not as big as I’d initially thought. It has the energy of a larger place because of the boisterous crowd, but it’s more of a lounge than a modern club. My eyes are immediately drawn to a group sitting in a booth as though it is a king’s dais and they are the chosen ones.
There are certain kinds of groups who can do that: popular kids on lunch benches, football heroes at a party, movie stars at a club. There are half a dozen angels lounging in or around the booth. They’re joking and laughing, each with a drink in one hand and a glamour girl in the other. The area is thick with women. They’re either rubbing their bodies on the men to get their attention, or strutting by slowly as though they’re on a catwalk, watching the men with hungry eyes.
These angels are bigger than the others in the club—taller, beefier, with an aura of casual danger that the others don’t have. The kind of danger tigers in the wild project. They remind me of the ones we saw coming out of the club, the ones Raffe wanted to avoid.
They all wear swords with casual elegance. I imagine Viking warriors might look like that, if Vikings were clean shaven and modernized. Their presence and attitude remind me of Raffe. He would fit in. It’s easy to visualize him sitting in the booth with that group, drinking and laughing with the gang. Well, the laughing part takes a little imagination, but I’m sure he’s capable of it.
“See that guy in the white suit?” He nods his head almost imperceptibly towards the group. He’s hard to miss. The guy is not only wearing a white suit, but his shoes, hair, skin, and wings are downy white. The only color on him is his eyes. From this distance, I can’t tell what color they are, but I’m willing to bet they would be shocking up close, just by contrast with the rest of him.