Archangel's Shadows (Guild Hunter series Book 7)

“Yes, but there’s a scholar in Neha’s court who is very patient.”


So many pieces of him she was seeing tonight, and she knew why. He was taking the first step, the first risk, being the brave one. Ashwini wasn’t sure she had the courage to follow him, to take the steps that would lead to a confession that, once made, would change everything. But neither did she want to belittle his trust by withholding her own. Whether it was dangerous or not, right or wrong, they were beyond that.

“My family,” she began, “is very academic.”





20


“My father was a professor of philosophy; my mother, literature, with a particular emphasis on South Asian texts,” she said, heart hurting. “You know my brother is a neurosurgeon.” No matter the pain between them, Ashwini was fiercely proud of Arvi’s achievements. He could’ve permitted the agony he’d borne to crush him—instead, he’d used it as an impetus to become the best in his field.

She just wished he’d chosen any specialty but that related to the brain. Arvi used his own skill like a razored whip with which to flagellate himself, always looking for an answer, a “fix,” and coming up empty.

“One aunt is a paralegal,” she continued, “the other a political strategist. My cousins run the gamut, from engineers to psychologists to biomedical researchers.” Shining bright, that was the unofficial Taj family motto.

Even the rebel in the group, the laughing black sheep everyone loved and Ashwini wanted to grow up to be, had been a brilliant scholar of languages. Tanu had interceded for Ashwini more than once, but her sister had been much older, with her own life. Away at college when Ashwini’s problems with the written word first became apparent, Tanu hadn’t been there to mitigate the fallout at home.

“My parents were impatient with me, thought I was lazy, not trying hard enough.” As a confused child who couldn’t understand why she was being punished—by being banned from attending the dance lessons that healed every hurt inside her—she would stay up all night trying to teach herself to read the letters that got all confused in her head.

“They were learned people.” Janvier’s scowl was heavy. “Shouldn’t they have known?”

“It’s funny how really smart people have the most unusual holes in their worldview and perception.” For Ashwini’s mother, this supremely clever woman who was around words every day, reading was such a joy, such a wonderful escape, that she’d been unable to wrap her mind around the fact it was a struggle for her daughter.

“There was pride, too.” Seeing a flashing sign that said part of the Quarter had been flooded by a burst water main, Ashwini and Janvier took a slight detour. “The idea of asking for help, of having me seen as different . . .” As an adult, she’d come to understand that the latter had been the crux of it, her entire family trying desperately to avoid looking into the blinding, eviscerating light of truth.

“Pride has often led to foolish actions.”

“Yes.” She had the Taj pride, too, and knew it. “Anyway, I was falling desperately behind in school before a teacher realized what was wrong and got me help.” Digging up a smile, she said, “I still love books, though. Listen to a ton on audio.”

“How about if I act as your personal narrator?” Janvier closed his hand around her own. “My voice is not so bad.”

His voice was raw sex and molten honey. Ashwini wasn’t sure she’d comprehend a word of the actual story if he read to her. “Looks like we’ve ended up at the exclusive end after all.” Breaking the handhold out of habit, she nodded at the club coming up ahead.

The detour had funneled them to the opposite end of the Quarter from the blood café. “Might as well start here.”

Club Masque was the definition of exclusive—and of dangerous. It was the center of the Flesh Market, a group of clubs that catered to the darker appetites of the sophisticated vampire upper class. Club Masque’s sign for the mortal queue made the club’s direction clear. It said Fresh Meat.

Ashwini could see at least fifty pieces of hopeful “meat” in the line.

Most would be turned away. The bouncers allowed in only the spectacularly beautiful or those handpicked by one of the VIPs inside. The hopeful were uniformly young and shiny and pretty, their flesh on display despite the cold, males included. Forget the teensy skirts and bra tops; one modelesque male with pouty lips and serious cheekbones was rocking short shorts and body glitter with biker boots.

The sight made her want to shiver. “I feel like I’m dressed for a blizzard compared to Hypothermia Central over there.”