Darkness Rising (Dark Angels 2)

I ignored the impulse to point out I’d only just been told, and said, “So you woke up at dusk and then what?”

“I looked in the mirror and saw this, of course.” She waved a hand toward her face—a face that was still relatively free of wrinkles. And her dark hair had little in the way of gray.

“If you don’t mind me saying, I can’t actually see much of anything.”

“Well, of course not,” she said crisply. “Do you think I’m about to advertise the fact that I’m being attacked? Makeup and hair dye were invented for a reason, young woman.”

I guessed so. “Then how bad is the aging?”

“There are crow’s-feet and lines around my mouth, and my hair is salt and pepper. I can live with both, but I do not wish it to get any worse. You will stop it.”

It was imperiously said, and amusement played about my mouth. While I had no doubt that Alston was every bit as dangerous as Hunter, she didn’t emit anywhere near the same level of scary.

“Where did the attack take place?”

“In the bedroom, of course. Where else does one sleep away the tiresome daylight hours?”

“I shall check it out,” Azriel said, and winked out of existence.

“And where has your dark defender gone?” she said. Maybe she was a little hard of hearing, because Azriel hadn’t whispered. “If he steals anything, there will be hell to pay.”

“Reapers don’t steal,” I said patiently. “And he’s gone to see if your attacker has left any sort of scent trail in your bedroom.”

She harrumphed. “I’ll check, you know.”

“Check away,” I said, rather rashly, then added, as her gaze narrowed a little, “And nothing disturbed your sleep? You had no unusual dreams, felt nothing odd, have no strange marks or bruising on your body?”

“No. I did get Bryson to check when I realized what had happened, but neither of us could find anything.”

“Bryson being the armed fellow who is standing behind me?”

“No, that’s Ignatius. Bryson is my butler.”

Which was another word for “dresser, lover, and food source,” if her slight smile was anything to go by.

I cleared my throat, oddly sickened by the thought that this woman had spent centuries loving and feeding off her men. I mean, what sort of life was that for them?

“A good one,” she snapped, more angrily this time. “And mind your thoughts, young woman. It is possible to push me too far.”

I smothered my instinctive curse—if only because swearing wouldn’t actually get me anywhere—and said, “What about the magic that protects your elevator and apartment?”

Her surprise rippled through the air. “You felt that?”

“Azriel did, although he could not tell what sort of protection spell it was.”

“It is designed to guard against ill intent.”

“So why didn’t it work against whatever is responsible for these attacks?”

“Because it is flesh-sensitive. If what is attacking doesn’t wear flesh, then it will not stop them.”

Which didn’t really narrow the field all that much. We’d already guessed this thing wasn’t a flesh being—both Alston and Boulanger would have sensed such an approach. “Did you set the spell?”

“Do I look like a magic user, young woman?”

Her tartness had my grin rising again. “I didn’t realize magic users had a specific look.”

“Well, they do. And obviously, I am not one of them. I hired a woman to set the spell when I purchased this place.”