Angelfall (Penryn & the End of Days #1)(55)
“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.
I’ve never seen an albino before. I’m pretty sure that even among albinos, his total lack of color is rare. Human skin just doesn’t come in that shade. Good thing he’s not human.
He stands leaning on the edge of the round booth. He’s the guy who doesn’t quite belong. His laugh starts with a half-second lag as if he’s waiting for the cue from the rest of the guys. All the women skirt around him, careful not to get too close. He is the only one without a girl draped over him. He watches them prowling by but doesn’t reach out to any of them. There’s something about the other women avoiding him that makes me want to avoid him too.
“I need you to go over there and get his attention,” whispers Raffe. Great. I should have known. “Get him to follow you to the men’s room.”
“Are you kidding? How am I supposed to do that?”
“You’re resourceful.” His eyes roam over my tight dress. “You’ll think of something.”
“What happens in the bathroom if I get him there?” I keep my voice as low as I can. I figure if I’m loud enough for the others to hear over the roar of the club, Raffe will surely let me know.
“We convince him to help us.” He sounds grim. He doesn’t sound like he believes our chances of convincing him are great.
“What happens if he says no?”
“Game over. Mission abort.”
I probably look the way the brunette did when he told her to go away. I look at him long enough to give him a chance to say he’s joking. But there is no humor in his eyes. Why did I know that would be the case?
I nod. “I’ll get him to the bathroom. You do whatever it takes to get him to say yes.”
I push away from the wall and step out of the shadows, target in my sights.
CHAPTER 30
I’m not an actress and I suck at lying. I am also far from being a seductress. It’s hard to practice the art of seduction when you’re always pushing your kid sister around in her wheelchair. Not to mention that daily jeans and baggy sweatshirt do not a seductress make.
My mind spins, grasping for ways to get the albino’s attention. Nothing comes to mind.
I take the long way around the lounge, hoping to think of something.
Across the club, a small entourage of women and guards makes its way toward the warriors. They follow in the wake of an angel who has almost the beauty of the warriors with just enough normalcy to his looks to make him non-threatening. He’s good-looking without being intimidating. Toffee hair, warm eyes, with a nose that’s a touch big for his otherwise perfect face. This one is all smiles and friendliness, a born politician.
He wears a gray suit circa 1920s with polished shoes and a golden watch chain looping from his waist to his vest pocket. He pauses here and there to exchange a word or two of greeting. His voice is as warm as his eyes, as friendly as his smile. Everyone smiles back at him.
Everyone but the two women who flank him. They stand a step behind on either side of him. Dressed identically in silver dresses that pool on the floor at their feet, they are matching platinum trophies. They’re human, but their eyes are dead. The only time any life comes into them is when the Politician glances toward them.