Warrior's Angel (The Lost Angels Book 4) (5 page)

Blue
, she thought again, or
saw
it there in the re-play of her mind. His eyes had been so,
so
blue. Rhiannon had only ever seen eyes quite that vivid once before in her life. They hadn’t been the same color. But they were just as memorable for their stark vividness.

Rhiannon pushed her covers aside and made her way, not to the living room, but to the bathroom. There, she turned on the light and looked in the mirror.
From beyond the bathroom, she heard her phone continue to ring. And she continued to ignore it.

She leaned forward over the counter top.
For the ten thousandth time since she’d had the contacts specially made for her, she’d forgotten to take them out before going to sleep. It wasn’t a big deal; they were designed to last weeks of continued wear, through showers and crying fits, without the aid of eye drops, moisturizers, or cleansers. It was amazing what money would get you sometimes. And her boss had connections, as good disguises were often very important.

But when she could, she tried to remember to remove
them anyway for their own sake. She didn’t want to destroy them, after all.

Now, Rhiannon leaned
further over the counter top and looked closely –
really
closely. They were very good contacts. They covered her eyes completely, edge to edge. Not a hint of her real color peeked through.

She reached up with both hands, peeled apart the lids of one eye with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, and gently pinched the contact lens between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. It came away immediatel
y, revealing an eye of such vivid light green, it appeared to glow.

Once, years ago, a National Geographic photographer had snapped a picture of an Afghan girl with green eyes. The girl’s name had been Sharbat Gula. And the photograph would soon become world renowned for its hypnotic effect.

Rhiannon gazed at her own light green eye that was struck through with undertones of light, light blue. She and Sharbat had the same eyes.

So Rhiannon hid them away behind contacts, all too aware of the fact that they would be
an easy and unmistakable target to anyone attempting to describe her to the police or authorities. Some things were better toned down.

But looking at her gaze
now reminded her of her dream, and the man within it, whose cornflower blue eyes had pierced her soul. It had felt like she was a book before him that he’d unlocked, opened up, and read. It was both liberating, and unwelcome.

Rhiannon sighed, shook her head, and quickly rinsed the contact before slipping it back into her eye.
Then she made her way to the living room, retrieved her phone, and dialed her employer’s number. He picked up on the first ring.

“You told me you would call me
tonight, Miss Dante.”

“So I did,” Rhiannon replied. “My bad.”

“You aren’t dead, then.”

“Doesn’t seem to be the case.”

“Then you can take the next twenty-four hours off for shopping and recuperation. The gala for the benefactor I told you about will be held in Chicago. And you’re already there. How convenient, don’t you think?”

Rhiannon’s
brows raised. “Indeed.” She thought of New York and it’s plethora of crime and the fact that he’d sent her to Chicago this time around. “You had this planned all along, didn’t you?”

“Indeed,” he returned, tit for tat. “
Unfortunately, the dresses you currently possess will not at all suffice for this event. I will send the information you need in the morning, and a car for you tomorrow night at eight. Sweet dreams.”

Rhiannon hung up… and wondered whether she
really wanted to dream again that night at all.

Chapter Four

Rhiannon took a very deep breath when her car rolled to a stop before the red carpet. She looked to the right to see that the carpet led through the massive, open double doors of an enormous, renovated cathedral. Guards with communication devices in their ears were placed all around the perimeter of the building, and white gloved men in suits waited at the entryway to welcome guests.

The lights, drum beat of music, and hint of movement from the darkness beyond hinted at the scope of the revelry that awaited her. She would wager there were close to a hundred guests already inside. These would be associates from Mr. Verdigri’s past, people she would know nothing about and who would know nothing about her. Not that it mattered.

Everyone would be wearing a mask.

Mr. Verdigri never spared any expense when it came to fundraising. From what she could see from her seat, the entryway to the grand gala had been decorated in a gothic steampunk manner, replete with massive wall clocks and torn tapestries that billowed in a night breeze.

There was a buzzing at Rhiannon’s wrist that
she felt against her pulse. She’d had her hands over her small chain-link purse, which carried only cash, her phone, lipstick, and the key to her hotel room. She opened it now and took out her phone to swipe her finger across the answer bar.

“I am told you’ve just arrived,” came a
familiar voice when she raised it to her ear. It was her enigmatic employer.

“I have.”

“Good. I’ll meet you at the door. Wait for me. I want to walk you in personally.”

They
hung up, and not for the first time since she’d begun working for Mr. Verdigri, she smiled to herself somewhat proudly. The man never failed to make her feel as if she were important. She wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Thirty seconds later,
she could see Mr. V exit the building to make his way toward her. She only knew it was him by his cane, his shock of white hair, his thick white mustache, and the fact that the lapel of his late 19
th
century black and white suit possessed a brilliantly colored butterfly pin. A mask, shaped vaguely like the black wings of some gothic butterfly, covered most of his face.

Her door was opened, someone helped her out, and her employer took her arm.

“You look exquisite
, Miss Dante,” he whispered in her ear, and again Rhiannon smiled. She did feel rather good about the way she looked tonight. And if the way the guards and footmen at the door stared at her as she made her way inside was any indication, she was justified in that feeling.

The dress had been tailor made for her and dropped off at her hotel earlier that day. Verdigri’s tailor had her measurements, and he was a wizard with a needle and thread.

A leather and sterling silver, intricately detailed bodice expertly hugged her slim form tightly over a long, velvet gown. The striking dress graduated in color from ivory white near the top of the bodice to light peach near the waist to light pink further down, then mauve and finally blood red near the bottom. The skirt gathered in layers, and was tied back with both ribbons and silver chains of varying thicknesses so that it bunched in the back, delivering that classic steampunk profile.

Rhiannon’s outfit was complete with a small chain link purse, also in silver, lace half-gloves in a color that
graduated from the same blood red as her skirt to deep black, a pair of thigh-high velvet and leather high-heeled boots, and a mask.

The mask was
a combination of white velvet, soft suede, and precious metal pocket watch pieces, artistically drawn into a work of absolute beauty that culminated in a pair of silver and gold angel wings around her eyes. When she’d tried it on in her hotel room, she’d found herself fascinated with her own reflection, like Narcissus. She couldn’t help it. She’d always liked steampunk art, and watch gears were simply beautiful. Plus, the angel wings shimmered like some sort of promise.

Now
Rhiannon slipped the thin silver chain of her purse over her wrist, gathered her skirts in her hands, and walked with her employer through the entryway and into the main hall of the cathedral beyond.

A waiter met them as they entered the elaborately decorated main area of the building, and Rhiannon barely had a chance to take in the décor. High above her, elaborate tapestries with torn and tattered edges depicted scenes of brilliantly colored butterflies, intricately wound through with gold and silver thread. Spaced evenly between them were massive chandeliers containing electric candles that flickered wondrously and shed a mysterious firelight over the revelers below.

Verdigri handed her a drink, some gorgeous concoction of varying shades of purple with sugar that sparkled like diamonds around the rim of the crystal goblet. She took it, waited as he took his own, and continued with him further into the milling crowd.

Contrary to
Victorian masquerade balls, filled with cellos and violins, the music for this particular gala belted out from an elevated band stand where the preacher’s pulpit would have been when the cathedral was still in use. Men and women in matching steampunk regalia made love to electric guitars and hugged microphones close as hidden speakers delivered their music evenly to the crowd.

A long table had been set up along one wall of the cathedral, topped with so much food, it seemed a Caligulan affair, and the aroma of every delicious thing Rhiannon could imagine enticed her to make her way toward it.

“I’m guessing you haven’t eaten yet today,” Verdigri said.

“Does it show?” she replied as they stopped beside the table and Rhiannon’s
eyes grew to saucers taking it all in. Every chocolate dessert she had ever tasted or wanted to taste was laid out before her.

Verdigri chuckled
, and his grip on her arm gently squeezed. It was one of those “I put up with you because I love you,” laughs that parents reserve for their impossible children. “You are always the last one you take care of,” he said softly.

“That will never do,” came a third
, deep, and magnetic voice.

Rhiannon felt her employer’s grip on her arm loosen.
Time slowed a little. She glanced down to see his hand slide away as he stepped back, and then she was turning toward the source of the new voice.

A
tall, broad shouldered man with very light blond, shoulder-length hair stood before her in a rich nineteenth century suit of luxe gray materials, replete with a pocket watch of pure gold. His face was hidden by an equally gray mask, simple but expensive, but his chin was strong, and his lips, sensuous and smooth, were turned up ever so slightly at the corners.

Cruel
, she thought, not knowing why.

Her gaze
traveled upward, her body frozen in some stripped fragment of time, until she came to his eyes. They were as dark gray as an impending storm, one threatening lightning at any given moment.

No mask could have hidden the stranger’s
inherent beauty, and the small gray garment seemed almost more an emphasis to his attractiveness rather than a concealment. And yet, as she stood there trapped in the sway of his gaze, she wanted him to take it off.

Without looking away, the masked stranger lifted a small porcelain plate from the table beside them and
held it out to her. “Crème cake?” he asked, his smooth voice rolling over her like a velvet wave.

Tall, gorgeous, and he’s handing me chocolate.

The thought went whizzing through her brain like cannon fire, and suddenly she felt giddy. She couldn’t help it when she returned his smile, and
absolutely
could not help it when she took the plate from him. It was the chocolate crème cake she’d been wanting anyway.

“Miss Dante,
” said Verdigri from behind her as he moved in a little closer, “may I introduce you to Mr. Lambent, our newest client. Mr. Lambent, this is Rhiannon Dante, the heart, soul, and brains of our operation.”

Rhian
non digested the introduction as the man before her bowed slightly, his smile broadening to flash straight, white teeth. She raised her hand, and he took it, kissing the back of it very lightly.

A tingling sensation rode across her hand a
t the touch of his very soft lips. That sensation climbed her arm and zip-zapped across her chest before it finally disappeared, leaving her just a touch more breathless than she’d been before.

She swallowed hard and
lowered her hand.

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Verdigri suddenly. She glanced at him, but his attention was on something across the room. “I am suddenly needed elsewhere.” He waved at someone Rhiannon couldn’t quite see and then placed a hand on her arm. “I will return shortly.” His eyes met hers as he stepped back once more. His unspoken request was,
Be nice and charm his pants off – or at least charm the wallet out of them.

She gave him a slight nod,
and her employer disappeared in the crowd. Then she turned back to the stranger. He was watching her intently. She caught the faintest whiff of his cologne; it was wonderful, heady, masculine and expensive.

Rhiannon
cleared her throat when her pulse quickened. “Then, Mr. Lambent,” she hedged, hastily adjusting to the situation to put her best face forward, hidden by a mask though it was. “I’m to understand you’ve already decided on Swallowtail for your needs?”

“How could I not?”
he responded easily. “The service provided by the Swallowtail Foundation is something the planet has been in sore need of for countless generations.”

Rhiannon felt her forehead furrow, and she forced it flat again.
His words gave her pause. Or maybe it was the way he said them.

Normally, Mr. Verdigri provided a front operation to attract benefactors. These “benefactors” were not known as such to the benefactors themselves. They simply thought of themselves as customers.
Because to them, the Swallowtail Foundation had nothing to do with liberating the oppressed or destroying evil. To them, Swallowtail was simply a
special effects
company, famed for some of the most amazing visual effect shows across the planet. In fact, the only group Rhiannon could think of that could put on a better show than she could was
Valley of Shadow
, the rock band fronted by the singer known as
The Masked One
.

But that was only because they were vampires, the lot of them. She’d figured that much out years ago. Not that she cared, really. Vampires tended to mind their own business these days and she’d n
ever had any problems with them, in particular.

In any case, Swallowtail was hired by
bands and events across the nation, and by the best producers in Hollywood for their ability to produce seemingly impossible effects. Thanks, in vast part, to Rhiannon’s very special abilities. After all, it wasn’t every FX company that could produce eerily real looking lightning on no more than a whim.

But Mr. Lambent, whoever he was, had spoken of something a bit deeper than special effects. His words were cryptic.
They hinted at knowledge.

Something the planet has been in sore ne
ed of for countless generations.

People didn’t talk that way about pyrotechnics.

How much
did
he know about the foundation? Did he know that it made a habit of breaking the law in order to right wrongs that authorities couldn’t track down, much less touch outside of a court system? Did he know that Verdigri had established an entire organization around what amounted to vigilantism?

More importantly, did he know
that
she
was basically the single driving force behind Swallowtail’s success?

Did he know about her powers?

For once, Rhiannon honestly didn’t know what to say. And so, in the expert manner of avoidance she had learned long ago, she simply smiled, said nothing, and changed the subject by picking up a silver fork from the banquet table and taking a small bite of the chocolate crème cake on her plate.

She was just pulling the fork back out of her mouth
when her employer returned to the banquet table and was again at her side.

“How is it?” Mr. Lambent asked, his voice as silky as the dessert she’d just tasted.

She let the chocolate melt on her tongue a moment and then swallowed, and she couldn’t stop the smile that formed on her lips. “To die for.”

Something flashed in Mr. Lambent’s eyes. Was it that lightning she could have sworn she saw co
ming on? His beautiful, cruel smile broadened, melting her like the chocolate.

“Did she misbehave in my
absence?” Verdigri teased lightly.

Mr. Lambent was gentleman enough not to grace the question with an answer, but that lightning of his danced i
n the depths of his eyes. “A few associates of mine and I will be sharing drinks later tonight,” he said, changing the subject and addressing them both. “I do hope you’ll do us the honor of joining us at our table?” He turned and gestured to the darker, more intimate area of the church, where private tables had been set up with candles and crystal, and waiters bustled between them delivering food and drinks.