As we near the crowd, I can see more details. Several of the angels going into the club are in old-fashioned gangster zoot suits complete with felt hats and jaunty feathers. Long watch chains drape to their knees.

“What is this, a costume party?” I ask.

“It’s just the current fashion for the aerie.” His voice sounds a bit clipped, as though he doesn’t approve.

“What happened to the rule of not fraternizing with the Daughters of Men?”

“An excellent question.” His jaw clenches into a hard line. I don’t think I want to be around when he demands an answer to that question.

“So producing children with humans gets you damned because Nephilims are a big no-no,” I say. “But anything up to that…?”

He shrugs. “Apparently, they’ve decided that’s a gray zone. It could get them all burned.” Then he adds in a whisper, almost to himself, “But the fire can be tempting.”

The thought of superhuman beings with human temptations and flaws sends a chill through me.

We walk past the protection of a building to cross a street, and I’m back to being whipped mercilessly by the wind. Wind tunnels have nothing on the streets of San Francisco.

“Try not to look so cold.”

I stand up straight even though I’m dying to curl into myself. At least my skirt isn’t long enough to whip up.

The opportunity to ask more questions dries up as we approach the crowd. The whole scene has a surreal feel to it. It’s as though I’m walking out of a refugee camp into an exclusive supper club, complete with tuxedos, women in formal wear, expensive cigars and jewelry.

The cold doesn’t seem to bother any of the angels who lazily breathe cigar smoke into the wind. Not in a million years would I have imagined angels smoking. These guys look more like gangsters than pious angels. Each one has at least two women lavishing attention on them. Some have four or more crowded around them. From the snippets of conversations I catch as we walk by, all of these women are trying their darndest to get an angel’s attention.

Raffe walks right past the milling crowd toward the door. There are two angels standing on guard but Raffe ignores them and keeps walking. His hand is on the crook of my elbow and I just go where he goes. One of the guards eyes us as though his Spidey sense is sending alarm signals about us.

There’s a moment when I’m sure he’ll stop us.

Instead, he stops two women trying to get in. We walk past the women, leaving them to convince the guards that their angel had merely forgotten them outside and that he’s expecting to meet them inside. The guard firmly shakes his head.

Apparently, you need an angel as your ticket into the aerie. I let out a breath as we glide right through the doors.

CHAPTER 28