The jazz club was small and dark, exactly the way you expected such places to be. All the tables were filled, and lots of people stood by the bar or along the wall. I didn’t have any trouble finding Isabelle, though. The signature of a greater immortal filled up a place like this. Hers made me think of sunlight shining through crystals, fracturing into sparkles of color.

She sat alone at a corner table. Most obviously single women in there were being hit on—in fact, I got a number of appraising looks as I walked through—but no one other than the wait staff seemed to notice Isabelle. It reminded me of how no one ever noticed Jerome’s resemblance to John Cusack. Isabelle wore a long blue dress with spaghetti straps, surprisingly risqué for an angel. Her hair was sunny blond and worn loose to her lower back—not unlike a golden cloak, I thought wryly.

She sensed me, of course, and didn’t seem surprised at all when I sat down across from her. With a smile, she glanced up and crooked a finger toward the nearest waiter. He hurried over and took my gimlet order. Once he was gone, Isabelle turned her attention on me.

“So. Jerome’s succubus.”

Cedric had called me the same thing when we first met. I kind of resented my identity being based on my association with—or rather, possession by—someone else.

“Yeah,” I said. She watched me pleasantly, neither cold nor friendly. With angels, you never knew which extreme you might get. Mostly, she looked curious, so I figured I could get right down to business. “So I—”

“Shh.”

“Wh—”

She held up her hand, dark eyes focusing on something beyond me. The band was in the middle of a song, and the trumpet player had just put the instrument to his lips. A long, high note came out, kicking off what turned into a mournful solo. When he finished a minute or so later, I turned back to Isabelle and saw the waiter had brought my gimlet. The angel’s face was alight with wonder—and wistfulness.

“Did you hear that?” she asked me. “Those notes weren’t complicated, yet he managed to put so much into them. His heart, his emotions, his soul. A world of sorrow, exquisite agony . . . all in those few notes.” She took a sip of her wine. “You can’t do that. Not even I can do that—not the way he did.”

Her words surprised me, but I knew exactly what she meant. Part of the reason I was always a little in awe of Seth’s books was because he, as a mortal, had a talent that an immortal like me never could possess. “Only humans have the gift of creation,” I murmured.

Her eyebrows rose slightly, and she smiled. “Yes, exactly. So tell me, what can I do for you, Jerome’s succubus?”

I felt a little weird interrogating her now. There was something a little sad and vulnerable about her that made her appealing. Nonetheless, I pushed forward. Angels and demons came from the same stock. Both were good at making you believe what they wanted. “You . . . you know about those so-called Satanists, right? The Army of Darkness?”