Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 121854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
* * *
* * *
Aodhan had never before walked into a boutique that sold such goods. In truth, he basically never walked into shops. As soon as the facility became available, Illium had taught him how to order any goods he wanted online.
He also had a longstanding network of tailors, cobblers, and other solitary makers who could supply him with what he needed. They were all immortal, so he didn’t have to worry about changing to a new maker unless one of them decided to Sleep or otherwise withdraw from the world.
For one-off items that were easier to get in person, Illium was happy to pick those up for him—though strangely enough, Blue also didn’t much like to linger in shops. That was despite the fact that when they’d been youthful warrior trainees, they’d often gone to the mingled mortal/immortal markets in large cities across the world, with Xi’an and Marrakech being favorites.
While Aodhan had flown in and out as quickly as possible, Illium had spent as much time chatting with the stall keepers and shop owners as he had looking at the actual goods. He’d forged such bonds in a single visit that he was welcomed like a long-lost friend on his next visit, with many an invitation to share a cup of fresh mint tea shouted his way.
“Markets are different,” the other man had said to him when Aodhan had mentioned the discrepancy. “Usually open air—and even with the narrow corridors in the oldest ones, they take care to leave the top open so we can fly in and out. I never have to walk into a shop, either; the staff are always hovering outside ready to talk up their wares.
“Malls and department stores, on the other hand…” He’d shuddered. “They’re so enclosed that often the only way to get out in a hurry would be for me to explode through the nearest skylight.”
He’d thrust a hand through his hair, and even then, when Aodhan had only seen him as his best friend, he’d found himself wondering why he was the one who drew the most attention when Illium was so extraordinary. Especially when he smiled. And Illium almost always had a smile on his face.
Of all the highly skilled warriors of Aodhan’s acquaintance, he was the one most apt to laugh.
“Boutiques are a bit better,” Illium had added. “Just one shop usually, with wide doors if they expect angelic clientele, but still not where I’d choose to spend hours.”
“You should’ve told me earlier.” Aodhan had scowled. “I’d have asked someone else to do my pickups.” Holly, for one, loved fashion and often browsed boutiques to stay up to date on the latest trends.
Illium had waved that off. “I don’t care about short visits. But talking of shopping, we should go to the night markets in Marrakech again.”
With all the political upheaval of the past years, they never had made it to those markets or to any other, but Aodhan made a promise to himself that, once this case was complete, and Illium had rested from his long flight home, he’d take his Blue to the markets.
He’d buy Illium the freshly churned ice cream served in small watermelon halves that Illium had always loved for their whimsy, and they’d play the games on the edge of the market to win inexpensive trinkets—for no reason but that it was fun.
Today, however, as the city began to flow out of high-rises and into the subways at the start of rush hour, he steeled his shoulders and walked through the automatic glass doors of the exclusive Manhattan boutique that sold Céline’s gloves. Per their website, they were currently out of stock, with shoppers welcomed to add their name to the waiting list.
The air inside was cool—and perfumed with a delicate scent that he recognized from the Refuge. The essence of a rare flower that bloomed only at the higher elevations for two months of the year.
Thankfully, the place was set up for angelic visitors, with a wide central space around which were placed pedestals, each lit with its own small spotlight. Each pedestal displayed one item.
The décor was white on white, the only touches of color coming from the items on display.
Perfume in a faceted crystal bottle no bigger than Aodhan’s thumbnail, its top a bead of true gold.
A scarf so delicate, it was air, woven of material he couldn’t guess at a glance, the colors a cascade of sunrise.
A pair of gloves clearly designed for masculine hands, and bearing the leatherwork stamp of a maker Aodhan knew well. He hadn’t realized the maker offered such artistic items as well as the working gloves he made for warriors.
A tiny, frivolous handbag of black into which were woven the preserved feathers of various angels—all of them distinctive, but in a palette of blues fading to iridescent white. He recognized one of Illium’s as well as one of his own. Each feather tiny, shed from the inner surface and each filament preserved with utmost care.