Warrior's Angel (The Lost Angels Book 4) by Heather Killough-Walden

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