I was still trying to make sense of her parting words—about me being astute—when I walked through my dimly-lit living room and came to a dead-stop at the sight of someone standing at the railing of my terrace. A very tall, very winged someone. Whitewashed in moonlight, Asher looked like one of those angels on the covers of paranormal romances. Although most depicted us inaccurately, a few were surprisingly close to the truth, to the point where I suspected the author’s awareness of our existence.
