He was also armed. There was a slight bulge under his right arm, and if the prickly heat crawling across my skin was anything to go by, it was loaded with silver bullets.
"May I help you?" he said, his voice low and cultured.
"I’m Risa Jones. I have an appointment to see Catherine Alston."
He nodded, but his gaze was on Azriel. "He may not enter."
"He’s my partner."
"He is death," the thrall said. "And death shall go no farther than this foyer."
"Azriel is not here to collect your mistress," I said impatiently, at the same time wondering what the hell the thrall thought he could do to stop Azriel. "He’s here to help."
The brown gaze met mine. "You’ll swear your life on this?"
"Yes."
"Be aware that I will shoot you the minute I suspect ill intent from either of you."
Oh, fucking great. A trigger-happy thrall was just what we needed right now. "As I said, we are here by request. Neither of us means your mistress any harm."
He stepped to one side. "Proceed, then. It is the third door on the right."
The hallway was wide but far from airy. Darkness lingered, and the air so thick with the scent of roses that it made my stomach twist.
Each door was lit solely by a small tea light. I wondered if Catherine had a thing against electrical lighting, or whether it was done for effect. After all, most vamps weren’t beyond the occasional attempt to terrify their guests.
"I am not trying to terrify you, young woman." The voice was rich, cultured, and almost plummy—the sort of voice that sounded as if it came from royal stock.