I ignored the impulse to point out I’d only just been told, and said, "So you woke up at dusk and then what?"
"I looked in the mirror and saw this, of course." She waved a hand toward her face—a face that was still relatively free of wrinkles. And her dark hair had little in the way of gray.
"If you don’t mind me saying, I can’t actually see much of anything."
"Well, of course not," she said crisply. "Do you think I’m about to advertise the fact that I’m being attacked? Makeup and hair dye were invented for a reason, young woman."
I guessed so. "Then how bad is the aging?"
"There are crow’s-feet and lines around my mouth, and my hair is salt and pepper. I can live with both, but I do not wish it to get any worse. You will stop it."
It was imperiously said, and amusement played about my mouth. While I had no doubt that Alston was every bit as dangerous as Hunter, she didn’t emit anywhere near the same level of scary.
"Where did the attack take place?"
"In the bedroom, of course. Where else does one sleep away the tiresome daylight hours?"
"I shall check it out," Azriel said, and winked out of existence.
"And where has your dark defender gone?" she said. Maybe she was a little hard of hearing, because Azriel hadn’t whispered. "If he steals anything, there will be hell to pay."
"Reapers don’t steal," I said patiently. "And he’s gone to see if your attacker has left any sort of scent trail in your bedroom."
She harrumphed. "I’ll check, you know."
"Check away," I said, rather rashly, then added, as her gaze narrowed a little, "And nothing disturbed your sleep? You had no unusual dreams, felt nothing odd, have no strange marks or bruising on your body?"
"No. I did get Bryson to check when I realized what had happened, but neither of us could find anything."