"I could, but then she would sense that I am here. Spirits may not be the normal prey of dark angels, but they generally will not take a chance and remain in our presence if they sense us."
I studied her for a moment, noting her long, thin fingers and sharply pointed fingernails. Handy for plucking lute strings . . . or slicing stomach flesh, I thought, and shivered.
"Why would she have a shield up if she wasn't up to no good?"
"She is sitting in a room filled with vampires, many of whom are not above using their telepathic powers to seduce or influence the thoughts of others. It is natural she would have some means to protect herself from such events."
That did make sense. I continued to frown at the woman on the stage. There was something about her that made my nerves crawl, but maybe that was nothing more than my desire for this hunt to be easy.
"She'll have to take a break soon. We can interview her when she does." I leaned back in my chair and glanced at Azriel. He was little more than shadow in this darkness, but his eyes shone brightly—almost as brightly as his sword. "Why is Valdis reacting? Amaya's not."
Can, she said.
No. The last thing I wanted was her hissing like a banshee in my brain.
Banshee not. Her tone was a trifle huffy. Maybe she'd been taking lessons from Azriel.
"I had good reason for the huffiness," he replied evenly. "And I thought we'd moved past that."
My eyebrows rose. "You heard her?"
He nodded. "Through you. And a banshee is a spirit; she's a demon."
Better, Amaya grouched.
I snorted. "Tell me, do all demon swords have such attitude?"
He smiled. "The attitude of the sword very much depends on the attitude of the owner."