Songs for the Lost — Brian Rappatta

The old bastard couldn't even die quickly, so it was a relief when the angel of death appeared at the threshold.

The creature hovered silently in the doorframe, head bowed, entreating entrance, its little wings fluttering like those of a dragonfly, keeping it at her eye level.

Tirsa's breath caught in her throat at its beauty. This one had a full head of golden, curly hair, and its skin shone with that otherworldly radiance for which they were fabled. Tirsa had to forcibly remind herself not to try to reach out and touch it, to attempt to cup it in her hand like a firefly...