The fallen angel sat there, looking squint-eyed at passersby, with a lit fag clinging to his lips. He glowered from under a newsie cap, and idly fingered an ivory-handed fillet knife with a whiff of the supernatural about it.

He might have been any other tough lounging about the docks save for two things. There were the massive pair of wings half-folded behind him, for one. And there was the fact that he sat a full three feet above the mooring bollard one would have expected to support his weight.

“They like to do that to unnerve people,” said Nïs just before we got into earshot. “Just don’t make eye contact. He’s looking for a chance to prove he’s still got it, even as a mortal.”

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