“And my instincts tell me that Raffe is mine. I found him first.”

“NO!" Raffe grips me as if he can bind my soul to my body. An upside-down view of the doorway shows up in my field of vision. Smoke waft through it. Although the pain obscures Raffe's warmth, I feel the presure of his hug, the rocking of our bodies back and forth as he repeats the word, "No.”

“My friends call me Wrath,” says Raffe. “My enemies call me Please Have Mercy. What’s your name, soldier boy?”

“I don’t know which is worse—that Raffe didn’t jump in to defend me, or that he bet that I would lose.”

“How sad. A leader bereft of followers. An angel with severed wings. A warrior without a sword.” Beliel circles Raffe like a shark as he taunts him. “You have nothing left.""He has me," I say.”

“Their presence and attitude remind me of Raffe. He would fit in. It’s easy to visualize him sitting in the booth with that group, drinking and laughing with the gang. Well, the laughing part takes a little imagination, but I’m sure he’s capable of it.”

“-¿Cómo te llamas?Mis amigos me llaman Ira —dice Raffe—. Mis enemigos me llaman Por Favor Ten Piedad.”