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

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

“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.”

“Maybe you entertain me.” He says with supreme confidence as if he’s in control of the situation. “Like a monkey with an attitude and a pair of scissors." -Raffe”

“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.”

“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.”