Dangerous Pleasures
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I made a face at the memory.
Azrael. Almost as old as Heaven, older than the World; the record-keeper for the lives of the departed, he was not an entity I would ever dream of saying "No" to.
You might forget who he was, might be swept in by his neat, meticulous, ordered way and his minor vanity of the tailored off-white Armani suit...
But he was the Angel of Death, and he could be terrifying when crossed.
Oh well.
Time to go.
I paused, concentrated, shifted... my wings beating downwards, the powerful thrust driving me slantwise through the dream of existence from the clear morning of Memphis to the overcast just-about-lunch of my beloved Wales.
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