Even with the city lights bleeding into the clouds, all of London could see the spectacle above. The official order was to remain indoors, but humans are curious, and so many of them stood on rooftops to stare at the falling stars. Not one of them had seen anything like it.
Except for Anthony J. Crowley. Six thousand years ago.
It had felt so slow, floating downward serenely. But the wind whipped at his wings and his hair and he knew it must be a faster fall than he imagined. When he landed, it was feet-first in the dewy grass, and there were silhouettes of his brothers and sisters gathering on a hill nearby. As he walked toward them, he remembered feeling cold. He hadn't felt cold before. The crowd on the hill grew, with Lucifer shining in the center, and they all turned their faces heavenward and watched their siblings fall. Fire raining down.
But that was before.
Now there were so many more.
And dread laid itself on his shoulders like a heavy shroud.
And when he burst into the shop and shouted for the owner until his throat stung and there was no answer and the lights were dim and cold terror settled in his stomach, he took solace in lifting the oldest text he could find from its shelf and flinging it against the countertop, littering the floor with brittle hand-lettered pages.
Outside, they were still Falling. More by the minute.
What, all the pretty little chickens at one fell swoop?
Then the Terms had changed. There was no Arrangement.
And if there was no opposing side, there was nothing wrong with Crowley helping his--
Friend.
