No, Kristoph’s wings were made of blades. Stained straight razors, chipped scissor halves, rusted butcher’s knives, they all rattled in a soul-quaking symphony as they stretched behind him, drops of blood falling from each of their tips. Slowly, Kristoph reached down and plucked up Balaam from the ground as if he weighed nothing at all. With a look to Ivan over his shoulder, Kristoph flapped those nightmarish wings once, and the two of them were gone.
