Then, out from the angel’s throat plunged a strange blade—an iridescent copper, shadows shifting across it. Blightblade, Eliana thought, shaky and reeling. Fountains of blood spurted from the angel’s neck. The blade tore free, and the body twitched, then fell hard. Empty now, nothing more than a corpse. And over it stood Simon in imperial black, his scarred face streaked with blood and grime. His expression was furious. A dark cloak lined with crimson fell to his knees, and across his torso cut a red sash like a bloody smile.
WGAT
