Bitter closed her eyes and stopped thinking of Vengeance as an angel. It was a painting. It was a smash of smoke trapped inside a piece of wood. It was something she had made, it was hers, to make alive and to make…unalive. It was eggshell and ash, casein and chalk, wax and blood. It had taken this form because she painted it that way, had climbed out of the panel because she told it to. A small suspicion began to blossom in Bitter’s mind. Back in the alley, as she’d knelt weeping beside Mr. Nelson, Vengeance had been with the rest of the angels. It clearly didn’t care about Mr. Nelson, but it
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