‘We’re all going to lose,’ said Crowley absently. There was a burst of firing from the grounds. Not the snap and zing of pellets, but the full-throated crackle of aerodynamically-shaped bits of lead travelling extremely fast. There was an answering stutter. The redundant warriors stared one to another. A further burst took out a rather ugly Victorian stained glass window beside the door and stitched a row of holes in the plaster by Crowley’s head. Aziraphale grabbed his arm. ‘What the hell is it?’ he said. Crowley smiled like a snake.
