Several wicked faeries had been struck down by Michael’s sword. They were the lucky ones. Many more—dozens that I could see—had fallen too far away for Michael to have reached them with the blade. Those were simply lumps of smoldering charcoal spewing columns of greasy smoke, their meat flash-cooked away from bone. Some of the soon-to-be-former hobs were still thrashing as they burned. Hell’s bells. I don’t call him the Fist of God as a pet name, folks.
