I drank my coffee slowly, savoring the last bitter drops as the grounds coated my tongue. A storm raged outside, the likes of which was the stuff of Gothic novels and bad disaster movies. A bolt of lightning struck the large oak that bordered our property. It burst into a pillar of flame.
"Figures," I muttered, shrugging. I yawned loudly, easing out of my seat and into my fuzzy white slippers. Bleary, I trudged to the front door, undoing the lock. A howling wind blew it open, and the furious rain rushed in, drenching the foyer. A ragged angel stood before me, covered in wounds, raiment stained with blood.
"Shannon..." Samael murmured weakly, collapsing against me. I nearly sank to the floor under his weight. Bolting the door shut, I dragged his limp form to my sad excuse of a 1700's living room.
