She could tell he was one of the Archangels, just by looking at him. Something about the way he held his head; about the way he folded his arms across his chest – and looked utterly unfazed by everything happening around him. Admittedly, the sword hanging from his waist and the glowing sigil on his wrist helped.
The symbol was familiar, but even if that hadn’t given him away, the scent that hung around him, cutting through the smoke, probably would have done. He smelled like cut grass and tomato leaves, like old books and poster paint, like tarmac baking in the sun. He smelled like the past, like childhood. Like memories.
She was standing in front of Zadkiel.
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