Another TV comes alive in front of the chalkboard.

An angel rushes in a half-limp, half-run along a field of asphalt. One white wing is off-kilter and dragging behind him.

“We got ourselves a lame bird,” says someone behind me. He sounds excited.

“What’s he running from?” asks Obi almost to himself.

The camera has trouble with its picture. It keeps switching from too bright to too dark. It settles on adjusting the lighting to the bright background, making the details of the angel dark and hard to see.

As he gets closer, though, he turns to see whatever is chasing him, giving us a good look at his face.

It’s Beliel, the demon who stole Raffe’s wings. He’s in bad shape. I wonder what happened?

Only one of his stolen wings seems functional. It keeps opening and closing as though reflexively trying to fly while the other wing drags in the dust. I hate to see Raffe’s gorgeous wings abused like that, and I try not to think of the abuse they took on my own watch.

There’s something wrong with Beliel’s knee. He limps and favors it even as he tries to run. He’s moving faster than any injured human could, but I’m guessing that it’s still less than half his normal speed.

Even from this distance, I can see a vivid red stain seeping through his white pants just above his boots. Funny that the demon has taken to wearing white, probably since he got his new wings.

As he nears the camera, he turns his head again to look behind him. There’s the familiar sneer. Arrogant, angry, but this time, with more than a touch of fear.

“What’s he scared of?” Obi asks the question that I’m wondering.

Beliel limps out of the frame, leaving only a cross-section of the empty runway.

“Can we see what’s behind him?” asks Obi.

“That’s as far as the camera will turn.”

A few seconds tick by, and it feels like the room is holding its breath.

Then Beliel’s pursuer shows up on the screen in all his glory.

Demonic wings spread out above his head. Light glints off the curved hooks, sliding down the edge of his wings as he stalks his prey.

“Jesus H. Christ,” says someone behind me.

The pursuer seems to be in no rush, almost as if he’s savoring the moment. His head is down, with his wings shading his face, making the details even harder to see than Beliel’s. And unlike Beliel, he doesn’t turn his head to give us a good look at his face.

But I know him. Even with his new demon wings, I know him.

It’s Raffe.

Everything about him—his pace, his arched wings, his shaded face—is the perfect nightmare image of the devil stalking his prey.