FOR GODS SAKE, SOMEONE shut off the PCP-fueled cha-cha in his head.
Azazel scrubbed his face and tried to focus. He was in a cage. Magical symbols swirled beneath his feet. That explained the nausea. It was no lightweight magic work.
Murmured voices overhead sounded giddy. Exalted. Human. He ran through a mental checklist of humans capable of containing a Fallen. Short list. Had to be the Order. They’d been around forever, conceited, self-righteous holy warriors. Of course, before his Fall he called many of them friends, but just like a human, as soon as he Fell, they abandoned him, treating him as though he had the plague. All those years of protection meant nothing. Fickle humans.
The magic filling the cage assaulted his senses. A constant pounding turned everything foggy and distorte
