Angel Dave was puffed out and his wings were sore. The skin between his shoulder blades was on fire, salt from the sea crossing had worked its way back into the grooves between his feathers, the wind had chafed his lips, and the ice had crusted around his eyes and made it difficult to open and close them. The air had turned a bit warmer as he flew down through southern Wales, and when he turned left to follow the River Severn, it had raised a few degrees in temperature, and he started to feel a little bit more chipper.
There had been a few times during the night where he had felt that strange sensation of not being alone; there was something just beyond the nearest cloudbank or even high above him in the night sky; he thought that he was being followed or watched closely. He banked hard a
