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That gets his attention.

Six weeks ago, I wouldn’t have needed keys.

Six weeks ago, getting somewhere meant spreading my wings and letting Heaven do the rest.

Now those same wings hang black and heavy behind me, and flying is something I haven’t managed since the tribunal burned me out of the sky.

Carnage watches me reach for my jacket. “You sure?”

“It’s coffee, Carnage. Think I can handle it.”

His mouth opens.

“Don’t,” I warn.

He closes it again.

Smart hellhound.

Ten minutes later, I’m standing inside the clubhouse door trying to make my wings disappear.

They don’t.

“Come on.”

I pull at the old instinct, the one that used to take less thought than breathing. Fold the wings away. Let the mortal eye slide straight past what isn’t meant for it to see.

Nothing happens.

The black feathers twitch behind me.

I try again.

This time pain tears across my shoulder blades.

“Son of a goddamn bitch.” My wings jerk inward, bones grinding hard enough to make my teeth clench as the first stretch of black feathers fades from sight. The rest follow slowly, disappearing beneath skin that burns like someone is dragging a hot blade across my back.

By the time the last feather vanishes, sweat has broken across my forehead.

Six-fucking-weeks.

Used to take half a second.

Now hiding what I am hurts almost as much as looking at it.

I’d adjust it too.

I grab my jacket and shove my arms into it before Carnage can wander past and decide my face looks like something he needs to ask about.

Outside, cold October air hits me hard enough to clear my head. I head straight for my bike, swing my leg over, and fire up the engine, letting the familiar rumble settle beneath me before pulling out onto the road.

The afternoon sun has already started its drop behind the trees, and every gust sends another scatter of red and orange leaves skittering across the asphalt. Enough branches have gone bare to make it pretty fucking clear winter is coming, and the wind carries enough bite that I’m grateful for my jacket as I ride toward town.

By the time I reach the main street, I ease off the throttle and find a spot along the curb a short walk from the coffee shop. I kill the engine, climb off, and shove my hands into my jacket pockets as I start down the sidewalk.

It should feel normal.

Cars move along the road, their tires crunching over fallen leaves. Someone wrestles trash bags toward the curb while a dog loses its shit at a delivery truck, its owner struggling to drag it back toward the house.