“Haziel, a luminary of the Cherubim, a Son of Light.”
That answered two questions, at least. A man named Haziel. With wings, no less. And a regret that he should’ve listened more when his mother prattled on about angels. A hiccup of laughter bubbled up out of him. Should he bow or genuflect or something? An angel. Shit.
There was a quizzical expression on Haziel’s face. It pulled the tips of his bow-shaped lips down into an almost frown and squinted his eyes. Zeke thought the expression made him look more drawn in the strange, blended light of the place. This brought him back to his original question. “Where am I?”
“Abaddon,” Haziel answered. He glanced left, then right. The dull feathers fluffed and settled, a rainbow gloss rippling across the surface of them, which was a surprise. Maybe Haziel’s wings were dull because they were dirty from the fight? “We must move. The plain is too exposed for you.”