It was so potent, it was tangible and it cut through him like a barbed knife. Glancing around the hall, he tried to find the god or goddess who would dare feel that toward him. But he saw nothing. No one was even paying attention to him. Was he hallucinating? “Is something wrong?” Hera asked from her throne on the right side of his. “Do you not feel that?” “Feel what?” Before he could answer, the door to the temple was shouldered open. Dressed in his full battle regalia, Jericho shoved the doors wide. The long black duster clung to his body, outlining every muscle that had been honed to kill. Sharp spikes stood up on each shoulder, curving in toward his face like a lethal frame. His wings were wide as his long white hair flowed over his shoulders and down his back. Both of his hands were covered with sharp metallic claws that scraped against the gold of the door like nails on a chalkboard. His black, silver-studded boots tapped an evil staccato as he walked across the marbled floor with a look of hell-wrath and merciless vengeance carved into his eerily perfect features.
