The cat stopped suddenly, eyeing the six figures standing in a group in the center of Main Street. They were dressed in dark suits and wore long coats that fluttered in the early morning breeze. She flattened herself against the ground with a low, whining growl, the need to hunt suddenly replaced by the need for caution. There was danger before her, emanating from these strangers in waves. They, too, were on the hunt, she sensed, and she did not care to be their prey. In a flash the cat darted down the alley between the post office and a greasy-spoon diner, and was gone. Geburah followed the sudden movement, his preternatural senses on alert. The cat was not what he sought, so its presence was forgotten nearly as quickly as it had registered. The Powers’ leader signaled to one of the other five with a barely perceptible nod. Anfial, the tracker of their angelic pack, stepped forward to sniff the air, his dark eyes closing as he processed the billions of particulates that filled the filthy air.
