The little place in New Zealand was almost perfect. And, Crowley pondered with a smirk over his afternoon coffee, something about a demon living in Christchurch tickled him. While the filthy back alley he’d accidentally flung himself into hadn’t been in the city proper, it hadn’t been far from it either. Christchurch wasn’t London—nothing ever was—but there had been more than enough temptation to foment that almost three years had slipped by without his notice. Once he’d stopped marking his time by That Day, life had even become something approaching normal.
What WAS normal about the day was Crowley taking his latte on the balcony, dressed only in soft, clinging trousers and an unbuttoned shirt, watching the glow of the sun in the distance. He braced his elbows against the railing, sipping deep as a slight wind toyed with his hair and coffee burned a line down the middle of his chest until it spread in the pit of his stomach.
What was NOT normal were the three echoing knocks on his front door.
Ominous omens
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