The Given

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A rule of thumb for all the aspiring angels out there: it’s damned tough to go incognito when you’ve got a twelve-foot wingspan trailing behind you like a big, feathery flag. That, along with the stardust dripping like celestial sauce from those feathery tips, is a dead giveaway that you’re doing more than popping to the Surface for a doughnut and a cup of joe. Sure, the mortals can’t see you, even if you’re only six feet behind them and closing in fast, but guys like Griffin Shaw—who were both angelic and human—could spot that semitransparent form coming from a galaxy away.

Not that there was anyone else like Griffin Shaw.

Grif’s first instinct was to ignore the whole situation. Unfortunately, the angelic herald currently trailing cosmic matter all over downtown Las Vegas had dropped right into Shaw’s path on an evening that was both chilly and boring. Defying the cold precisely because of his boredom, Grif was sitting alone on the patio of a wine bar, sipping a doppio espresso just to be contrary, and trying not to let his depression get the best of him. There was nothing sorrier than an angel with a case of the blues.

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