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    Summary

    "Yes," Hank said honestly. "I placed a simple ward on you that I thought no one would be foolish enough to mess with. Scrawled it right..." Connor sucked in a breath when he felt a singular pointed nail run across his spine of his suit jacket, right between his wings. "Here." Between the most holy points of his mortal-appearing vessel. "But I was wrong." He'd never heard of such a thing happening before. That any hell spawn could... It defied known convention. Though... He was fairly sure that none had ever had the opportunity to try before.

    "What does it say?"

    "My name."

    "Hank?"

    "No."

    Oh. The angel pondered that. Certainly not his real one. The one he chose for himself after he Fell. The one other demons could use to assert absolute control over him. Could it be some clever machination of that name?

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