A piercing shriek split though the noise of gunfire and made the feathers on Quinn’s nape quiver. She knew the voice at once, and craning her neck, her eyes confirmed the sinking feeling in her stomach. His molted boa seemed to have consumed his body, covering his legs and torso in ugly, bile-colored feathers. Wings like those of a gigantic condor had sprouted from his back, though his gangly arms and gnarled hands remained unchanged, creviced with septic-green veins and tipped by tar-black fingernails. It was as if the being could not decide if it were man or vulture, and the only thing on which it was in agreement was its malice. Even the thing’s moustache looked filled with rancor, and it soared towards her with maleficent intent, the hovering hat above the crown of its head trailing slightly behind, straining to keep up.