I, Angel

Dags Jourdain never asked to be an angel.

He called it “The Change,” but he couldn’t explain it. After a night of hallucinogens in the California desert, he crashed through the balcony windows of his East Hollywood apartment with honest-to-god wings on his back.

No one warned him about the chaotic mess of powers he’d inherit. Or that he’d black out every time he flew, waking up naked in random places. Or that he’d start fires. Or that every time he picked up a weapon, there was a good chance someone died.

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