Not a scratch? Heâ€™d pretty well decided that this human was crazy. Amusing, but just not right in the head. Did she think demon fights were pretty? Or left either side particularly better off than the other? Even if he killed Damoen, there was no getting out of it without new scars. And for a prince there was no badge of honor better earned than scars from a fair fight. Not that he thought Damoen stood even half an ice cubeâ€™s chance in Hell.<br/><br/>Quick eyes darted back and forth between the two humans, his nose flaring like an excited predator at its first whiff of blood. Now he could really tell the difference. Between demon tainted human and obvious celestial scent. It clung to him, that stifling angel scent; another part of his mind not occupied with the goings on decided it was Gabrielâ€™s fault.<br/><br/>He only smiled, exposing first one then the other of the lengthy backward pointed fangs, very much enjoying this reaction. â€œNow now, insect waste, donâ€™t you worryâ€¦â€ Satanachia grabbed for something at his hip, hand swathed in a darkness that acted much like flame. â€œYouâ€™ll be dead soon.â€<br/><br/>The blade he drew from that swirling darkness was just as apparently delicate as he was himself; white as ivory and polished to a bright sheen. The blade was finely serrated on one edge, the other keen as a razor.<br/><br/>Faster than any human eye could track, he flashed forward, a single sweep at neck height testing reflexes and guard.