"Not these days," Coby answered absently. He'd never been in the shop before, and had no idea it belonged to the titan he'd met the night of his first London gig. Or that the redheaded with the paintbrush who'd spoken was that same titan.

He wasn't even sure why he'd gone in, other than the need to move that had him out of the flat he'd spent so much of the past month hiding in. He was used to his head feeling too small for everything crammed into it, but the skin too small, stretched tight feeling was new. Keeping the wings in and hidden when they wanted to unfurl, to move, to soar, had him antsy in new ways. (He'd promised Anael, though. No flying until he was stronger, and only while the angel was there to catch him when he fell.) So he was out and walking, no idea where he was going or what he was looking for.