“I thought this city didn’t have any gods.”
The pigeon grinned a beak full of dog’s teeth. “Ha. They say there aren’t. They even kept most of them out for a while.”
“By being smart. By hiding.”
She gave the one-legged, feral feathered thing a sideways look. “As a pigeon?”
“Sometimes,” said the pigeon. “Sometimes I’m graffiti on a wall. Sometimes I’m a coin dropped in a beggar’s hand. I am neon at night, the rain in the light. I am the song the busker sings. I listen to the prayers of those who come to the city with big dreams.”
It grinned again. Steam rolled off its feathers, smelling of cigarettes. “I eat their despair.”
It moved its wings in something like a shrug. “That’s the big city for you.”