Stephen Strange? You mean the big ponce from New York who flounces around in a red and gold cape calling himself Sorcerer Supreme? John almost laughed out loud, as much at the bizarre juxtaposition of Raphael and Strange as friends as anything, but he kept both his amusement and his opinion to himself with a considerable effort. Fair was fair, after all; he'd just berated Raphael for criticizing his unlikely friend. And, his questionable fashion sense aside, Strange's reputation suggested he was in fact an occult force to be reckoned with. He wondered whether Raphael knew just how much "messing around on the side" the man actually did.

"Well, that explains where you got the dog," he observed mildly. "Strange, eh? Haven't met him personally, but I've heard of him. Word has it he's a pretty big player when he wants to be. Didn't know he kept company with angels, though. Funny old world."

He looked up at the Manor house. "You know what, I'm sorry you don't like being here, Raphael, but I'm sort of glad you are. I got this feeling the time's going to come when you will be needed, and I don't think anybody will see it coming. Don't let all us cantankerous ingrates chase you off, all right? Some of us aren't as bad as we like to make people think."