Hell Followed with Us(21)

I understand how the Angels could radicalize somebody. Eternal life and a sky like this could convince a lot of people to join their cause. But that beauty is always dragged down by the desperate hands of the billions of people who were slaughtered to make it. I keep moving.

If I’m going to face Seraph, if I’m going to coax this virus to life and meet it in the middle, I need a Grace.

I’m not sure where I’m supposed to look. I don’t know this city nearly as well as anyone from the ALC does, so I count turns on my fingers and memorize street signs to make sure I don’t get lost. I open front doors to find bones and don’t stay because the dusty picture frames scare me. I startle stray pets and scavenger animals that wander the streets. No Graces.

My path takes me to a bodega between two crumbling storefronts. The windows are plastered with sun-bleached ads and government-distributed signs about water shortages and electricity limits. Might as well. I pull open the front door and a bell rings, the first sound I’ve heard all night that isn’t my sneakers on the asphalt. It’s immediately followed by the yowl of a cat as an orange blur scatters from the counter, knocking over pens and hissing and spitting the whole way.

I frown. I miss pets. “Sorry, kitty.”

The store was ransacked. The shelves are naked and only the most useless items have been left behind—zip-tied clusters of brooms, sludge that had probably once been fresh fruit, stacks of lottery tickets that are all scratched off for some reason. Considering how close this is to the ALC, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone I know stripped these shelves of everything they had. If Erin, Aisha, Faith, and Nick lived off Doritos and beef jerky for a time.

I’m about to leave—there’s nothing here but brooms and a cat—when I find a stack of Acheson maps in a plastic case. Perfect. I grab one and spread it out in a back corner cordoned off by shelves, where a spill of moonlight comes in through the window. The floor is disgusting, but I sit anyway. According to the map, there’s an emergency room a few blocks away. Hospitals would have been hotbeds for the Flood. I picture morgues filled to bursting by doctors who are starting to spit up blood, a Grace rising between gurneys as its flesh melts and builds itself anew.

That’s my best shot, then. I hunker down, fingers tracing paths through the streets, trying to orient myself. Which direction did I come from? Which direction should I go?

The doorbell jingles.

The cat yowls.

I freeze.

The door eases shut. A black form eases between the shelves, a hand lingering on the front counter. I put a hand over my mouth to muffle my breathing. No white, no robes, so not an Angel. A nonbeliever? Someone who would get scared off if I banged on the shelves or someone who would slit my throat?

I grab the knife from my pocket and ease it open. As soon as the blade peeks from the handle, the silver edge catches the moonlight. Its point is terrifyingly sharp, the way Angels always keep them.

The blade clicks when it settles into place. Loudly.

I mouth Goddamn it and don’t have time to feel guilty for taking the Lord’s name in vain. The footsteps stop for just a second, the hard scuff of a rubber sole against tile, before they pick up again. Faster. Toward me.

That red anger burns up my throat again, the fury that pushed me to crush Alex’s throat in my hand. More of Seraph past the barrier, nestling into gray matter and the folds of my brain.

The dark form takes one step past the last shelf.

I lunge forward.

A hand catches me by the wrist, twists me around and smashes me into the shelves. My back pops, and mop pads and magic erasers clatter to the floor. My knife hand is pinned above me. The dull shine of another blade glints between my stomach and a bruised hand.

A raspy voice warns, “Careful.”

You’re kidding.

I struggle for air. “Nick?”

Nick lets go, pulling the knife away from my belly. I stumble a few steps and cough into my hands, trying to get breath back into my lungs.

“Your form is messy,” Nick says as I struggle to regain my composure. I lean over to spit Flood rot in the corner but thankfully nothing else comes up. “And close the knife. You’re going to put your eye out.”

Grudgingly, I do what he says. “I thought you were going to kill me!”

“Then don’t be so easy to kill.” I groan. “And put your mask back up. If it was anyone other than me following you, you’d have a lot of explaining to do.” He’s right, I guess—no mask means either I’m infected and there’s no point or I don’t care if I get sick and bring it back to everyone else. I shove the mask over my nose and crouch to gather the map. He steps on the corner so I can’t. “More explaining to do than now, anyway. What are you doing?”

“Why were you following me?” I snap.

“Because you made yourself easy to follow. What are you doing?”

“I was trying something.”

“Too vague.”

“I’m not a double agent, if that’s what you’re thinking. Give me the map.”

He doesn’t let up. “You can never be too careful.”

I sneer. “You really think the Angels would use Seraph to spy on a bunch of queers that’ll starve out by summer? Yeah, right. The map.”

Nick moves his foot off the map. I fold it up and shove it in my pocket.