Hell Followed with Us(27)
Everyone turns. Cormac glares.
“Benji, actually,” is the only thing I can think of to say. “What’s, uh, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Faith says. “C’mon, sit.”
I take the spot next to Salvador because it’s as far away from Cormac as I can get. I can’t handle him right now. I barely slept last night, even after Nick and I got back from the rescue mission. I kept having to go out back to throw up, and I saw the Grace every time I closed my eyes, and the prayer for the dead always came back, sacrilege poised on my lips, O Lord…
I’m getting sicker.
“Are we just waiting on Nick?” I ask.
Salvador blows out a breath. “Yep. Some shit went down this morning, so we’re not pressed. He’ll get here when he gets here.”
I frown. “Some shit?”
“Yeah,” Aisha mutters. “Some shit.” Faith skims a hand down her arm the way you’d comfort a little sister. Cormac kicks his feet up on the table and keeps staring at me.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there at breakfast,” Faith whispers to Aisha.
Aisha ducks her eyes. “It’s fine.”
It looks like everyone has let the funeral incident go—Erin made it clear Alex and I had both lost someone and weren’t doing our best—but Cormac. With Seraph getting into my head, making everything burn, it might be best if I just stay away. Even though it would be really satisfying to punch Cormac in the face. Did his parents actually own a country club? Figures.
It doesn’t come to that. Nick walks into the room like he just crawled out of bed. His hair is falling out of its pins, and his knuckles are white around the bead lizard. This is the Nick I saw lowering his head to the Vanguard, whispering, Okay, okay, the one pinned under the Grace—not the Nick that slammed me into the bodega shelves and knocked me to the floor.
We don’t say anything. We just look at him.
He stops in front of us and in a second, he’s back. “Too quiet in here,” he says, rolling beads between his fingers. “What’s wrong.”
Cormac points to me. “I told you, I’m not working with him.”
My face burns, blood rushing to the surface, a Seraph burn. It’s glorious, getting angry so quickly. Maybe the Flood has given me something in return for my body: the anger I never let myself have as a little girl, the rage I swallowed down every day of my life. It feels like it’s slotting into place where it was meant to be all along. Under my mask, I bite down hard on my cheek.
Nick blinks slowly at Cormac, unimpressed. “Yes, I heard you the first time.”
“Then what the fuck.” As Cormac talks, I suck on my teeth, fingers digging into the armrest. “You saw what he did to Alex.”
Salvador hums, “I think you’re just jealous they’re paying more attention to him than you.”
“Oh my God, their boyfriend just died,” Aisha says. “Leave them out of it.”
“Guys,” Faith cuts in. “Come on.”
I can’t help myself. “I’m right here, asshole.”
Cormac gets up from his chair, vibrating with anger. “You tried to kill them!”
“They tried to crack my head open!”
Nick hooks his foot under the edge of the coffee table and hoists it up. It flips with a terrible crash, sending books, papers, and pens scattering across the floor. I yelp. Faith swears, cords of muscle standing out in her neck.
“That’s enough,” Nick snarls. My skin prickles with excitement. The noise, the shouting—I could get used to this. I could leave the old Benji behind, the one who cowered behind Mom’s robes and fell to my knees on the bridge. “All of you.”
Cormac sinks back into the chair. Aisha looks away. I take a long, deep breath, expanding my chest until my lungs ache and then letting it out slowly through my nose. The heat settles into a comfortable place in my chest, right below my ribs, under the sternum. Among flesh, bone, and organs. Where everything should be.
“Thank you,” Nick says. He primly readjusts the nose of his mask. I wish I could read underneath it, see what’s going on there, figure out what he’s hiding from us. “We have something important to talk about.”
We nod, suddenly one group again, pulled together for what we’re here to do. Nick has that effect on us. I allow myself to admit that it is beautiful, the same way he is, even if I still want to dig my nail into my ring finger.
Nick leans against an overstuffed armchair, lording over us.
“In four days,” he says, “a pilgrimage of Angels will be heading to Reformation Faith Evangelical Church for an initiation ceremony.” Wait, he’s not actually considering—“After intercepting papers concerning the details last week, and considering the trouble we’ve had with the Vanguard, it’s in our best interest to intervene. If anyone has any objections, speak now.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“It’s decided,” Nick says.
In less than a week, we are going to Reformation—where the death squad was taking me, the heart of the Angelic Movement in Acheson, and one of the worst places I have ever been—to kill as many Angels as we can.
* * *
The next four days slog by but pass far too quickly. I wake up every day sluggish and crash every night exhausted.