Hell Followed with Us(35)

I thought he was going to kill me. If not by breaking my head against the wall of my dorm, then by telling Mom what I had said. The church wouldn’t have culled me but, God, what would they have done instead?

“Okay,” Theo amends. Every word comes out slowly, like he’s picking them carefully, like I’m a wild animal he’s trying to keep from snapping. “Okay. Yeah, I deserve it a lot. I shouldn’t have laid a hand on you. It wasn’t right. And when you left, I realized that. I was so scared, babe, I thought someone found out what you’d said, I thought you’d been taken away.” He’s deteriorating, picking up speed. “This is a sign, isn’t it? Finding you here? I’ve been praying for a second chance, and I have it now, so please. Please, I’m so sorry.”

Five seconds have been up for a long time. My stomach burns with Flood and Seraph, and so does my ring finger. It feels naked. The knife falls.

I don’t know what’s going on below us, and I don’t want to know. It’s just noise and terror. My world has shrunk down to Theo on the ground in front of me, like it always does.

I say, “What are you doing here?”

“The pilgrimage was the only way to get into the city to find you,” Theo says.

“To find me.”

“To find you.” He moves closer, his eyes catching mine and refusing to let go. “I was wrong. And I know I don’t deserve it, but I wanted to say I’m sorry for what I did. Because I love you.”

I love him too. God, I still do, I still do.

I bare my teeth. “I’m not going back with you.”

“I know,” Theo says. “I came here to follow you. I couldn’t let the city take you alone. If it wants you, it has to take me too.”

The blade of the knife bites into the carpet at my side. “What if I don’t believe you?”

Because I don’t. Being an Angel was Theo’s calling. Being a soldier was everything he ever wanted. His father is the general of New Nazareth, and his mother was martyred on Judgment Day. He comes from a line of missionaries and holy warriors. He wanted to be just like them, even if he choked on it, even if it killed him. When he was forced out of the death squads, it broke him. All I could do was watch as his faith got infected and bring him food when he, praying in a fever as if that would sweat out the horrible mistake he’d made, wouldn’t leave the damn chapel for days. What that mistake was, I never learned. Mom said it was not a wife’s place to ask, and I should start practicing for that.

And leaving everything to follow me into the city…

“You can refuse to believe me all you want,” Theo says, “but I’m here now, and that has to stand for something.”

I hate that it does.

I lunge for him.

He yelps and tries to scramble back, and I grab him by the front of his Angel whites. His eyes widen in terror as he struggles for air.

Good. Let him fight for it. Let him know what it feels like.

Beneath us, the church falls to pieces. The front door shatters as the Grace rams through and stumbles into the sunlight; the gunfire is so loud my ears ring; everything hurts, and I am coming apart.

I kiss him.

Theo’s mouth immediately opens for me. His hands find mine like he’s going to drown if he doesn’t hold on. It’s just like it always was, he feels exactly the same, like nothing has changed at all.

I pull back just enough that our lips brush when I speak. He holds on tighter.

“I’m not contagious,” I say. “Promise.”

“Shit,” Theo whimpers. “Benji.”

“Do exactly what I say, and I’ll come back for you.” I am so weak for him. I love him so, so much. “I have some stuff to take care of.”



* * *





Afterward. After I put my mask back up, and everything is quiet.

Downstairs reminds me of Judgment Day, or what I imagine it was like beyond the New Nazareth walls. The carpet is tacky with blood, and the air tastes of death. Bodies cuddle the pews. The nonbeliever lying at the base of the altar stares at the ceiling, mouth open like God took out their tongue.

The Watch didn’t kill every Angel. It was impossible to block every exit without spreading ourselves too thin, leaving ourselves vulnerable.

But still, there are a lot of bodies.

The giant Grace, the nest of corpses, whines pathetically, a low moan that trembles the wood under my feet.

“Does it have to do that?” Cormac says as he saws off the last strip of skin holding an ear to an Angel’s skull. Blood streaks up his wrists. “Christ.”

I whisper, quietly enough that nobody else can hear, that it’s okay, that they don’t have to worry. Some of the mouths settle, but others continue to call mournfully, and there’s not much I can do about that. Cormac grumbles and keeps moving.

Nick counts the dead. Aisha runs outside to throw up. Salvador sits in a pew, knees tucked up to xyr chest. Faith stands near the back wall with her hands clasped in front of her mouth. And I’m on the shallow stairs leading up to the altar, by the nonbeliever’s bare feet, between little snakes of meat trailing down to touch the pews and Reverend Brother Morrison’s body. I stare at the balcony, trying to keep my heart from tearing out of my ribs.

He left New Nazareth for me.

He still loves me.