Hell Followed with Us(55)

“Are you all right?” Sadaf asks me, her pale pink dress splayed out in the ashes while Sarmat helps her last patient stand. Lila measures out a length of bandage. In the moonlight, with her rescued medical kit and bloody hands, Sadaf looks more like an angel than any Angel ever has.

“I’m fine,” I say, which I’ve been lying about all night.

“Do you want a looking over?”

“No.” A wave of sick clenches my throat, and I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to keep from heaving. I choke out, “I’m good.”

“If you say so. Also, tell Aisha to take a break, please? If you see her? I’m worried.” She nervously picks crusted bodily fluids out from under her nails. “You need some rest too. My professional medical opinion is for you to get some shut-eye.”

She’s right. I can at least try to sleep this off.

The inside of the bank sprawls with rough carpet, dusty mahogany desks, and gold accents. Micah sleeps behind a fake plant. A girl named Zarah cuddles a blanket as she waits for her girlfriend. I hop the front desk, taking a moment to steady myself once I’m on the other side, and open the door to the hall of offices.

Erin is there, in a little nook under the window.

Finding her alone in the dark just isn’t right. She’s hunched, hidden in the folds of a charred shawl, braids falling around her face. In middle school, I’d carry hair ties for girls who needed them, and even now I reach for them around my wrist.

“Hey,” I whisper, quietly so as not to scare her.

Her head jerks up. “Fuck,” she says. I’m not sure what’s more shocking—the broken look in her eyes or the fact she just said fuck. “Sorry. Hey, Benji.”

A tear slips out from the corner of her eye. I sit on the floor beside her, our knees touching.

“Sorry,” she says again. “I should be out there helping, but here I am.”

“I’m just glad you’re in one piece,” I say, tapping my fingers against my thigh to keep the sick down.

“I hate that one piece is all we can hope for these days.”

“You need anything?”

“I sound like such a child,” she says. “A hug? Nick isn’t great at them. No offense, but.”

I brace myself, and Erin just falls against my chest. She’s…so small. She has such a big personality and a few inches on me, but God, she’s so soft and frail. She’s shaking with fear, adrenaline, and exhaustion, like we all are.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

No. No, I should be the one saying that. I should be thanking her, Nick, and the ALC. For this, and the bobby pins, and the hands holding me upright, and the people I saved and who saved me. Those are the things I would burn down the Angels for.

It’s the least I could do, considering what I’ve brought down on them.

I wonder where Nick is right now. What I could say to him now. If I could find the words to apologize to him, after all this.

Erin pulls back just enough that our temples knock together. Her hands rest on my arms, where I rolled up my sleeves against the heat, showing the ashes and angry red marks that weren’t there earlier. Marks that the fire could have put there, but I know they didn’t.

“Does it hurt?” she asks.

I shake my head. She doesn’t need to worry about me.



* * *





I shut myself in a copy room at the back of the hall. There’s still smoke on the air, seeping in through cracks, windows, and doors. I lie on the floor and stare at the ugly tile ceiling. In the silence, there’s nothing to focus on but my burned skin and nausea.

Before I fall asleep, I think I see feathers on the edge of my vision; I think I see something strange.



* * *





Eventually, the door opens. I don’t know when. The sound drags me out from sleep, and I look, just a little bit, thinking maybe it’s Erin coming in to check on me or more feathers lurking in the shadows.

Nick stands in the doorway.

He peers in for a moment, awkward and stiff, and leaves.

Those red marks climb up my arms, skin dying in rivers along what used to be veins. They make the heat blisters stand out on my hands, looking like something trying to erupt.

Seraph pushing out, the Flood pushing out, hungry.



* * *





Later. The door opens. The door closes.

My eyes open just a crack. Nick stands in the room, unsure, doing that tapping motion again—tp-tp tp-tp—over and over, until it’s not enough, and he violently shakes out his hands. He tips forward a little bit, back a little bit, forward, back, and soon his expression doesn’t look as pained. Still hurting but not unbearable. Another shake of his hands. A breath with eyes squeezed shut.

I say nothing. Not just because I’m pretending to be asleep, but because I know this is something private. He’s gone to such lengths to hide this side of himself—the side that flaps his hands and rocks until he’s together again—that admitting I’m a witness to it feels wrong.

But I do make sure he’s in one piece. That’s all we can ask for.

He is, eventually. His breathing evens. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and primly fixes his bobby pins. He stands with his feet firmly on the floor.