Hell Followed with Us(80)
“Better,” I say, and it is awful.
Theo dunks the towel in the water, picking up my head so he can clean the black sludge off my neck and chin. His fingers trace my jaw. “Good. Sister Kipling says it’s all over. I swear, it looked like one of Dad’s old zombie movies. Did you know he used to be a horror buff before all this? I think it’s why he likes the Graces so much.” He squeezes the towel, and gross water splatters onto the floor. “I think I’m starting to see the appeal.”
He stretches out one of my wings. He has to step back a few paces to get its full length, huffing a little under its weight. Once it’s laid along the floor, he starts working through the feathers: smoothing them out, picking at pieces of skin trapped between them, preening. The wings are white like everything else in the room, but the color doesn’t make up for how ugly they are, like the rest of the white things I’ve ever known. There is nothing smooth or beautiful about them, the way angel’s wings are in paintings. They’re fleshy and twisted, the kind of wings a human body would make if forced to build them out of materials it wasn’t meant to have. Six of them, giant and sickly and useless, only good for being tucked up against my sides.
And for being a symbol. From Mom’s letter to the faithful: For when Seraph spreads its six wings and screams, it strikes the fear of God into the hearts of all who witness.
“You look tired,” he says. I am. “But if it means anything, I’m proud of you.”
He leans down to my face. He’s so small now. I used to be a few inches shorter than him but even down here, curled up on the floor, I am menacingly large.
He kisses my forehead anyway.
“And your mom is too,” he says. “Even if she’s not good at showing it.”
I rasp, having to force every word. “I don’t want to hear it from her.”
Theo sighs. “I know. I’m sorry.”
I reach for his bandaged hand, my claws enveloping his entirely. He undoes the strips of gauze for me, letting them dangle to the floor.
It’s still recognizable as a hand. Five fingers, a palm, a wrist. But it looks like it was run through a wood chipper and sewn back together. Pieces of bones jut out—some breaking the skin, some just pressing up against it like they’re straining to escape—with muscle and discolored flesh holding it together.
I did that?
Me?
The spark inside him burns, an ember of Seraph’s fire inside us both. So many little fires, scattered past these walls, past everything.
The Flood should have split his skull the way it did that brother, the way it did that little girl. It should have cracked him open too, Seraph’s growing pains rippling outward with an uncontrollable roar. Grief is easier to fake when you’re not allowed to show it in the first place. I’ll be glad to be rid of him.
Not yet. Not yet, I keep saying, not yet, not yet.
I get one arm under me. The other. My feet. Theo steps back, holding out a hand as if he could steady me. I waver on all fours for a moment, breathing hard. This is where my body is meant to be—Graces often stay on all fours to steady themselves, and my proportions have shifted enough that this feels natural. But it isn’t enough.
I stand.
My full height is immense. I loom over Theo, a snarled tree of flesh and bone, my wings blocking the light and shrouding us both in shadow. Theo stares up at me, eyes wide and glittering with awe. The bucket hits the ground. Water spills across the floor.
“God,” he whispers. “God.”
In the two-way mirror behind him stands the creature that lurked among the trees. The creature that slammed me through the skylight of the student union. The creature that peered at me through the window of this very room. A long tail made of sinew and spines curls at my feet. My face is unrecognizable, my eyes clouded white and the skin pulled tight against the skull. The only thing saying it’s still me is the open-wound mouth full of fangs, each tooth a finger long. I am a charred corpse wreathed in wings, nothing but armor, sharp edges, and feathers.
Hell has followed us onto Earth, and I am the monster that has brought it forth.
“See?” Theo puts a hand on my stomach. “You’re beautiful.”
* * *
The rest of the week is a blur of exhaustion, tests, and wondering if I can have a panic attack in a body like this. White walls, Sister Kipling’s office, exam rooms, over and over. The health center is on lockdown. Soldiers plaster massive sheets over the glass walls of the first floor. I have been cut off from the outside world, and the outside world has been cut off from me.
Every time the sheets flutter and I can see outside, I want to slam myself against the glass. Where is Nick? Is he okay? I don’t want to be alone here.
I want them to be okay.
Throughout the tests, Sister Kipling does not say a word to me. She takes vitals, checks her notes, and won’t even look at me.
“Meet me alone,” I say to her. Her eyes widen, and she hurries off.
Theo barely leaves my side, and Mom is almost as clingy. The general comes around a few times, and Theo’s excitement wavers when the man wanders too close. They have the same facial features except time has turned the general’s cruel. The only solace Theo finds is in me and in the lab techs he follows around like a duckling. He hangs on their every word. They share notes on the intricacies of my power: how I can bend Graces to my will, coax to life even the smallest viral load, and shatter a death-squad soldier or member of the clergy in an instant if I just put my mind to it.