Hell Followed with Us(83)

He’s—

“Notice anything different?” he giggles.

He’s been reinstated as a death-squad soldier.

I hate him. I hate him so much. Nick should have shot him when he had the chance. He should have killed him; he should have put his brains in the ground like the Angels did to Dad.

“This is for you,” Theo says. “Because of you.” He pulls my face down to kiss what’s left of my nose. “I can’t wait to show New Nazareth how much I love you.”

I love you should never be so terrifying.

Please let the Watch be out there. Please.

“Are we ready?” Mom says, sweeping to her feet in a rush of silver.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Theo replies.

We fall into formation, Mom, Sister Kipling, and Squad Devotion all. Theo’s hand rests on my arm as I step onto the lawn before the road to the gate, squinting against the brilliant light of late morning.

“How?” I ask Theo, because it’s the only word I can get out of me that isn’t a flurry of fuck you fuck you fuck you.

“You’re home,” he says. “I need to be by your side.”

This is what he’s always wanted. I came back, and he gets his dreams handed to him in a bundle of white fabric. They would look better stained with blood, the contents of his skull dripping down those perfect robes.

Keep it together.

We turn a corner, coming from the trees lining the path, to face the gate. Three crosses draped in cloth have been erected beside the entrance. The entire population of New Nazareth has turned out to see me off, gathered desperately around Reverend Brother Ward’s hastily constructed pulpit.

The hush is instant. The cloth of the crosses, red like Jesus’s blood, flutters in the breeze coming off the river. The gate is cracked open the smallest bit, waiting for Mom’s word, castinga shadow over the crosses complete with the silhouettes of barbed-wire coils and wall guards. It smells like the river, rotting bodies, and the sweat of hundreds of Angels pressed together in devotion.

I am a broken record, begging: Please.

And there are Graces. New Nazareth keeps at least a dozen beasts for war, and now they’re here for me, shivering beside their handlers. Their emotions come in like the tide. Hunger. Anger. Pain. The things everyone would feel, really, if put in their places.

Look at the terrible, beautiful things the Flood has created. Three bodies lashed together, teetering on jagged stilts as ribs break through their skin. A grotesquely stretched thing with tentacles crawling out of their chest and throat. A tank made from dozens of the dead, eye sockets and wailing mouths opening like wounds. Old flesh, yellow fat, pink organs, torn edges, and broken bones.

I whisper to them, “I am here,” and they all swivel to look. They look, just like I made the Grace in the ambush look.

I whisper, “I’m here.” I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Theo skims his fingers down my shoulder as we walk. “It’s okay,” he says. “Not much longer. And then we can begin.” He laughs. “Our glorious work. Our God-given work. Your work.”

He sounds like every other Angel. Holy words tumbling over his lips, rot coming up sick. How could I ever have thought he was different?

We reach the crowd.

We’re swallowed whole. Squad Devotion is the only thing between us and the faithful. Reverend Brother Ward cries, “Our blessed Seraph!” and a cheer rises up like fire from Hell.

The long streams of cloth on the crosses snap in the breeze. I take my place in front of them, shaking myself out, spreading my wings. Theo laughs in awe. Sister Kipling keeps her head down, Reverend Brother Ward’s jaw drops, and Mom just smiles as if the light of God is radiating from her.

I stare out over a crowd of murderers. Of slaughterers. Of people who think the only way to Heaven is fucking genocide. I want to burn this world to the ground, and I peek at the buildings beyond the wall for the telltale glint of a scope.

“Friends!” Reverend Brother Ward calls. “We are gathered here today in the presence of God to celebrate not only the blessing of our warrior, but also in a celebration of love and life!”

That—no. That doesn’t make any sense. Theo watches Brother Ward with the expression of a little boy who’s been told to wait patiently for his present but can hardly keep himself still. Mom clasps her hands, perfectly placid and calm.

I’m missing something. Something important.

Keep it together, Benji. Breathe. Everything is fine: Nick got the message, he understands it, he’s going to make it in time. Everything will work out.

If it doesn’t, I just have to tear this all down myself.

I don’t think I can.

And suddenly I know I can’t, because Reverend Brother Ward says, “We are here to celebrate the joining together of two people, two families, in holy matrimony.”

WHAT THE FUCK.

“God brought Theodore and Esther together,” Ward says. “They arrived just days after Father Clevenger gave the order to bring our Angels home, and God has raised them together into the wonderful young people you see before you today.” No, no, no; this isn’t happening. “They are warriors, and martyrs, and have made so many sacrifices for us. We should consider ourselves lucky to witness this here today.”

A terrible feeling sinks into what’s left of my guts. It takes me a moment to recognize it, but—it’s dysphoria, worse than I’ve ever felt. Worse than when I was wearing that dress, worse than when Mom said my deadname. At least then I knew what people thought when they looked at me. Now my body is something else, something I don’t understand, something I can’t quite grasp. Do I have any part of me that still marks me as female? They have to be able to find it in something, so they can assure themselves that there’s a woman under all this. Like there’s a woman trapped in this flesh instead of a boy being this flesh.