Hell Followed with Us(85)

Host 12—Dominion, a failed version of Seraph, moves like a breathing thing.

Theo’s skin begins to boil, folding over on itself and expanding. His robes shred as twisted wings erupt in a spray of blood. An Angel stumbles too close and Theo grabs them by the arm and pulls them against him.

Into him.

His flesh melts into something else, consuming the body whole, bones snapping out from the skin and overflowing with tumors, eyes, and teeth. He grabs another Angel, slams them into himself, and explodes with organs and broken limbs.

He smiles, a mouthful of fangs, Flood rot weeping from open wounds.

Dominion is nothing like Seraph. Put together from spare parts, fingers reaching out from the skull, eyes opening across his neck and shoulders. His six wings melt into one another with shifting ropes of tissue, excess arms and legs dripping from his sides. Blond hair sticks out from bulging tumors and spikes of bone erupting from his jaw.

“You thought I’d let you mess this up?” Theo rasps. That’s not his voice. It’s nothing like it. “I believed in you, Benji, but there are consequences for your actions. I had to be careful. I had to be sure.”

I grab for the Flood to stop him, but it slips through my fingers.

No, not slipped.

Pulled.

“Did you really think I was going to let you ruin this?”

With a scream like metal on metal, or maybe someone being torn apart, Dominion seizes me by the skull and drags me down into the culling fields.



* * *





Floating. Drowning.

My lungs burn. I can’t open my eyes. I claw my way up toward air, but my body is so small, and my limbs are so weak. I kick and struggle, and when my lungs are about to collapse, I burst through the surface.

A warm wind blows through the trees, sending whirls of autumn leaves flying off twisted branches. I’ve surfaced in the red stream. It’s so freakishly deep, it’s flooded so much that the world is a flat plane of blood water. Trees and buildings jut out of the surface like the bones of the boy smeared into the road. Dozens of bodies hang from the trees. I recognize every single one. Sister Kipling, her face gray and bloated; Dad, a bloody mess; every single member of Squad Calvary. But how do I know their faces? I don’t, I can’t—

I struggle to shore, or what I think is shore, and find ground under my feet. My skin is stained, water dripping off my fingers and chin.

My hands are human. Not Seraph’s. Not mine.

Behind me, a cough.

I turn. Theo drags himself onto shore, struggling for air on his hands and knees. He’s just a boy. No Dominion, no Flood. Just a pale boy with pink lips and bright blue eyes.

Eventually, he gets his breath.

“You lied,” he whimpers, and stands—Leviticus 20:27, They shall be stoned with stones; their blood shall be upon them—clutching a jagged rock.





There is not much to say about the tragedy of Squad Calvary, except that we should have seen the sin in that boy from the start, and that it was an unfortunate failure that my son will not repeat again.

—The general of New Nazareth



“What the hell is that?”

Faith’s elbow strikes Nick’s ribs, and if she keeps moving like this, he’s going to have to tie her down to get her off the wall. She’s completely red with blood; head wounds bleed like a motherfucker, but the pain hasn’t hit her yet. She’s on the walkway with wild eyes, demanding, “What the hell, what the hell.”

“You good?” Aisha demands. She doesn’t move from where she’s keeping a steady stream of fire raining down on the lawn of New Nazareth. She’s not allowed to be distracted, no matter how much she’s shaking, no matter that she saw a bullet hit Faith in the head and now Faith is down and screaming. Her voice cracks when she says, “Nick, is she good?”

“She’s fine.” He holds Faith by the shoulders, by the jaw, trying to get her back to her senses. “Stop moving.”

He’s keeping it together. He saw Brother Clairborne down on the lawn, those blue eyes and terrifyingly handsome face, and he’s keeping it together, so why can’t they? She’s supposed to be a goddamn soldier.

Nick bites down on his lip so hard it bleeds, and he drags Faith’s arm across his shoulders. She’s still making terrible noises. He draws down a shutter across the part of his mind that registers it as heartbreaking. Just because he can shut himself down—just because he can cram all the terror into a bottle, postpone the meltdown until he can explode without anyone getting hurt—doesn’t mean others should be forced to do the same.

“All right,” Nick whispers, pulling Faith close to him. The sweat, the skin on skin, the gunpowder, the ringing in his ears, and the weight of his rifle slamming against his back with every step, it will destroy him as soon as it is over, but right now he is holding it together. His job is to hold it together. “Up you go. Come on.”

He pulls her down the stairs. The bottom, at the gate, is a terrifying opening—just a cramped space between the gate itself and the bloodbath—and Nick pauses there, waiting, until a Grace barrels past. Then he’s pulling her through the gap, and she’s crying into Nick’s shoulder because the pain has hit, and it’s clicked that she just got shot in the head. She collapses.

Sadaf catches her before she hits the ground. Sadaf’s pink hijab is a mess of stains. Blood, sweat, dirt, God knows what else.