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!”