Did they even think about this for a second? Were they so ignorant that they thought I’d take this lying down? They know what they made! I’m done begging for a scrap of respect—I am done with those who enact suffering, and I am done with the sons of bitches who stand back and let it happen.

CRACK.

A gate guard screams. We look up just in time to see a man topple from the sniper perch and hit the road with a heavy, dull thud.

Thank God, thank God, thank God.

The Watch is here, the Watch is here.

Chapter 33

For in the book of Revelation, we see: We are God’s chosen to break the seals, to bring forth holy war, to cleanse the earth and pave the way for Him. We shall do His will and bring the end times down upon the world, the end times, o LORD! The end times, o LORD!

—Sister Mackenzie’s Sunday school lesson

This is how New Nazareth falls: in the wails of Graces and stench of blood, the same screams that must have come when Sodom and Gomorrah collapsed under the weight of their sins. Those lights stretching to the horizon, burning under my skin, they all blaze for me. The Graces standing guard at the gate brighten and erupt with fury. They surge forward like the real flood that God brought down in rage, grabbing limbs and heads, tearing flesh from bone. The taste of blood fills my mouth like it’s my own.

This is your chance, I whisper. They are the ones who hurt you.

If they believe in judgment, let them feel it.

The people around me drop like the Lord has cut their strings. Watch snipers aim for the center mass of the soldiers standing around me, and the ones too far to get a clear shot at my body clutch their stomachs and skulls as I whisper, “To me,” and coax the Flood out of their cells and into their bones. Reverend Brother Ward shatters the same way his brothers had at the riverbank. Brothers and sisters I grew up with crumble. Mom falls into the grass and blood streams over her delicate fingers.

And above me, on the walls of the New Nazareth gate, are the same black forms that saved me weeks ago. The Watch. My people.

Then Sister Kipling falls.

Two shots, high and hollow: different than the low chatter of rifles, a sudden wrongness that makes the Flood slip through my fingers. A pair of dark red spots bloom on her chest. She blinks, like she isn’t quite sure what’s happening, and she stumbles to her knees, grabbing one of the crosses on the way down. Her fingers snag the cloth, and it tears from the nails holding it in place.

That wasn’t the Watch. That wasn’t even an Angel soldier, it couldn’t have been. That was—

That was—