Something trying to tear its way out of his skull. Something has torn out of his skull. The pain drives his vision to a single white point, and everything in his throat chokes on its way out. Bile floods his throat until he splutters for air, and it comes out his nose. He tears down his mask, and the same black shit falls out of his mouth, splattering his chest and pants.

The nest. The church. The Flood. Seraph is making the Flood bloom, the virus he took into his body when he kissed the nest at Reformation. No. No, Benji is too distracted, he’s lost the Graces, it can’t be him.

It’s the beast. Taking Benji’s powers and making a mockery of them.

Nick has been away from the Angels for too long. The virus has gotten weak in his head, away from other carriers, dormant and isolated all those months. And that means he has time.

He drags the Angel’s broken body over his, wearing the mangled corpse like armor as he forces himself up to his knees—despite the pain, Jesus Christ the pain—just high enough to see over the edge of the wall. His hands tremble, little pieces of bone jutting out from under his skin. Weakness can only be an excuse for so long. Breathe, in, out. Pull the gun closer, settle the stock against his shoulder. Breathe.

On the lawn, Benji is on all fours, wings tucked in close, shoulders down like a cowed dog even as he gnashes his teeth at the beast towering over him. The twisted thing flaps its broken limbs and howls.

Nick was an Angel. He was made for war.

Breathe.

Benji lunges, tearing a bright streak from the Grace’s stomach and exposing a pit of pulsing muscle. A string of what looks like intestines catches in his teeth, unraveling a nest of pink organs and yellow fat before the beast grabs Benji by the neck and smashes him into the broken tangle of crosses like a ragdoll.

The Flood sinks its claws into the empty space of Nick’s skull. The wound on his face pulses with his heartbeat. He remembers how Benji talked to the Graces without ever speaking, how he could barely move his lips, and they would understand.

For the first time in a long time, Nick puts his faith in something and prays.

Benji. Can you hear me?

Benji makes an awful whimpering sound and pulls himself from the wreckage, splinters falling off his wings in a chorus. The Grace screams a war cry.

He prays, I’m here. I’m ready.

Benjamin

Chapter 35

Sometimes the martyrs speak of a place beyond us—beyond the understanding of those here on this Earth. As my faith wavers and wanes, most days, I wonder. Is it Heaven? Could it be?

—Sister Kipling’s notes on the Flood