He told me to be good.

To never become the monster the Angels want me to be, for evil begets evil begets evil.

The sound of boots slows and stops. My legs fail me. I stumble to the ground, pressing my palms to the burning road.

Be good. Make them suffer. Being good means being quiet, obedient, turning away from the virus’s power the same way Eve should have turned away from the apple. Making them suffer means seizing the Grace and taking the Angels down with me in a blaze of flesh and fury.

I could stop this. I could whisper across this street and make the Angels regret ever laying their hands on me.

I almost reach out for the Grace.

But.

Dad died holding my face—his blood smeared down my tongue, across my cheeks, matted in my hair—and begging me to be good.

He’s not waiting for me. I can’t keep running like this. I am so, so tired.

Good wins out.

“I’ll be good. I’ll be good, I’ll be good.” I say it out loud like that will make failure feel any better, as if my insides aren’t screaming to burn the Angels in hellfire, as if there’s any way I could obey all of Dad’s words at once. “I’ll be good, O Lord, lend me Your strength, lead and guide me—”

Hot liquid trickles over my chin, and I wipe my mouth. My fingers come away black and red.

A pair of heavy boots appears in the corner of my vision, wreathed by stained white robes. I stare at my hand, the horizon, the rising sun.

Is this really what He wants? Is this really His plan?

Brother Hutch says, “I’m sorry,” and he almost sounds like he means it.

I make an awful keening sound deep in my throat. It’s the closest I’ve come to crying in years. Past Brother Hutch and past the Grace, the river rushes, perfect blue and clear and clean; the mountains of Acresfield County shine with green and gold; the black wings of carrion birds glimmer in the morning sun.

I pretend Dad is out there. I tell him I was good and to go on without me. I tell him I’ll meet up with him eventually, one day, maybe, I promise.

Brother Hutch says, “It’s time to come home.”

What do Angels believe? As true believers, our priority is to serve the LORD. We know salvation comes in service to God, in carrying out His final command. We call ourselves ANGELS to proclaim our truth in servitude.

—The Angelic Movement official website

It’s time to come home.

Brother Hutch holds out his hand to me. The hand that clasped Mom’s in prayer, the hand that pulled the trigger on Dad.

Home means going back to New Nazareth. Back to Theo, back to Mom. Every Angel in New Nazareth will fall to their knees and beg for my blessings. Theo will take me back as his betrothed, like he didn’t spit at me and call me a lying, ungrateful bitch. Mom will kiss my cheeks, pretending she doesn’t notice my boys’ clothes and short hair, and then she’ll slam me in an isolation cell until the Flood turns me into a monster.