Into Seraph. Into a six-winged beast burning with holy fire, leading Graces and the Flood to war, carving a path to Heaven through the bodies of nonbelievers.

I don’t take his hand.

I don’t want to go home.

My stomach seizes, and I vomit onto the road. It’s yellow, red, and black; sour and hot all the way up my throat. Around me—click, click, clack, a choir of safeties coming off. But the Angels won’t shoot. They won’t kill me. Imagine what the faithful would do to the soldier that did. He’d be crucified. He’d be cut open, and he would die watching maggots squirming in his intestines.

“Hey!” Brother Hutch snaps at the soldiers. “Stand down, now!”

I heave again. Nothing comes up except acid. Brother Hutch hums softly, and it’s such a kind sound, it’s terrifying.

“There we go,” he murmurs. He rubs small circles between my shoulders. “It’s okay.”

My words come out in an unsteady wheeze, bubbling with saliva. “Don’t touch me.”

“All right,” Brother Hutch says. “I understand. I heard what your father called you. Ben, was it? I’ll call you Ben if that’s what you want. Your mom is worried about you, Ben. She wants to make sure you come home.”

Mom’s not worried about me. She’s worried about salvation.

I say, “Rot in Hell.”

That does it. Brother Hutch snarls and hauls me up—not enough to stand or even get onto my knees, just enough to look him in the eyes. His bloodshot, beady eyes.

“How about a deal?” he says. I try to pull back, but he holds me tight. “I’ll give you a choice. You can come with us the easy way, or we can take you by force. You can come to your senses, or I can break your legs.” He’s smiling. It makes his face shine in the ugliest way. A mask can never hide that. “It’s up to you. How do you want to do this?”

There’s something on his cheekbone. A splatter, strangely soft and pink. A little piece of meat.

A little piece of Dad.

I spit in his face.

Brother Hutch howls. Watery Flood rot—saliva mixed with my own putrefying insides—drips into his eyes before he can wipe it away, and I’m backhanded so hard my vision explodes with sparks. My hearing dissolves into a high-pitched squeal. I barely catch myself before my head hits the road.

“It’s not contagious,” a bridge guard says, yanking Brother Hutch’s hands away from his face. “It isn’t contagious, brother, Sister Kipling said—”

I’m kicked onto my back. Hot asphalt burns through my shirt. Loose gravel digs into my shoulder blades. The heel of a boot pins me to the road and grinds into my stomach like it’s trying to snuff out a cigarette butt.

I know the man standing on me. The scar across his nose, his small eyes, the wrinkles digging into his forehead.

“Steve,” I whisper, as if using his actual name instead of “Brother Collins” will make one of the Lord’s holy murderers any kinder. “Steven. It’s me. You know me.”