Nick catches my arm—his fingers on my sleeve, enough that I feel them but no more—and murmurs, “On your signal.”

“On my signal,” I repeat and step into the guts of the church.

“Your love must be strong enough that it becomes fearsome! It is fear that brings the unfaithful to the Lord. It will be fear that saves the nonbelievers. It will be fear that teaches heretics the truth of our Almighty God.”

The back hallways are claustrophobic. Dust cakes the carpets, and cobwebs hang in the stone ribs holding up the ceiling. A rumble shakes the walls as those trapped here on Judgment Day groan in pain. I almost feel Theo pulling me through the corridor, smothering his laughter, glimmers of happiness shining at the corners of his eyes. The memory is beautiful and terrifying.

Focus. I feel out the doors in the dark. I’m not looking for this one, or the next one either. The offices are back here; one of these doors leads to the sacristy, where the priests prepare for service. A kitchen, the little rooms where Sunday school was held. None are what I need.

“Fear will always be what pushes sinners toward God because we are broken things that do not deserve His love. The first step to wisdom is to fear the Lord, to tremble in the face of His truth. And you! Oh, you, my children, will be His terror made flesh.”

I find the right one: the back door to the second-floor pews. There are never any people on the second floor since they are kept empty for the brothers in Heaven. They receive a seat, and that is the most thought Angels will ever give to the dead. I yank open the door.

Sound hits like a solid wall, like the reverend holding you underwater for your baptism until your lungs burn and your vision blurs at the edges. Baptism in drowning, baptism in blood, Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

Up the stairs, slowly, quietly.

I’m on the balcony.

The sanctuary of Reformation Faith Evangelical Church is the belly of the whale. Stained glass glimmers in every color of the rainbow, muted by dust and cut through with white where pieces have broken from the pane. The rafters are ribs, each wood beam another bone reaching up toward the spine. The pews below are full of boys, pale and hunched in prayer, knives in their laps and their allowed loved one begging God for their child’s survival behind them.

I duck below the waist-high wall. It’s so much harder to breathe up here. Reverend Brother Morrison has his Bible on the altar, hands spread wide, blood smeared down his face and throat in worship. A nonbeliever lies at his feet, head wrenched back to reveal the festering black hole of their throat. The choir of children flocks at his sides, so little, too little, staring at him in awe.

The Graces. Oh God, the Graces.