The Grace. Shit, the Grace. I force myself up and find them surrounded by the bodies of Angels, ramming themself into the barred front doors. The wood buckles under their weight. They bellow, long and low and sad, and all the dead from Judgment Day scream in return, grabbing the ankle of a passing Angel and dragging them shrieking into the mass of so many corpses.

I can’t see any of the Watch. I know that’s the point, but I still feel sick. I just want to know they’re okay.

But behind me, suddenly, somehow—

A voice I thought I’d never hear again.

“Benji?”

It’s small. Smaller than it has any right to be after what he did to me.

It takes the wind out of my lungs.

“Is that you?”

The Angel behind me is so close we could touch. He’s pulling down his mask to show his face, but he doesn’t need to. I’d know him anywhere. I’d know every part of him. That mess of curly blond hair, the baby-blue eyes, the stubble dotting the soft skin of his cheek.

A desperate laugh bubbles up from his lips, and he falls back, mouth open in awe.

My heart stopped beating a few seconds ago. It hasn’t started back up again.

Theo says, “You cut your hair.”

Colossians 3:18—Wives, submit to your husbands.

The last time we spoke, I thought he was going to tear out my throat. He was so rabid that white flecks speckled the corners of his lips. I don’t remember all of what he said, or exactly how he said it, because I couldn’t hear anything but blood screaming in my ears and my prayers that he wouldn’t hurt me more than he already had, that he would stop before he broke me. Lying, ungrateful BITCH.

I told him I was afraid of Seraph, and he hurt me for it, and I’m still in love with him, I still love him, I still, I still—

I pull the knife from my pocket and snap out the blade. It flashes in the light streaming through the stained glass windows and comes right to his throat.

Theo throws up his hands. “Benji, wait!”

I snarl, “You have five seconds.”

“Five?” His voice wavers. “Shit, five? Okay. Um.” Deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

He’s what?

“If you’re going to hurt me,” he says, “I understand; I kind of deserve it.” His words catch, and his throat bobs, and he just looks so pitiful on the other end of my knife. “But I wanted to get that in first. Just so you know. I’m sorry.”

My knife hand trembles. He’s sorry. He’s sorry, he’s sorry. “You kind of deserve it? Dad thought you gave me a concussion. I thought you broke my arm, I thought…”