Because I don’t. Being an Angel was Theo’s calling. Being a soldier was everything he ever wanted. His father is the general of New Nazareth, and his mother was martyred on Judgment Day. He comes from a line of missionaries and holy warriors. He wanted to be just like them, even if he choked on it, even if it killed him. When he was forced out of the death squads, it broke him. All I could do was watch as his faith got infected and bring him food when he, praying in a fever as if that would sweat out the horrible mistake he’d made, wouldn’t leave the damn chapel for days. What that mistake was, I never learned. Mom said it was not a wife’s place to ask, and I should start practicing for that.

And leaving everything to follow me into the city…

“You can refuse to believe me all you want,” Theo says, “but I’m here now, and that has to stand for something.”

I hate that it does.

I lunge for him.

He yelps and tries to scramble back, and I grab him by the front of his Angel whites. His eyes widen in terror as he struggles for air.

Good. Let him fight for it. Let him know what it feels like.

Beneath us, the church falls to pieces. The front door shatters as the Grace rams through and stumbles into the sunlight; the gunfire is so loud my ears ring; everything hurts, and I am coming apart.

I kiss him.

Theo’s mouth immediately opens for me. His hands find mine like he’s going to drown if he doesn’t hold on. It’s just like it always was, he feels exactly the same, like nothing has changed at all.

I pull back just enough that our lips brush when I speak. He holds on tighter.

“I’m not contagious,” I say. “Promise.”

“Shit,” Theo whimpers. “Benji.”

“Do exactly what I say, and I’ll come back for you.” I am so weak for him. I love him so, so much. “I have some stuff to take care of.”

Afterward. After I put my mask back up, and everything is quiet.

Downstairs reminds me of Judgment Day, or what I imagine it was like beyond the New Nazareth walls. The carpet is tacky with blood, and the air tastes of death. Bodies cuddle the pews. The nonbeliever lying at the base of the altar stares at the ceiling, mouth open like God took out their tongue.

The Watch didn’t kill every Angel. It was impossible to block every exit without spreading ourselves too thin, leaving ourselves vulnerable.

But still, there are a lot of bodies.

The giant Grace, the nest of corpses, whines pathetically, a low moan that trembles the wood under my feet.