For the word of God—it is sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and spirit, of joints and marrow.

I bolt from my room. I trip over the sheets spilling out from the little apartments and almost run into the gym doors trying to open them. I grab a box of tools from the supply closet, I’ll need tools for this, and the only place to hide is the bathroom at the back of the building. Nobody uses it since there’s no water. It’ll be safe there.

I paw open the door and slam the lock into place behind me. The only light comes in from a small slit window just above the toilet, the moon trickling in lazily. Good. I sit on the floor and squeeze my eyes shut.

It’s Seraph. It’s the Flood pushing outward. A tooth, like my nails and gums and the red rims around my eyes. Like the one Nick pried out of the Grace.

Let all the earth fear the Lord. I tear open the tool bag and dump out everything. Let all the inhabitants of the world stand in awe of Him.

There. Pliers.

Breathe. Okay. Knee up, elbow propped against it, put the pliers against the jagged Grace-tooth sticking out from my gums, destroying my lips and mouth. People pulled teeth all the time before anesthesia was invented. It can’t be that hard, can it? I clamp the pliers around the tooth. Don’t be a bitch, get it over with, bury the tooth in the courtyard, and deal with it. Breathe. Just do it.

I yank. The pliers scrape all the way down and punch me in the knee. I stare at the empty metal clamped in my hand, dazed. It didn’t work.

Of course it’s not going to be that easy. This is just the first of many. What am I going to do, tear out all of my teeth as they grow in? One by one?

I groan hysterically and press the back of my head against the wall. Maybe if I push out instead of pulling down, I can snap it off. There’s a small, strange sound deep in my throat, almost like the wheezing Grace noises I made while pinning Alex to the ground.

On three. One, two—

Fear the Lord and depart from evil.

The sound is like bones breaking. Like Trevor being crushed against the road. A bullet of pain shoots up my skull. Blood gushes from my mouth and cascades down my chin. My tooth skitters across the floor.

Holy shit. Holy shit. I tear handfuls of ancient toilet paper from the dispenser and jam them into my mouth. Blood pools in my throat. It soaks through the paper as quickly as I put it in my mouth, and I grab another handful, trying not to choke in pain when it snags on exposed nerves.

But something isn’t right.