“I need a drink,” the youngest soldier whines. I’ve been trying to place him the whole walk, but I keep coming up blank. Whose brother is he, whose son? “My feet hurt.”

Steven shoves a water bottle against his chest. “Then drink. Stop complaining.”

I wouldn’t take a break either, if I were escorting my only sure shot at eternal life. But Brother Hutch says, “He’s right.” Steven’s eye twitches above his mask. “There’s no point in wearing ourselves down. We’re still an hour out from Reformation.”

Reformation? He means Reformation Faith Evangelical Church. Memories of the place come rushing back, and so does vomit in the back of my throat. I should have seen this coming. Reformation is halfway between the bridge and New Nazareth; it’s the perfect place to rest in this beast of a city, and if I walk into that building, I am going to lose it. If I walk into any church ever again—

“Sit,” Brother Hutch says. “Eat, rest. All of you.”

“Thank God,” says the youngest, who immediately slumps against the hood of a bullet-scarred sedan. The others roll their eyes at him. He’s scrawny and strange, not that much older than me. Probably just graduated from training, his wings still aching, assigned to a squad that happened to get the most important task in the world. If he’s as new as I think, I’m surprised somebody hasn’t smacked him hard on the back yet, right where the tattoos are still painful. Theo used to complain about that all the time, back when he still had squadmates to complain about. Granted, I’m too big a deal for that kind of rough-housing.

If Theo hadn’t been exiled from the death squads, that could be him right there. My betrothed, staring at me with a mask and a gun.

One soldier points at the road. The Grace folds itself up and sits, shuddering all the way down. There’s enough gray matter left in the heads of Graces that they can be whipped into following basic commands—sit, stay, kill. Steven doesn’t give me the dignity of following orders. He just forces me down to the curb. The others trade packages of food and their map, praying over their meals and clustering in the shade. The rookie squabbles for the map and jerks it out of someone’s hands with a triumphant snort.

I weave my bloody fingers together and press my lips to my knuckles like I’m praying too. If we’re going to stop, I’m going to take advantage of it. There has to be a way out. If I can put some distance between me and the Angels, any distance, I can lose them again. There’s an old café behind us, and the glass door is shattered, revealing a path through a seating area with chic little tables, right to a back door labeled Emergency Exit.

If I distract them long enough, I could do it.

By the sedan, the rookie says, “We’re really close to where Salvation disappeared.”