It’s an easy decision, but still his pulse pounds within him. He can feel it in his throat, his last pumps of life, and he savors them as he relinquishes control of this world. The Angel is everything. He will do anything for it, anything it says.

He hears it then, the tick, tick, tick of a stove’s burner trying to catch upstairs. Instantly, flames erupt above him, a blast so colossal it might split the Earth. It takes only moments for the fireball to plume down the staircase. It’s barreling toward him, toward everyone around. As the fiery mushroom cloud approaches, he spreads his arms wide as wings. His last thoughts before the spiraling inferno engulfs him are I’ve done it. I’ve done it for you.

He burns. Sheep shriek above him, sacrificial lambs roasting on an unseen altar.

It is over.

But only for them.

On the other side of town, as the flesh of the innocent are combusting to ash, a boy awakens. His mother is at his side, clutching his hand full of wires. She’s always clutching his hand.

“What happened?” he asks. “Mom?”

Tears flow from her eyes in a steady stream as she kisses his head, that perfect blond head. He smells like a newborn babe wrapped in a receiving blanket, the fresh powder of a life starting anew. Spring petals sprout on his cheeks. His grip tightens. He feels strong.

“You’re okay. It’s okay,” says the mother.

He’s done it, she thinks. He’s really done it.

She knows her husband is gone. She doesn’t know how, not yet, but she knows. She can feel it as though someone whispered it in her ear. Or something.

She looks at the shrine by the son’s bedside and places a hand on the Angel.

Thank you, she prays. You’ve answered our prayers. You’ve heard us. I will do anything for you. I will do anything now….

She spreads its word.

She adds her offerings.

Her son gets better.

And the town grieves.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Vera

“Vera, wake up!”

Her aunt’s fingers dug into her shoulders, and Vera felt her head rock limply with every shake. Her eyes opened to find she was standing on the precipice of the staircase.

“I heard your door open—caught you just in time,” said Aunt Tilda, yanking her from the edge.

Vera stared down the steep steps to the stained-glass church windows below, knowing exactly where she was headed, where her dreams wanted to take her.

“I had another one.” Vera was breathless, sweat gluing her hair to the back of her neck.

“A nightmare?”

“A vision.” Vera corrected her.

They moved to Aunt Tilda’s bedroom and sat on her mattress in the dim incandescent light of an antique glass lamp. Religious portraits hung from her aunt’s walls, along with a crucifix and some spiritual carvings. Aunt Tilda encased herself with God to ward off the evil pulsating from the basement. It wasn’t a bad plan.

Vera described her dream.

“He thought he was saving his son. That was why he did it. It felt so real.” Vera plunged her hands into her hair. “Aunt Tilda, if these dreams are coming from the demon—like my mom thinks—then why would the demon want me to know this? Why would it show me the secrets of how it works? How it lures people? What it promises?”