I went to Reformation Faith Evangelical Church and watched as Theo kissed the mass of flesh rooted to the altar. I touched his wing tattoos and pretended to love them because he did, and then held him when those wings were ripped off. He just believed so much. In the church, in the Angels, in Seraph, in me, because those were all the same thing, really. You could have cracked open his chest and read gospels in his entrails. If I hadn’t told him how much I hated Seraph, he probably would have died for me one day.
And no matter what he did to me, I still—
I still love him. The edge of the knife’s handle digs into my fingers.
For some reason, I still do.
I keep talking.
“I feel like I’m going to mess this up. Like I’m going to do or say something awful, because I was raised like that.” Nick grunts in reply. “I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t want to hurt anybody. And that’s hard when I’m some kind of monster.”
Nick finally turns his gaze on me. There’s a strange expression drawn between his eyes, one I can’t read.
“Are you a monster because you were an Angel,” he says, “or because you’re Seraph?”
“Shit, either? Does it matter?”
The flock of birds finds a spot in the tree with the body. Across the pond, Salvador throws a rock into the water.
Nick takes something out of his pocket: a toy lizard made of beads, about the size of his palm. The bright yellow beads border on ugly. He rolls them between his fingers a few times.
“I’m autistic,” he says.
I splutter, “Oh—” not because of anything bad, but because he suddenly makes a lot more sense. Autism was hardly talked about in New Nazareth. When it was, it got the “God never sends trials we can’t handle” and “I’m sure it’s a blessing in disguise” treatment. Sometimes it was accompanied by glances at the culling fields. I can’t make Nick fit that mold, no matter how much I twist him.
“If I can figure out how things work,” he says, “so can you.”
“Right,” is all I reply.
“And take these.” He presents me with a set of bobby pins from his jacket. His pockets are never-ending wells of little things. “Your hair is getting in your face.”
Then he holds up a hand. Across the algae-choked pond, there are people, and one has a gun raised in greeting.
They’re not Angels. I take my hand off the knife.
* * *
This is the Vanguard?
This is a group of middle-aged white men （okay, four white men and one white woman, but the Angels have made it painfully clear that’s no better） made entirely of wraparound sunglasses and pilfered army fatigues. They’ve sewn monochrome American flags and skull patches onto their sleeves, and one even holds his gun with the barrel pointed down between his legs as if to make up for something. I get the feeling I should be grateful they’re wearing masks, even if two have their noses peeking out over the top.
Salvador leans over my shoulder to whisper, “Yeah, I know.” Cormac shushes us.
“Morning, kids,” one says, almost high-pitched, the way you’d talk to elementary schoolers.
“Morning, Joey,” Nick drones in return. His head is at an angle that could almost be cocky, eyes cold and tired. Even with his mask, there’s an edge to his expression I can’t look away from. I am betrothed, I remind myself, which has no impact on the fact that I am very gay. I dig my nails into my ring finger instead.
The Vanguard—five people and twelve firearms strong, which is way too many even by Angel standards—claims the opposite table, hoisting their own sled on top. It’s covered by a dusty tarp. A guy in the back eyes Cormac like a competitor, as if Cormac isn’t half his age. Another stares at Salvador as if he’s trying to figure xem out, which has so many racist and transphobic implications that the air goes thick with it.