The water is boiling near the shore. Something is rising up out of the sea. At first, I think it’s a cluster of animals, but as the heads clear the water, I see that it’s a single monstrosity. The waves crash around it as if the ocean itself were raging against this unnatural thing.

The beast shakes off the water with a scream, and races toward us.

It’s shockingly fast. In almost no time, it’s close enough for me to get a good look at it.

Laylah has outdone herself on this one. It has seven heads clustered around the shoulders, but one of the heads appears dead. The one that looks dead is the head of a man. The face is split and trickling blood, as though he was recently killed with an ax.

The rest of the heads are alive with each one looking like a mix of human and animal – a leopard, an eel, a hyena, a lion, a giant fly, and a dead-eyed shark. The torso of the beast looks vaguely bearlike.

‘And a beast shall rise up out of the sea,’ says Uriel in a prophetic tone. ‘And upon his heads is the name of blasphemy. Let us count the number of the beast, for it is the number of man. And his number is six hundred threescore and six.’

Each of the monster’s heads has numbers tattooed in a puckering scar on its forehead.

666.

32

They’re just numbers, I tell myself.

Just numbers.

I know the beast was concocted by Laylah according to Uriel’s instructions. I know that Uriel copied his monsters from descriptions out of the apocalyptic prophesies. I know this is a fake – a fake.

Then why is my skin prickling with goose bumps?

The numbers are not subtle, and it’ll scare the bejesus out of anyone who sees it. I’m guessing that tattooing the number on the foreheads was Uriel’s idea.

The dripping beast roars and screams and yelps through all its faces except the dead one. It pauses near us before racing by and disappearing into the broken landscape.

Uriel raises his arms again, as if in a trance.

The ground shifts and puckers beneath my feet. It’s like worms frantically boiling in the ground.

Fingers burst out of the soil.

A hand reaches for the sky like a newborn zombie.

A head pushes its way through the dirt.

All over the old golf course, dirt-covered bodies claw their way out of the ground and climb onto the lawn. Thousands of them.

The angels on the ground spread their wings and take to the air. Raffe looks at me, but I understand that he can’t lift me up without betraying weakness. A hand claws the air near my leg, grasping. I jump, trying to get away from the hands, wishing I could fly too.

When the bodies climb out of the soil, they’re so dirty that I can only tell they’re human by their shapes. That and their gasping sobs.

‘And the dead shall rise,’ says Uriel, his voice carrying over the wind.

Some of the bodies lie on the lawn, gasping for breath. Others scramble away from the hole they crawled from, clearly afraid something will drag them back in. Still others just huddle on the churned-up lawn, sobbing.

What I thought at first was all dirt turns out to be dirt on dried, shriveled flesh. These are locust victims. They look traumatized and terrified, staring down at their arms and legs as though seeing their jerkylike flesh for the first time. Maybe they are.

Uriel must have had them buried alive while they were paralyzed. He was prepared to impress the gathering even before Raffe came. If anyone could have timed something like this, it was him. His team knew just how much venom to use to keep the victims paralyzed until showtime.

I wonder if the locust stung know what happened to them. I wonder if they think that they are the rising dead.

‘Resurrected!’ Uriel looks eerie. His bowed head and his open wings glow in the beam of light. ‘I am the Messenger of God.’

Many of the angels glance uneasily at each other when Uriel declares himself the Messenger.

‘You have been chosen to share the glory of the apocalypse. Punish the blasphemy that is mankind, and you will be received in heaven. Shirk your duties, and you will be dragged back into hell where you came from.’ He points east. ‘Go. Find the humans and kill them all. Cleanse the earth, and make it righteous once again.’

The locust stung stare at him, stunned. Then they gaze around at each other, looking frightened and disoriented.

One person turns to move east.

Someone follows him. Then another. And another, until the entire group is migrating.

Wave after wave of resurrected claw their way out of the dirt. As soon as they can stand on their feet, they follow the crowd heading east.

East, toward the Resistance camp.

33

‘That was an impressive show,’ says Raffe, hovering in the air among the angels. He doesn’t look at all impressed at the army of resurrected or the multiheaded monster. ‘But you’d all be making a huge mistake to believe him. Anyone who follows Uriel will fall when the truth comes out.’

‘Your scare tactics won’t work here,’ says Uriel.

‘If Uriel is lying, then he alone should fall,’ says a warrior. ‘The rest of us are just following orders.’

‘You think Lucifer’s angels got leniency just because they were following orders when they revolted against heaven?’ asks Raffe. ‘You think they understood the archangel politics behind the revolt and knew what was really happening? They were just wing soldiers, like you. Many of them probably thought they were doing the right thing. Some of them even thought that they were fighting to defend the Messenger. But that didn’t help them when the smoke cleared. Every one of them fell.’

The angels look at each other. A low mutter rumbles through the crowd. Their wings flutter in agitation.

‘If Gabriel is still alive and out there somewhere,’ says Raffe, ‘he won’t have any mercy for the angels who lost faith in him. If Michael comes back and realizes what happened, he might not have a choice but to declare you all fallen to nullify the election. And if the angels back home catch wind of what’s been happening down here . . . my brothers, this could be the start of a bloody civil war. The angels here won’t have a choice but to stand behind Uriel as your chosen Messenger.’

‘How are we supposed to know who to believe?’ asks an angel.

‘There is no way to know,’ says another.

‘Trial by contest,’ declares one.

‘Trial by contest,’ says another. Others murmur in agreement.

I don’t like it when angels murmur in agreement. Nothing good ever comes of that.

‘God has spoken to me. I am your Messenger, and I have given you a command.’ Uriel’s voice is thunderous and filled with the promise of retribution.