But the glorious elation ends too soon.

The cloud of spectator angels begins coming down on us, hard and fast.

64

It’s not surprising that the spectator angels are jumping into the fight now that Raffe and his Watchers are defending humans against other angels.

As the spectators begin diving, the fog around them begins churning. The angels falter in their flight and look around.

A cloud of locusts bursts out from the fog surrounding the angels.

I search the chaos for a glimpse of my sister but don’t see her in the swarm of wings and stingers.

A bloody body drops from the center of the locust cloud.

There’s a heart-stopping moment when I can’t see any details. I want to shut my eyes in case it’s Paige. Instead, my eyes are glued to the body as it falls.

I can’t see anything until the body gets close enough. When it does, there’s just enough time for me to see who it is.

Iridescent wings flutter in the wind. A scorpion tail. A white streak in flowing hair.

Then he smashes onto the asphalt.

I can breathe again.

Paige. Where is she?

In the sky, the swarm of locusts closes in on the angels. Paige sits regally in the arms of a locust followed by the rest of the swarm.

We all stare. Paige is covered in blood. I hope it’s mostly White Streak’s. She drips blood from her mouth. She’s chewing something.

I don’t want to think about that. I’m careful not to look too closely at White Streak, who lies broken on the bridge.

The old leader is dead.

I can’t get my mind around it. My baby sister – queen of the locusts.

Paige lashes out with her voice and hand with a fury that reminds me of Mom. I can’t hear what she’s yelling, but she sweeps her arms, and the cloud of locusts follows.

They crash with the spectator angels in a tumbling mash of perfection and monstrosity. Blood starts raining down on us as stingers and swords clash.

My sister is keeping the spectator angels from coming down on us. Doc and Obi were right about her.

A surge of pride and fear swirls inside me. My baby sister is a savior.

Then the lights turn off again, and we’re plunged into darkness.

I feel a hand grabbing Pooky Bear out of my grasp, and I know Raffe has the sword again. I crouch down low to stay out of the way and cover my head. I just have to trust him to keep me alive while I’m blind and deaf.

Behind my closed eyes, I see the impression of my sister riding a locust in battle.

65

When the lights turn back on again, I see someone trying to climb up the broken edge of the bridge from below. He has his mouth open in a frantic scream. Whatever it is he’s trying to get away from is worse than what’s on top of the bridge.

I run over to help him up. His hand is sweaty, and he’s trembling. I can’t hear a word he says, so I lie on my stomach at the crumbling edge and look down. I can see the bottom of the hideaway net strung below the bridge.

The net is broken. People cling to it in clumps, as if trying to get away from something. They’re all staring wide-eyed at the turbulent water below.

The sea churns and explodes as a multiheaded sixer beast shoots up in a cascade of water. Its six living heads all have their mouths open like a misshapen fish jumping for bugs.

One of its heads sees me and snaps its jaws.

The apocalyptic monster grabs and bites several people with its six live heads. It then disappears back into the bay with the bleeding, squirming victims.

The dark water splashes and swirls as the last victim’s hand disappears into the vortex.

Everyone below the bridge is in a panic. They crawl over each other, trying to get away from the spot where the sixer appeared.

How long has this been going on?

Jumping up, I rush over to the ladder that was pulled up to try to keep the talent show audience hidden beneath the bridge. A thought pops into my head – what if Doc was wrong and humans are not immune to the sixer’s plague?

I can’t let all those people die just because there’s a chance of something going wrong. I unlatch the ladder and drop it down the side. They need to get out of there. They are now almost literally the low-hanging fruit in this war.

Our people scramble to the edges of the nets, some of them climbing over each other. There are as many people who fall into the water trying to escape as there were people who were taken by the monster.

The water churns again, and another sixer jumps up from the water. The distance they can jump is astounding. It greedily grabs people with its six jaws and drags the screaming, squirming people down below, into the depths.

‘Come on! Get back up here!’ I wave to the nearest people on the nets. They may be safer on the battlefield than where they are now.

As people begin climbing back up, I run through the chaos to the other escape routes around the bridge and lower the ladders. People begin streaming up the ladders as soon as they’re in place.

The music stops.

We all look up. Even the angels and locusts pause midfight to look. What now? When this is all over, I never want another exciting moment in my life ever again.

Someone in a white suit flies above the stage. It’s Uriel. His wings look off-white in the bright artificial light with a web of stark shadows.

My ears ring from the lack of sound. I peel back my headphones.

‘The trial by contest is over.’ He speaks in a regular voice, but in all this silence, it sounds like he’s shouting. ‘Raphael has proven himself a traitor. I am now the undisputed Messenger.’

Just as he says that, someone screams. A sixer climbs over the edge of the bridge. People back away as soon as they see the six heads with the seventh lying limp on its shoulder.

An angel near the sixer crashes onto his knees. His face is turning red, and he’s sweating. Blood dribbles out of his mouth.

Another sixer climbs over the other edge of the bridge.

More people scream as they frantically try to get away from the sixers, but we can’t go far on our bridge island. We herd together like frightened animals.

Two locusts near the sixer begin coughing. Then choking. They try to flap their wings, but they tumble to the concrete.

Blood begins dripping out of their mouths, their noses, their eyes. They make pitiful mewling and choking noises as they writhe on the bridge.

It’s the apocalyptic pestilence.

66

‘Raffe!’ I try to get his attention. ‘Get off the bridge! These monsters have angelic plague!’

A low-flying angel falls out of the sky, moaning like his insides are churning. Blood drips out his mouth, ears, nose, and eyes as he writhes on the concrete.