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I head up to the prow of the ship to talk to Alice, but she waves me off. When I go to the dog pack, half of them walk away.

“Did I eat the last donut in the box?”

“Yeah, you did, comfort-wise,” says Wanuri. “All those people who used to think you were crazy? They still do. Now, though, all the people who thought you were a guardian angel are starting to think that maybe you’re the cause of all our problems.”

“I didn’t ask to join this circus. I was drafted as much as any of those slobs who were out pushing trucks up the hill today.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just telling you what I hear around. Plus, now that people got a look at real angels, and watched you practically saw one’s head off, they’re a little spooked by you.”

“Johnny’s probably going around telling everyone I’m a wombat. I’ve never even seen a wombat.”

“They’re adorable,” says Doris. “I took the grandkids to the zoo for Tristan’s—my little grandson’s—birthday and there was a whole enclosure full of wombats. They look like little piglets crossed with teddy bears.”

“I’ve been called a lot of things, but never a piglet bear.”

“I don’t think he meant he thought you were cute,” says Wanuri.

“Why don’t you ask him?” says Daja.

“No. He might ask me to be his valentine and I’m already seeing someone.”

“Speaking of seeing someone, your little angel is quite something,” Wanuri says.

“Alice? She’s great.”

“The few angels I’ve ever seen were all so stuck on themselves. Better be careful or I’ll steal her away from you.”

“There’s nothing to steal. She’s my ex.”

“Dumped you, did she?”

“No. A shit named Parker was going to murder her, so she killed herself just to spite him.”

“Damn,” Wanuri says. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Still on crutches, Gisco rattles off a few syllables and signs with his hands.

“What does that mean?”

“I think he’s wondering the same thing I am,” says Doris. “How does a suicide get into Heaven? I thought there was a rule about that.”

Gisco nods.

“If there’s anything I’ve learned about Heaven, it’s that the rules are subject to change without fucking notice. That’s the one good thing about Hell: at least it makes sense.”

“If she put up with you,” Wanuri says, “then she was destined to be an angel.”

Daja puts out a fist so Wanuri can bump it, but before she does, an arrow goes through Daja’s wrist.

“Fuck!” she yells, holding her bleeding arm.

I push her to the ground as a volley of arrows arcs high overhead and plummets down on the ship. Another volley flies up from the opposite shore. All around us, members of the havoc are getting skewered. Pinned to the ground, where they lie, or stuck to one of the masts or a hatch door. Others have it worse. They take shots through the throat or skull.

Then, as quickly as they started, the arrows stop. The wounded lie all around us, but before anyone can get to them, jets of fire erupt from each shore, their streams crossing downriver. We’re sailing straight into a firestorm.

The angels split into two groups of three and fly off, their Gladiuses blazing. The gouts of fire ahead break apart and move upward, trying to catch them in flight. Fat chance. Whoever is operating the flamethrowers is way too slow. When one of the streams gets within fifty feet of Vehuel, she dives for it . . . and catches the flames on her Gladius. The fire arcs back to where it came from, frying everyone on that side of the river.