by Keri Lake
The blackness closed in.
Before it took him under, he watched the blade slice a gaping hole in Senna’s throat.
Chapter 1
Thalia
Six months later ...
Gathering one unruly golden curl from my face, my mother pins it back into a graceful twist with a pearl barrette. “Beautiful.”
The day’s dirt has been washed away, leaving behind clean skin that glows in the dim light of my bedroom, as I stare at myself in the mirror. A single pearl, strung from a delicate gold chain, rests against my collarbone and matches the barrette in the same pure shade of white as my dress. I’m told the jewelry belonged to my maternal grandmother. I never met her. She was eaten alive by a horde of Ragers that passed through her farm.
The white lace of my dress scratches at my skin, while I sit before the vanity, allowing my fussy mother to place the finishing touches. The faint blush at my cheeks. The veil that she pulls down over my face, which fails to conceal the disgust staring back at me in my expression.
The lie smeared beneath the immaculacy.
I’m a daughter. Pure and chaste. The pride of my mother, and the ungodly temptation of men. The very thing most girls in Szolen dream about from the time they’re young, and what all parents wish for, the same way they prod their sons into becoming Legion.
“My heart is full, darling.” That pride in my mother’s voice slices through my thoughts of what’s to come, and she sets her hand on my shoulders, planting a kiss atop my head. “You’re a stunning vision of virtue and devotion.”
Frowning is all I can do to keep from crying and ruining the mascara she’s insisted I wear.
In an hour, my dress is expected to be spattered with the blood of my virtue, and all will rejoice at the sight of it.
Three of us will take our vows during the ordination, but not before we’re deemed worthy of our charge.
“Come now. They’re waiting.” The glint in my mother’s eyes is a stab to my heart.
I could tell her I don’t want to do this. That I reject this barbaric ceremony and everything it stands for, but doing so would make me an enemy of this community. My mother and brother would be ostracized, and our family name marred. Besides that, it’s been months since my mother has smiled, and as much as she disappoints me, I can’t bear to do the same to her. The untimely death of my father cast a cloud of misery over our home, one so thick, I can hardly breathe sometimes. This ordination is all she’s talked about since. Maybe the only thing that’s kept her alive.
By now, I should’ve been well into my studies, advancing my station in this community as the only female physician. It’s a dream I’ve held since I was old enough to accompany my beloved Nan on my father’s side, who died much too soon, on house calls. She was a nurse and midwife, the most skilled in Szolen, and I longed to follow in her footsteps, but those plans were cast aside, the day Mother Chilson, the head nun of our church, showed up at our door.
“What if I don’t bleed, Mother? Not every girl does, you know.”
Cold, wrinkled fingertips slide along the gold chain, as my mother offers a lesser smile than before. “The virtuous ones do.”
At her nudge on my arm, I push up from the vanity chair, the air in my chest waning, my hands trembling. I’ve no idea what to expect from the ordination, because no one is permitted to speak of it, and doing so would result in punishment. The long white dress, made of sheer fabric, lace and satin ribbons, will serve as an indicator, a sort of litmus test, for whether I’ll be deemed worthy, or not, when I’m penetrated by the priest. If it carries the blood of my virginity, I’ll be celebrated as pure. If it doesn’t, I’ll be seen as sullied, and treated as a whore for the rest of my life.
All the young girls in the community go through the painstaking effort of saving themselves for this moment, because being a Daughter of the church is as prestigious as the decorations my father received with every advancement in the Legion military. In five years, when my service is complete, I’ll live in a high-born house, the most luxurious Szolen has to offer, with any husband I choose. Every male will long to be with a dutiful Daughter.
My mother will be respected and praised for her genetics.
After all, ugly girls aren’t chosen by God.
“Does he use his fingers, or his cock?” I ask, following her out of the room and down the winding staircase.
“Thalia!” Pausing her descent, my mother twists around, fingers curled around the bannister so tight that her knuckles are white. She probably wishes my throat were beneath that palm. “Mind your tongue.”
Months ago, she wouldn’t have been troubled by my forked tongue, as she often calls it now, but as a mother of the Chosen, she seems to feel the need to stifle everything she deems unholy.
A few more steps down, I shrug. “I just want to know if it’ll hurt, is all. I imagine his finger is the thicker of the two.”
“Enough! Your snarky little remarks are no longer permitted. The moment we reach that church, you are to become a pillar of virtue and grace. Is that clear?”
“So, I have until then to speak my mind?”
“No. I’ve no interest in hearing your protests, nor your sarcastic taunts. You will become a Daughter and that is the end of it. Keep your mouth shut.”
“I’m twenty years old, Mother. Well beyond the need for your admonishing.”
Eyes narrowed, she twists around to face me. “Your father would be appalled, if he heard you right now.”
My father happened to appreciate my humor and snarky mouth, but I don’t tell her that. Instead, I lift the hem of my dress, roll my shoulders back, and continue my descent until I’m beside her. “He would’ve been appalled with you too,” I say, and step past her to the foyer.
Outside the front entrance, the chattering of the gathering crowd sends a flare of anxiety through my already frayed nerves. The wait for my mother seems to take an eternity, and I turn just enough to see her wiping moisture from her cheeks, as she makes her way toward me. With one hand on the knob, she takes a breath and throws back the door, her face flicking from grief to feigned pride, like the flip of a switch.
This is her moment. One she’s hoped for since the day I was born. One that’s goaded her to guard my virtue like a buried treasure.
The chatter dies to a deafening quiet, and she steps aside, ushering me forward.
Members of the community form two lines from our doorstep to the road, and also down the block, to the church at the end of the street. Other lines converge on the street, too, where the other two candidates also make their way along this iniquitous path. The flicker of candles burn against the night sky, as they sing a hymn in unison, filling the air with a solemn calm. As I walk past, each of them bow in a show of respect.
My brother, Grant, is among them, offering a more sympathetic smile. Somehow, the thought of him being here for this is wrong.
It’s all wrong.
The urge to crawl out of my skin, to kick off these shoes and run into the darkness, beckons my muscles. I search for Will in the throng, the boy I’ve known since the age of ten and my best friend, but find him nowhere.
Of course, he wouldn’t be here. In spite of how he’s supposed to feel about this, I know it troubles him, perhaps even more than it does me. We made a vow to marry someday, if neither of us are already taken, but now the church has staked his claim to me. Much as I have no interest in marrying him, at all, it would’ve been a better alternative to this. Not that it matters at this point. The moment he learned I’ve been chosen, he went against his own beliefs and recruited himself as a Legion soldier.
Grief makes people do crazy things, and his shackled him to four years in the military.
For years, recruiters have hounded him to join, and in his refusal, his family turned against him. I’m certain they’ve since opened their arms to him and praise my name as the reason for his sudden change of heart.
While I remain here, performing my duties, he’ll be off fig
hting marauders and Ragers in the name of Szolen.
What a beautiful couple we’d make in the eyes of this community--the brave son and vestal Daughter.
Except, I’ll be far from chaste.
For the next five years, I’ll be tasked with building the community, by sleeping with a number of men, whether married, or not. As far as the church is concerned, it won’t be considered adultery because of the mission behind it. A cause for the greater good of humankind. When I’m not screwing members of my community, I’ll be sent on Missions beyond the wall, to recruit only the healthiest men from hives, particularly those with useful skills. I’ll be touted as a perk of Szolen, a prize for their loyalty.
After those five years, I’m given first choice of raising the children, and if I choose not to, they’ll be adopted out to very willing homes, including those of the biological fathers. Until then, they’re raised by the church.
My genetics, scholastic aptitude and medical history made me an all-too-fitting candidate to bear as many children as I can over the next five years, before I’m no longer considered prime. It was my father who shielded me from this my whole life, and upon his passing, I became the coveted--an honor for which my mother was more than happy to oblige.
Only problem?
I apparently can’t bear children, at all--a secret my mother would sooner take not only to her own grave, but that of the woman who diagnosed me with a faulty uterus, as well. My genetics might be considered superior, but my luck is crap, as far as she’s concerned, and it’s only a matter of time before the church finds out, too.
My mother follows behind me, as she’s supposed to, but also to make sure I don’t act on my compulsions to escape. Though I’ve been careful not to outright decline, particularly in front of the congregation, I’ve not hidden the fact that I detest this. The woman knows me too well enough to understand that if I feel cornered, I won’t hesitate to run.
And I’m definitely feeling cornered.
Another of the Chosen waits for me, a young dark-skinned girl, two years younger, named Aaliyah. The smile stretched across her face is all for show, I’m certain, but the one her mother wears matches my own mother’s. As the two older women clasp hands and smile in tearful joy, the urge to puke churns inside my stomach.
We wait in the middle of the road for the third and youngest girl, Lily, who I’m guessing is only sixteen, and once we’re assembled, it takes a good ten minutes to walk to the church. Every step weighs heavy on me, and though this is meant to be a parade of celebration, I can’t help but feel as if I’m marching toward certain death.
The church smells of nauseating incense and freshly polished wood when we enter. Mother Chilson greets us in the nave, the warm smile on her face a stark contrast to her purpose. My eyes are drawn to the crucifix dangling from her neck, over the white coif and neckerchief against a pitch black scapular. Her job will be to observe the blood on our dresses once the sanctification, or deflowering, has taken place. And, oh, what celebration that will be!
Except, there will be no blood on my dress tonight. Because, unable to bear the thought of some wrinkled old man robbing me of what doesn’t belong to him, I willfully handed over my virginity to Will nearly two weeks ago. My one slap to the face of the church, before the entire community brands me an undeserving harlot.
The crowd from outside files in, filling the pews, the sight of which wrings my nerves like a damp cloth, and I glance back at my mother, taking in the last of that beaming pride before the truth turns her into the vision of despair I’ve grown familiar with in recent months.
Can’t say what will happen after this, seeing as I’ve never gone out of my way to defy the woman to this extent.
I and the two other girl are led into a room at the back of the church, where a bench is lined up against a wall in the hallway, outside the door. The door that leads to a room where a sterile pastor waits to break our hymen. To confirm that we are all virgins.
Nan always ridiculed this ceremony, referring to it as an outdated display of human ignorance and persecution. Half this community labeled her a witch, including my mother, though she’d never admit to it. If not for my father, her only son, and his high-ranking position, I’m certain they’d have all petitioned to have her strung up and burned at the stake.
Mother Chilson directs us to sit on the bench, as she takes Aaliyah by the hand and leads her into the room as if she isn’t some glorified brothel keeper.
God, my heart pounds against my ribs with the fury of a caged animal.
Mother Chilson exits the room, closing the door behind her. Seconds later, soft whimpers bleed through the tired wood. I recall those same sounds from just weeks ago, only mine were steeped in care and compassion, and, more importantly, free will.
Minutes pass before a bell rings from the other side of the door, and Mother Chilson opens it, disappearing into the room once again.
Rubbing my sweaty hands together in my lap, I swallow a cold gulp, my chest hollow.
Aaliyah appears in the doorway, the shine of tear tracks down her cheek capturing my attention, as Mother Chilson leads her by the hand down to the other end of the bench. As she passes, I catch the spots of bright red blood staining the fabric of her dress, and my hands ball into fists.
How did this come to be acceptable? Who decided defiling girls this way was okay?
Warm skin brushes over my arm, and I look up to find Mother Chilson staring down at me with the same pride as every other mother tonight.
Disgusting.
She urges me to my feet, and when I glance back and see Aaliyah hiding her face in her palms, I wrench my arm away. The warmth in Mother Chilson’s expression hardens.
“It’s time, child. Let’s not delay the ceremony.”
No. We mustn't delay the molestation of young girls.
This isn’t the same church I attended as a child. This isn’t the God I’ve come to love. This is a cult. No God, nor Father, would find this acceptable.
The new religious movement began about seven years ago, after Father James passed and the new pastor took over. It’s become far more political, its purpose more obscure.
Questionable, but perhaps only to me.
“I can’t.” Shaking my head, I take a step back from her. “I can’t do this.”
Lips tight with frustration, she leans in. “Your mother and brother are counting on you. What would your father say, if you refuse?” Voice low, as if to keep the other girls from hearing the threat in her words, she tightens her grip on my arm.
Instinct tells me to run.
It’s only the thought of what will happen to my mother and brother that gives me pause, and I blink to hide the tears.
“It’ll be over soon.”
Mother Chilson’s words fail to bring me comfort. Because it won’t be over soon. This is only the beginning. There will be other men. All will be expected to be gentle, but some won’t. A rumor circulated a year ago, about a Daughter who was brutally violated by one of the men who called upon her. As I understand, she’s now living the high life in one of the big mansions, relieved of her duties, but even so. Lucky her.
Your mother and brother are counting on you.
Grant will surely suffer the worst of it, as protective as he is. Whores are shunned. Brothers of whores are ridiculed and bullied, to no end.
I step into the room that’s lit only by candles around what looks like an altar. An older man with white hair waits beside an ornately-carved wooden table. The craftsmanship is flawless and looks sturdy enough, likely to hold both sacrifice and sacrificer.
By the time I reach the table, my muscles feel as if they’re on the verge of giving out on me.
Hands grip my shoulders, turning me toward the old man, Father Parsons. The Shepherd, as he likes to call himself, whose eyes sparkle with twisted fascination as they cruise over my body. As if I haven’t known this man as a father for the last seven years. As if he’s seeing me as something else entirely right now.
“Such a beautiful, nubile creature.” He ushers me onto the table, and with a small bit of hesitation, I climb on, allowing him to lay me on my back. The cold wood, where Aaliyah lay just minutes ago, presses into my spine, and he adjusts my dress to ensure the back of it is spread beneath me to catch the fallen drops of blood. As soon as the door closes behind Mother Chilson, the old man climbs the few steps at the other end of the table and allows his robe to fall from his stark naked form.
Oh, my God.
This is when his age becomes grossly apparent to me, in the sagging, wrinkled skin of his body, only exacerbating the thoughts that this cannot happen. I cannot let this man, The Shepherd, the supposed conduit between me and God, do this to my body.
He takes a moment to grab a cloth from a golden bowl, and washes his semi-flaccid organ in front of me. As if this brings me any level of comfort for what comes next. An object at the base of his penis resembles a jeweled ring, and when he positions himself over top of me, lifting the hem of my dress away from my naked lower half, a wave of nausea curls up my throat that I have to swallow back.
He tips his head forward, kisses my breast through the fabric, and at the first touch, fight or flight slams through my veins. I squirm beneath him, to wriggle myself free, but his grip tightens, his wild eyebrows coming together in a frown. “Hold still, girl!”
As he takes himself in hand, I look around for something, anything. I reach for an ornate, golden candlestick beside the table, and at the first prod of his tip, I knock the heavy stem against his skull.
Eyes rolling back into his head, he tumbles from the table to the floor with a deadweight thunk.
Chapter 2
“You deliberately attacked a man of the cloth. Then attempted to evade Legion officers. As such, you will be banished to the Sisters of Mercy for a term no less than five years.” As the elder judge reads off my sentencing, I stand with my hands bound, my stomach sinking like a rock in a shallow pond. Beside him, three other clergymen look on with the same severe expressions, ensuring no one would dare grant me leniency.