I’d been waiting for Great Spirit to lead me down a path . . . but for the first time I realized, the only path that would ever take me anywhere useful was the path I picked myself. And finally, I knew exactly where I wanted to go.
Inspired, I grabbed a microphone from one of the musicians. “Hello, Johannesburg!” I called out, and the crowd cheered, thinking this was part of the show. Joshua gave me another smirk, enjoying watching me stall for time, and I quelled the urge to punch him in his smug face.
I looked around the stage. I was sure that in addition to the yellow dust in the ducts, all these prophets would be performing one-on-one miracles, which meant they needed to refuel their “healing touches.” Taking a stab in the dark, I grabbed the Great Book sitting at Prophet Joshua’s side and directed my speech to the nosebleed seats.
“I just started reading this book, have you heard of it?”
The crowd chuckled, used to the cheesy jokes that began sermons. The guards who had been chasing me slowed their approach, not sure whether they should grab me midspeech. Joshua was still coy, assuming that whatever Dawn had planned wouldn’t work—that I couldn’t tell any of these people the truth without risking killing them, and knowing I was too much of a do-gooder to cause that kind of devastation. But that wasn’t my plan at all.
I channeled my father’s boisterous preaching style as I continued, “‘Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising each time we fall.’ That was Confucius, I think. And I like that. We all spend our lives so worried about failing—at least, I know I do. Because we know the consequences are so dire.” I gestured to a few Outcast children who were standing near the stage—clearly waiting to be healed by one of the several prophets nearby. “These children, whatever they’ve done . . . do you think they deserved this Punishment? Really, in your heart of hearts, do you think that? Children? Because I don’t.”
I reached down and touched a young Outcast girl on the arm. My guess had been right—this Great Book was covered with the same yellow dust Joshua used to heal people. The girl’s appearance morphed instantly, and the crowd began to murmur.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Joshua motioning to the guards to intercept me, but they were frozen, in awe of what they’d just seen. No mortal, no nonprophet had ever healed anyone like that before. I barreled forward. “Our leaders have told us to fear Outcasts. But why? Every old religion in this book tells us to embrace our neighbors, to be kind even in the face of hatred. And I know you all have seen it—how many people did we lose in the Revelations who didn’t deserve it? How many since? How many Punishments have you witnessed that seemed unjust, but you were too afraid to say anything?
“I’m here to tell you that you’re right. Great Spirit never intended us to separate ourselves like this. He thought that those of us who were Forgiven would embrace the Outcasts in our communities. That we would take every opportunity to help them. But we didn’t. We ostracized them. And I don’t think Great Spirit is happy about that. For the past few days, Great Spirit has been speaking to me. I know many of you have had this experience. Praying, and having your prayers answered. But the things Great Spirit has been saying . . . well, they’re different than what I expected.”
Joshua nervously spoke into a different mic, trying to cut me off. “I have, too, Grace, and that’s what brings us to our sermon tonight . . .”
“No, it doesn’t,” I interrupted him. “Confucius said something else, too—that our leaders should be humble in word, but exceed in their actions. And Joshua, you’ve done neither. Everyone here has seen the kind of wealth you parade around with. And you and I both know the sins you’ve committed behind closed doors.” The giant screens broadcasting the ceremony displayed Joshua’s in-the-moment reaction to my words for the whole crowd to witness—his deep dread of what I might say next.
And then I saw it—the faces of the remaining Outcast children, morphing before my eyes. Zack had succeeded—the yellow dust was indeed the same chemical as in his pills, and everyone in this stadium was breathing it in right now.
“Cut her mic,” I heard Joshua saying to someone behind me.
“I’m here to tell you,” I said to the crowd—and then realized my mic had successfully been cut.
Undeterred, I leaned forward and grabbed another mic from the bandleader. “I’m here to tell you that I am your new prophet, Grace Luther. And all of you are Forgiven.”
12
I had planned to say more, but this time it wasn’t just my mic cutting out. Security finally listened to Joshua and dragged me away. I hoped desperately that my plan had worked, that I’d now have the ultimate bargaining chip to use against Joshua. But the way his security was manhandling me, I was skeptical.
My father reached me when the guards did, following in a panic as they pulled me away from the stage. “Grace, what are you doing?” He leaned in closer, out of earshot of the guards. “I know you’re not a prophet. That was a trick, wasn’t it? A trick your devil-worshipping friends taught you.”
I knew there was nothing I could tell him that would exonerate me, nothing I could say to repair what I’d just broken. I wanted to tell him that my mother was alive, but if he hadn’t believed me about any of the other things, he certainly wasn’t going to believe me about that. “It wasn’t a trick,” I said, trying to brush him off.
He ignored me, beside himself. “I thought I was helping you, by not locking you in a mental ward, but now . . .”
I cut him off. “You can’t help me, Dad.”
“Grace . . .”
“Go home. I’ll take care of it,” I said sharply, nodding at the security guards, and they resumed taking me away.
“Grace!” my dad called after me in deep despair, but I didn’t look back.
Now it was my turn to be thrown into room 20A and handcuffed to the table. I could hear the commotion outside, but I sat alone in panicked silence. I had no idea where Zack was, where Dawn was. Were they alive? Had my actions helped them or endangered them further?
Esther was the first person to enter my prison cell, livid. “What the hell was that?”
I put on a tough front, trying not to let my emotions distract me from my goal. “Promise my friends will be safe, and I’ll renounce myself.”
My mother was not swayed. “Do you think any of those people really believed you? You looked like a crazy person out there. Joshua’s denounced you already, as will the other ten prophets here tonight. Those are the only voices that matter.”
My breath was jagged with fear, but I kept on my brave face. “Maybe. Or maybe not.”
Her expression was pained. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to protect you now?”
“Forget about me then. Protect Jude, protect Zack, protect the people I’ve been working with . . .”
“A bunch of terrorists? That’s who you’re throwing yourself on your sword for?”
“You gave up everything for a cause, but that life was yours to sacrifice,” I shot back. “You never would have hurt me, or Dad. I put my friends in danger, and I have to make it right.”
My mother shook her head, stoic. “That was your decision. It’s too late. The raid is already in progress.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Raid?”
Her expression was grim. “The compound in Turkey. It’ll be empty in a few hours. You’re the one who led us there, didn’t Dawn tell you that?”
I stared at her in horror. “How?”
“I suppose she wanted to spare your feelings. The little green card that Samuel gave you has a GPS chip.” I remembered how the voice in my head had insisted I take it to Turkey, even though Jude had told me to leave my pockets empty . . . how naïve of me to have forgotten that.
My mind was spinning. “I knew Zack was following me . . .”
“We suspected Zack might be sympathetic toward you, so we called in backup. We’ve had a twenty-four-hour operation watching you on satellite. We’ve seen every person you’ve interacted with, eve
ry person who’s helped you. And now, every one of them is going to be arrested.”
“No!” I cried. “You have to stop them. Jude’s there . . .”
“Jude was a sweet boy,” my mother remembered aloud. “I wish I could help him.”
“You can. Why don’t you realize it?”
Her voice shook with passion as she insisted, “If I let these few thousand people live, then millions, maybe billions more could die. These people you’ve allied yourself with—they’re working to destroy everything I’ve built.”
“Because you destroyed everything they had. You killed their families, you almost killed them. You almost killed me. Six months ago, I nearly died in our driveway, Punished to death. You came to my school plays, but were you there to see that? Were you there to save me from that?” My mom grew quiet and didn’t answer. “Jude was. Jude saved me. Your actions would have killed me, but Jude saved me. And now you’ll arrest him? Kill him? I know you wanted to do good, that’s why you’re here. So go do it. Help them. Please.”
My mother stared at me—perhaps I’d gotten through, even just a little bit. But she didn’t respond, just walked out the door.
I was left to stew in my own worry. Even if she did save Jude, what about Dawn? What about Zack?
That last question was answered about twenty minutes later, when Zack was thrown into the room and handcuffed to the same table as me. “Nice speech.”
“Fat lot of good it did,” I muttered.
“I don’t know,” he said. “You didn’t get to see the response.”
“What do you mean?”
“When Prophet Joshua started his sermon, people booed. They were chanting your name.”
The notion filled me with a strange sort of pride. “I thought all the other prophets disavowed me.”
“Not yet, they saw the writing on the wall. Your healing-the-stadium trick seems to have been a winner.”
“Joshua didn’t just take credit for it?”
“Of course he did, but no one believed him, not after they saw you heal that girl. And all that stuff about Outcasts . . . I guess you tapped into something.” He saw I was still skeptical and added, “Hey, I’m a convert.”
I’d wanted to undermine Joshua and save my friends. Those were the only goals I’d had in mind. But the idea of people believing in me, cheering for me? It gave me a rush of excitement I hadn’t quite expected.
Before Zack could say anything else, Esther reentered the room. “Prophet Joshua is willing to speak with you,” she said, her voice clear of any emotion.
“What does he want?”
“I wish I knew.” Esther unlocked my handcuffs and quickly relocked them. “Luckily you don’t have quite the same martial arts skills as your boyfriend here.” I quickly averted my eyes from Zack—while I’d always imagined what it might be like to introduce a date to my mom, this wasn’t quite how I’d pictured it.
As I followed her into the stadium hallway, something very strange happened. The crowds of people we passed suddenly went silent, all staring at me. Some grabbed for their phones, snapping photos, taking videos. I averted my eyes, embarrassed that I was being paraded around in these handcuffs. Though, I remembered, Jesus of Nazareth had been in police custody at some point, so maybe the cuffs didn’t undercut my prophet status that much after all.
As we walked, I saw a few news reports playing on phones, and I could hear snippets of the audio: “A new American prophet, popping up in South Africa of all places.” “Grace Luther, only eighteen years old, could be your next prophet.”
And then there was one particular video that caught my eye—a beautiful teenage girl I didn’t recognize, speaking to a reporter. “She is the prophet, it wasn’t just a trick on TV. She healed me six months ago.”
“Healed you?” the reporter asked.
“I was in the hospital, in Tutelo, that’s her hometown. I was dying in the Outcast Ward, and I looked up, and I saw her. She touched my face, and I healed. Instantly. I told people about it, but no one believed me, until now.” I remembered her now—she was the girl in the Outcast Ward I’d given a pill to, when I’d gone to the hospital to save Macy. I’d just meant to get rid of it, so I wouldn’t be caught with it. I never imagined that someone would say I’d performed a miracle.
Maybe Zack was right. Maybe people were more convinced than my mother had led me to believe.
Prophet Joshua was in his dressing room, flanked by two guards. “Please, sit.”
I sat across from him, and he nodded for Esther to leave the room. I could tell she was nervous about leaving me alone, but she did as she was told.
After the door slammed shut, Prophet Joshua moved closer to me. “Cute. Very cute. Trying to sway the crowds in your favor.”
“Seems like it worked,” I said, trying on a little bravado.
“You excited the media. I wouldn’t say you’ve begun a movement quite yet. No prophet has ever declared herself independently and been taken seriously. I had the support of every existing prophet in the world before I took power. People here believe in one religion. One. You can’t start your own.”
I ignored his spitting sarcasm and held his gaze. “So what do you want from me?”
“I wanted you to watch.” He flipped on a TV screen in the corner, and it showed satellite footage of what looked like an empty piece of land.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Central Turkey,” he said. “You’ve been there, I hear?” The footage zoomed in, and I could see an army, poised around a familiar entrance. The underground city. Jude was in there.
“What are you going to do?” I asked, voice trembling.
He relished watching my fear. “I’m considering. There are so many options. I could fill those airways with poison gas, so everyone suffocates slowly. I could send my men in, take everyone out individually, make sure your little friend Jude is good and dead. Or I could leave the whole thing as a smoking hole in the ground. Plant a sign, maybe? ‘Grace Luther slept here.’ What do you think?”
I was frozen. I had to save Jude, Layla, Irene, Mohammed. I had to save all of them. “What do you want me to do?” I asked quietly.
“I have a speech written up for you. You’ll memorize it, and you’ll perform it for all those folks out there, just as well as you did your last little song and dance. And if you do it well enough, I’ll think about just arresting your friends.”
I stared him dead in the eye. I knew I had leverage. I knew I’d won over that crowd, and I knew how powerful that crowd was. It could destroy him if I let it, if I could figure out how to wield it . . . but he had me. I wouldn’t let my friends die. I was weak in that way, in a way someone like Dawn wasn’t. This is why she was a leader, and I was not. I would give up my power in a heartbeat to save the people I loved.
“Think it over,” Joshua said. “You’ve excited a few people, and I’d like to capitalize on that if I can. Worst-case scenario, I think I can find a good story to spin about Grace the martyr.”
“I’ll do it,” I said, ignoring his last threat. “Just tell me what to say.”
13
It was a good speech. I had to hand it to whatever prophet’s aide had written it so quickly—a draft appeared as soon as I’d agreed to give it. As I rehearsed for Joshua, he instructed me to emote more, to smile at him more, to be more soulful. He enjoyed having me as his puppet, making me dance.
Twenty minutes later, satisfied by my performance, he opened the door. “Let’s go.”
The guards let me out of my handcuffs, and I followed him into the hallway, adrenaline rising. The moment I spoke these words, I knew I would lose everything. And I would be relying on the word of a man who had no incentive to keep that word. I looked around for my mother—surely she would be on my side, surely she could coerce Joshua into keeping his promises. But she was nowhere to be seen.
As we emerged into the stadium, escorted by an entourage of guards, the rowdy crowd saw us and swarmed, Joshua’s security team h
olding them back. I’d seen this before—Joshua was overrun everywhere he went, by those trying to get just a taste of his healing touch.
But this time was different. People were clamoring to touch me. “Prophet Grace! Prophet Grace!”
As much as their adoration filled me with a strange kind of excitement, I kept my eyes down—I knew better than to acquiesce to their wishes. My friends’ lives depended on every tiny move I made.
And then the other voices began to echo, to boo. “Hypocrite!” “Liar!” I glanced up and was shocked to realize that those voices were directed at Joshua.
He seemed shocked, too, but out of embarrassment, he ignored them, pushing ahead, confident that my forthcoming speech would set them straight. I began to question my strategy. Was there some way I could use this fervor to my advantage? Regain my edge?
And then I saw it—a balled-up napkin flying through the air, straight at Joshua’s head. A guard batted it down and yelled at whoever had just thrown it, but the crowd still cheered. A paper cup now, thrown at Joshua’s back, crumpling and spilling its contents down his suit, leaving an ugly brown stain.
“Great Spirit does not take kindly to blasphemers!” Joshua warned the crowd, but the jeers only got louder.
No one was being Punished, I realized. Not a person in the crowd. They were still acting under the protection of the dust. Protection they believed came from me.
And then I saw a bright glint of metal—a knife. Fear barely had time to shoot through me as I spotted the middle-aged man wielding it, his face a mask of fury. Joshua saw him, too, and tensed—realizing we were pinned in by this crowd, with no escape. As the attacker lunged toward us, careening like a wild, unstoppable force, the guard blocking Joshua stepped out of the way, terrified, taking no care to protect the prophet. Startled to be exposed like this, Joshua tried to run, but he only had a moment before the attacker was on top of him, driving his weapon straight into Joshua’s spine.
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