The Maiden (The Cloister Book 1)

by Celia Aaron

  Sitting up seems to help my breathing, though I have to inhale and exhale to clear the black dots swirling in my vision. I touch my fingertips to my cheek. They come away red. My haze begins to clear. The bed is splattered with blood, and crimson streaks up the wall along with chunks of gray matter.

  My stomach heaves. I bite the back of my hand, trying to keep from throwing up. It would be just another thing the Head Spinner would make me clean.

  Another soft knock at my door makes me jump. I stand on wobbly legs and skirt the dead man’s boots, then open the door.

  Tears fall down Chastity’s face. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” My voice is a rasp, and it hurts.

  “Can I come in?” She has towels piled on one arm and a container of Clorox in the other. “Please?”

  I nod and back up as she scurries in and closes the door. “I’m not supposed to help, but Spinner Grace won’t notice.” She swallows hard. “I hope.”

  “The Head Spinner’s name is Grace?”

  She shrugs. “The Prophet assigns our names.” Kneeling, she leans over the body. “Let’s get him into the tub. We can strip him there and wash him off.”

  I want to mention that a quarter of his head is gone, that gore is everywhere, that there was no way we could ever clean the blood off him. Or me. Instead I join her on the floor, my hands still shaking, my body going cold, and help her drag his still-warm corpse to the bathroom. His blood oozes onto the white tiles, leaving a slippery trail of human carnage.

  “You seem used to dealing with bodies.” I can barely understand myself, and my throat makes an ugly clicking noise as I speak.

  She freezes for only a second, then continues working without reply. How many deaths had she seen at this place? Had she seen Georgia’s? The burning need to know almost overcomes my caution, but I keep my lips firmly shut. She won’t tell me anything. Not until I have more time to work on her.

  “On three.” She grips one of his arms and motions for me to take the other. “One, two, three.”

  I lift as hard as I can. The body flumps into the tub, marring the surface and the wall with more garish crimson. My stomach churns again, and even Chastity seems to pale.

  She wipes her hands on one of the towels, then gives me a steady look. “Now we need to remove his clothes.”

  I cringe.

  “We can do this.” She reaches over and squeezes my wrist. “We have to.”

  “Okay.” I lean over the tub and grab the hem of his t-shirt. The Confederate flag across the front has become more of a modern art piece, red seeping through the white parts. With a yank, I get it up to his chest, his pale skin the sickly shade of a fish’s belly.

  “I’ve got his arms.” She nods, encouraging me to keep working.

  After an hour of labor, we sit back and stare at the man in the tub. He’s naked, turning blue, but clean except for the wounds in his head and back. They aren’t bleeding anymore, but if we move him, little runnels of red still ooze out.

  “This is as good as we can get him.” She stands and puts her hands on her hips, stretching her back and popping her neck. “Let’s get him onto the towels. Then you can shower off while I clean the room.”

  Before I know it’s happening, I feel tears on my cheeks. Some dam suddenly breaks inside me. I’m already coming apart, and I’ve only been in this hell for two days.

  Her eyes soften, and she pulls me into her arms. “You survived. Shhh, now. Shh. You survived. That’s what’s important. You’re alive. He’s dead. He’ll never hurt you or anyone else again.” She strokes down my back, slow and steady, as I sob on her shoulder.

  “Am I in bad trouble?” I whisper.

  “You?” She shakes her head. “No. Protector Adam, though, I’m pretty sure there’ll be consequences.”

  I can’t think about him right now. About what he did or his reasons for doing it. He threatened me not four hours ago. Then he protected me. I thought I knew what I was getting into when I volunteered for the Cloister.

  I don’t understand. My gorge rises again, and I throw myself away from Chastity and heave the entire contents of my stomach into the toilet.

  I was already afraid when I knew what was coming next.

  Now that I’m in the dark? I’m terrified.

  Chapter 8

  Delilah

  Five years ago

  “This makes me look fat, doesn’t it?” Georgia twirls in a blue dress, the fabric flowing out around her knees in an arc of sky.

  “No.” I lay on her bed, my hands propping up my chin and my feet in the air. “You look like some glam queen.”

  “Oh, stop.” She waves a hand at me, then reconsiders. “No, go on. Tell me how cute I am.”

  “You’re the worst.” I lay my head down and stare out the second-floor window of her bedroom. Everything is so soft here—the bedspread, the carpet, the voices of her parents as they go about their weekend in the house below. Nothing like my home.

  “I would kill for your platinum hair, you know?” She sits next to me and runs her fingers through my long strands.

  A lot of people compliment my hair. But Georgia hits on the exact problem with what she doesn’t say. She wants my hair, sure. But she doesn’t want the pale skin and grey eyes that come with it. Whereas Georgia is all blonde curls, tan skin, and bright blue eyes, I’m the ghost of the girl I’m supposed to be. That’s how I think of myself, as if I’m a black and white spirit while my real self is someone technicolor, like Dorothy over the rainbow.

  “At least I got your nose.” She points to the slightly upturned tip. “The boys don’t know that it’s the nose that gets their attention when it comes to babes like us.”

  “You’re delusional.” I still smile. Georgia always has a way of tapping into the deeply-hidden vein of happiness inside me. Maybe because we share a father. Or maybe because of who she is—an effervescent beauty queen who rules her high school with a benevolent, but firm, hand.

  Georgia Evans is a teen dream, and I fantasize about going to her school and living in her inner circle. But I’m a Barnes, and I don’t belong here in this clean, bright world. That doesn’t mean I can’t imagine how different things would be if I had a stepfather who cared enough to give me his name, or a mother who didn’t have to work three jobs just to keep it together.

  “Girls, time for church,” her mother calls from the bottom of the stairs.

  I push up from the bed and eye the dress Georgia has chosen for me—a pink A-line that I already know will hang loose in the bust.

  “I can’t wear that.”

  “You can.” She floats to her closet and bends over to drag out some white mary janes.

  “I’ll look like a little girl in those.” I frown and strip off her long night-shirt emblazoned with Taylor Swift’s face.

  Georgia knows I’m shy, so she looks away as I adjust my barely-needed bra, then pull the dress over my head.

  “Do we really have to go to church?” I roll my eyes as I catch a glimpse of myself in her dresser mirror. Just as I figured, the bust is made for Georgia, not for me. It hangs, and the dress is wearing me instead of the other way around. So pale, I’m a white rabbit caught in a puff of cotton candy.

  She frowns, then her expression brightens, just as it always does. “I’ve got it.” She turns and rummages through the stack of plastic storage drawers in the side of her closet, then yanks a white cardigan from a hanger. “Here.” She whips me around, then futzes with the back of my dress. The front tightens up.

  Suddenly, a real teenager appears in the mirror, not the ghostly girl I am used to seeing. The dress molds to what little curves I have and—while not perfectly fitted—is easily the best thing I’ve ever worn.

  “Now—” she helps me with the cardigan“—Perfect!”

  I turn and whatever she used to gather the dress fabric is hidden beneath the soft cardigan. I want to say “wow,” but my throat feels too tight.

  She grins and pushes me so I fa
ll onto the bed, then kneels and puts the too-big shoes on my feet. “You are so pretty when you let me force you into it.”

  The tightness fades as I stare down at her halo of golden curls, the familiarity of her soothing the too-raw emotions of the past few moments. “I don’t know why I have to dress up this time. Your parents never cared what I wore before—well, except the time they made me change The Kinks t-shirt.”

  She pops up and smiles at her handiwork. “Oh, this time is a special occasion.”

  “Why?” I follow her into the hall, my ankles wobbly as we head down the stairs.

  She turns, her big blue eyes looking up at me. “Because the Prophet is coming today.”

  Chapter 9

  Adam

  I toss my shirt to the floor as I enter the sacred circle. Crosses—some upside down, some right side up—pentagrams, and various other symbols greet me from all angles.

  Noah walks along the circular wall and lights candles. Dad and his fucking love of spectacle.

  “Why?” Noah crossed to me, his bare feet disturbing the salt circle.

  “She’s mine.”

  “So?” He frowns. “That’s not a good enough reason.”

  “Newell was a cunt. What does it matter?” His filthy blood all over my hands barely scratches the surface of what I’m capable of. Killing Newell is the lightest of my transgressions, perhaps even a mark in my favor.

  “Because of this.” He points to my bare back and the criss-cross of scars that live there. “I fucking hate it.”

  “He would have killed her.” I shrug and stretch up, looping my wrists through the wooden cross in the center of the room.

  “No, he knew better. He would have…” He shakes his head. “But she’d be alive. And so would Newell.”

  “Goddammit, Noah!” I yank on the self-tightening restraints. “Sometimes we have to make a choice. I fucking made it. I’ll take the punishment for it. End of story. Now light the candles and enjoy the show.”

  I love my brother. So much that I want to shake the fuck out of him. He’s been steeped in the culture of Heavenly Ministries since he was too young to know any better, and it fucking shows. Evil isn’t a bad thing when it’s all you’ve ever known. It’s a comfortable blanket, a warm sun, a lover’s kiss. For him, all this makes sense.

  But I remember a time when my father was just another preacher at one of the larger Baptist churches in Birmingham. I went to the religious school, had a nearly normal life, and pretended to believe in all the crap my father spouted. Over time, he became the head pastor. And that’s when everything changed. Power allowed my father to preach a new message. One of fear, of a coming apocalypse, of the need for the congregation to tithe more and more to support the church. To support him.

  I shake off the memories as the Protectors file into the room and stand in a circle around me. None of them look too happy about me killing Newell. I smirk and hope they know I’d just as soon do the same to them.

  “Son.” My father’s voice slithers into the room. “Why have you disappointed me yet again?”

  “I guess old habits die hard.” I see Noah flinch at the sarcasm in my tone.

  “You think this is a joke?” My father moves closer.

  “I think I killed someone who had it coming.”

  “Had it coming?” He seems genuinely confused.

  “I thought you’d be all in favor of what I did, considering Newell was about to break your number one commandment.”

  “You have no proof of that.”

  I realize there’s no point arguing. Gripping the wooden cross, I steel myself for what’s next.

  “Oh, son.” The faux dismay in my father’s voice is laughable. “I don’t enjoy this. You know that, don’t you? But what else can I do? You killed one of my godly Protectors. There can be no other outcome.”

  A rumble of agreement pulses through the circle.

  “Just get on with it.”

  He lets out a heavy sigh, as if he isn’t looking forward to the blood and pain. But I know the monster too well to believe it. This is what he thrives on.

  “Just as in the story of Abraham, I must take my own son and lay him on the altar of the Lord. A sacrifice to show my adherence to God. And just as Abraham, my heart aches as I lash my son to the altar.” He moves around and checks my wrists, making sure they’re held fast, then takes the whip from a frowning Noah. “And I must be steadfast in my sacrifice, for if I am, the Lord says ‘I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore. Your descendants will take possession of the cities of their enemies, and through your offspring all nations on earth will be blessed, because you have obeyed me.’”

  The Protectors answer with a steady “amen” as my father backs away.

  I want to say that in the story of Abraham, he never sacrifices his son at all. The son is reprieved by God, not harmed by his father. But that thought is seared away with the first strike of the whip. More follow in rapid succession.

  I don’t cry out, not even when I feel the blood trickling down my back. My teeth grind together, possibly on the verge of breaking as my father puts everything he has into the final blow. Black flickers across my vision, but I refuse to pass out, refuse to give in.

  When he’s done, he’s winded, his voice breathy. “Atonement has been paid for the loss of Protector Newell.”

  Another “amen” and the men file out, some of them giving me satisfied smirks as they pass. Despite the overwhelming fire roaring across my back, I want to lunge at them. To take these monsters down the same way I did Newell. But that thought ignores the obvious.

  After all, I’m a monster, too.

  I lie on my side, lazy smoke from my joint twisting in front of my face as I stare at the wide TV screen on my wall.

  Delilah sits in a corner of her now-clean room. She rocks back and forth, her wide eyes focused on the door. She’s the picture of terror, the sort that, once it touches a person, leaves a mark.

  “These aren’t the worst you’ve ever had.” Noah tends to the tears in my skin, the wounds that will heal and add to the scar tissue inside and out.

  I take another drag on the joint, holding the smoke in my lungs as he pulls me into a sitting position and begins wrapping gauze around my torso.

  Exhaling, I watch as her head slowly drops to her knees, then bobs up again, her gaze on the door. Is she afraid that I might come through the door? Another Protector, maybe?

  Fear is the best thing for her. The sooner she breaks, the easier it will be for me. In the past, I had quite a few Maidens who—despite the stark reality of the Cloister—still believed my father was the Prophet. The rituals helped with that notion. And they didn’t require me to break them. Instead, they were eager to please, to learn, to become the Prophet’s favorite.

  In the end, all of them—the true believers and the broken ones—all believe that the Prophet favors them, that they are chosen, that God has put his mark of favor upon them. I try to imagine how it must feel when they wind up at the Chapel or the Cathedral instead of on the arm of a politician or one of the South’s millionaires. Betrayal. I’m intimately familiar with that sensation.

  Her head nods forward again, resting on the tops of her knees. This time, she’s out. As out as she can be.

  “You’ve never watched one before.” Noah tucks the end of the gauze into the tight ribbons around my chest.

  I let out another puff of smoke, the weed finally giving me that perfect sensation of soft disconnection. “She’s different.”

  “Why?” He checks his handiwork.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is she going to be a problem?” He takes the joint from my fingers and pulls in a long drag. “I mean, more than she already is?”

  “She’ll fall in line. Mine always do.” The few times I’ve had to break my Maidens, I always managed it before the trials that begin at the 6-month mark. Maybe because I’m methodical. Maybe because of the
consequences if I fail. Or, more likely, because I enjoy it.

  “She looks so weird. With the hair and the white skin.” He shakes his head.

  I reach for the remote. He shouldn’t be looking at her. At what’s mine. And his criticism cuts through the smoky haze of my high. I click the screen off.

  “Touchy.”

  “Fuck off.” I lie back down, the lines of fire across my back pulling a groan from me.

  “After Newell, how many is it now?” he asks quietly.

  “How many what?” I know what he’s asking, but the sadist in me wants to hear him say it.

  “How many … you know … people have you…”

  “Killed?” I stick the knife in.

  He winces.

  I should feel something. Maybe remorse. But there’s nothing there. Not even the emptiness bothers me anymore. “At current count, seven.” I grin. “But there’s always tomorrow.”

  “God will forgive you.” He stubs out the joint. “You did it all for His glory.” He swallows hard. “Even Newell, since he may have had intentions of defiling one of the chosen Maidens.”

  I open the top drawer of my nightstand and pull out a flask of whiskey. My brother’s blind belief is doing more to tank my high than even the pain in my back.

  “Which god?” I take a draw, the heat pouring down my throat. “The one up top or the one below?”

  “They are both one.” He pulls the blanket up to my waist. “You know this. There can be no light without dark. Our Heavenly Father and our Father of Fire have already forgiven you. Even Mom believes—”

  “How do you know what she believes?”

  He pinches his lips together, then relents. “I’m just guessing.” He sighs. “I don’t know. Anyway, I’m sure you’re forgiven. Doing things that seem wrong, if they’re done for the Heavenly Father or the Father of Fire—that makes them righteous.”