The Church

by Celia Aaron

  “Do you have any idea how hard that makes me?” He runs the heel of his palm over his crotch.

  “I’m not playing some power game with you.” I shake my head at him. “This isn’t foreplay or some sort of lure. This is me telling you that I want you dead. I don’t know how to make myself any clearer—I will fucking kill you if you touch me.”

  The guard moves up, his glower verging on a death mask.

  “Oh, I believe you’ll try. Probably several times until I break you.” Evan straightens his tie and runs a hand through his too-perfect hair. “But I will break you.”

  “I hope you like the taste of your own blood.” I don’t know how to fight, but I will do whatever it takes. Desperation can turn anyone into a gladiator.

  “I’ll enjoy the taste of yours more.” He gives me a smug grin. “But I won’t be paying full price for you. Not anymore. I’ll head up to the church and do some horse-trading. After that, you’ll be mine.”

  “I’ll never be yours.” I put every ounce of venom I have into my words.

  His smugness increases ten-fold as he turns and walks away. “Oh darling, I love it when you underestimate me.”

  Chapter 3

  Noah

  “Rat me out. See if I give a fuck.” I stagger past the guard on the road leading to the punishment circle. Or maybe there are two roads? It’s fuzzy at the moment.

  “The Prophet said—”

  “Fuck off!” I keep walking.

  He gives up.

  I kind of wish he’d put his hands on me so I could stomp the shit out of him. Damn. I’m thinking like Adam. Not good. Especially considering where thinking like Adam got Adam. I chuckle and burp, but somehow manage to keep walking.

  The day is chilly though the sun is high and bright. The morning service ended an hour ago. I had to attend, waiting in the wings. But I took two bottles with me, drinking up as my father preached about the new year and the new future for Heavenly.

  All I can think about is the numbing liquor and Adam. I can still hear his screams. They echo through my mind whenever things get too quiet. So I drink to keep the noise going, the slosh of my mind roaring in my ears.

  Adam doesn’t move as I approach. For a moment, I fear he’s as dead as Christ on the cross. But Adam won’t get a second chance to come back. If they roll the stone away from his crypt, they’ll only find rot and death, not a fresh new savior.

  “Shut up,” I berate myself and continue walking toward him until I’m standing beneath the cross. “Adam?”

  His eyes open, and he shifts his feet on the narrow plank. “Afternoon.” His hoarse voice hides the pain that I can see all too well in the bright sun. Bloodied hands, each one with a nail through it. His skin is already chafing at the edges of the leather straps that hold his upper arms to the wood.

  My eyes water. The pain isn’t gone. The liquor didn’t dull it enough. Fuck. My knees go weak, and I drop to the cold ground. Great, heaving sobs that aren’t fit for a man like me—they come anyway, rolling through my body.

  It’s all so fucked, and there’s nothing I can do. I can’t take Adam down. I can’t stop my father’s madness. I can’t even fucking drink myself to sleep like a decent alcoholic. I weep until my nose is running and I can barely breathe.

  “Noah.” His voice scratches its way through to me.

  “I’m sorry.” The words hurtle out as I gaze up at him.

  “Not your fault.” He winces and changes position again, his legs shaking from the effort.

  “I can’t do anything.” I shake my head.

  “I know.” He lets his weight go for a moment, allowing the leather straps to hold him up and give his legs some relief. A low wail rips from him, and his hands bleed more, crimson drops plopping to the barren ground.

  “Oh, God.” I swipe at my eyes and stand. “I have to get you down.”

  “No.” He flexes his legs again, standing. “Don’t.”

  “You’ll die.” I’m wearing a light jacket, but I can feel the cool air seeping through. “When it gets dark, for sure. You’ll die of exposure.”

  “Maybe.” He peers down at me, constant pain etched into his face. “But you can’t interfere. You don’t want to be up here with me.”

  If I wasn’t such a coward, that’s exactly where I would be. I should have listened to him, taken some chances. Instead, here I am, drunk, useless, and a fucking disgrace. “I can’t let him kill you.”

  “He won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “If he wanted to kill me, he would have done it already. With more show. And probably with fire or some sort of over-the-top crazy shit.”

  “You’re just guessing.” The cross seems pretty fucking over-the-top crazy to me.

  “Maybe.” He shakes his head a little. “But I’m not what’s important. I need you to help Delilah. Save her. Don’t let that senator take her.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, and I can’t do anything about it at the moment.” He lets out a raspy laugh. “A bit tied up. Really nailed.” He winces, his false bravado cracking under his own weight.

  “How did we get here?” I dig my palms into my eye sockets, trying to rub away the image of my brother, naked, nailed to a fucking cross. It doesn’t go anywhere. Will it ever leave?

  He doesn’t offer an answer.

  I look up again, the sacrilege and horror melding into a desperate need to vomit that I force down. My panic rises instead. “I can get you. I just need—I don’t know—a ladder or something.”

  “You can’t.” His hoarse voice drops to a whisper. “You can’t save me, Noah.”

  “When it gets dark, the temperature will plummet. You won’t last up there.” Will Dad let him die like this? No matter what Adam says, I don’t know the answer, and that scares the shit out of me.

  He lets his head hang. Maybe he’s only been holding it up this whole time out of pride, or worse—to show me that he can take it. He can’t. No one can.

  “Leave it, Noah. I told you. I can’t have you up here next to me. Look after Delilah. Keep an eye on Dad. Don’t let on about Mom. And … talk to Grace. See if you can work with her to help Delilah.”

  “Grace?” I must be hearing things. Thanks, liquor.

  “Yes. She will want to keep Delilah safe.”

  “Did I just enter some other, I don’t know, reality or something?”

  “Just trust me. But not her all the way. Or Mom.”

  “Mom. Right.” The booze still forms a film over my thoughts, but she cuts through it. “Maybe she can do something.”

  “She won’t tip her hand. Not yet. Not until she’s ready to take over.” He narrows his eyes, my shrewd brother still alive inside his aching shell. “Don’t believe anything she tells you. Not really. She’s a snake. Don’t show her your weaknesses. Spin lies with your truth. If you’re honest with her, she’ll use that information to gut you when the time’s right.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because that’s how I’d play it.” His brow furrows. “I need you to go.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I can’t hold on much longer. My legs. They’re already worn out. I have to let go again. But when I do …”

  “Fuck.” I step toward the cross. Maybe I can scale it and give him some sort of relief.

  “Don’t.” He tenses. “Can’t risk it. Please. Go.”

  I want to roar and tear the fucking cross out of the ground. But I got him here. My actions—or, really, my inaction. Because I wouldn’t back him, he’s here. My eyes tingle. Fuck.

  “I’m sorry.” I won’t cry. Not again. Not ever. I don’t deserve it. “I’m so sorry.”

  “None of this is your fault. You were so young when this all started.” His scratchy voice softens. “You didn’t have a chance, Noah. Not at all.”

  “Don’t make excuses for me.”

  “They’re not excuses. Just the truth. You can’t help it. I forgive you. I’ll always forgive you.”
>
  Just hearing him say it knocks the breath out of me.

  “Please.” His voice breaks. “Go before I can’t—” His words cut off on a wretched groan as his toes slip off the edge. “Please,” he gasps.

  “Fuck!” I’m desperate to climb up and help.

  “Go.” It’s not a request, he’s begging me. I’ve never heard him beg, not like this, not broken to the point that I see the boy inside the man—the same scared kid that I was when our father started Heavenly and tore us away from everything we knew. The same scared kid I am.

  Against every instinct I have, I turn and stride away, my steps still wobbly but with renewed purpose.

  I’m barely out of the punishment circle before his searing cry tears through the chilled air, cutting through bone and straight to my heart.

  Chapter 4

  Delilah

  One Year Ago

  The white plastic chair creaks beneath me as I take my seat toward the back. Several other women file into the room, purple worship binders in their hands. The church service ended with the Prophet asking that any women interested in joining the Cloister meet in one of the fellowship rooms.

  I wait as the room fills, at least two-dozen women taking seats, some whispering amongst themselves. In my time at Heavenly, I’ve been polite and spoken to people who’ve approached me, but I haven’t made any friends. That’s not what I’m here for. So I sit alone, empty seats on either side that only become occupied when there is nowhere else left.

  A young woman, maybe eighteen, with strawberry blonde hair sits to my right and holds her binder to her chest. “Hi, I’m Sabrina.” Her voice is small, the squeak of a mouse, but she’s friendly.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Emily.” We don’t shake, but a soft layer of comfort falls between us like a light snow.

  “I hope I get picked.” She turns to look at me, her eyes big and green.

  I swallow my real thoughts, tucking them away, and say, “So do I.”

  “We could be Maidens together. Do the Lord’s work.” She smiles. “Bring glory to the Prophet.”

  My devout persona chafes the real me, but I return her smile. “Wouldn’t that be a blessing?”

  “The highest.” She nods and turns away, likely lost in thoughts of how great the Cloister must be.

  I know better, but revealing it now—even if it would help these girls—isn’t part of the plan. So I stay quiet and wait.

  When the Prophet walks in, he beams at us, his charm a fountain that never runs out. The chatter stops, and we all focus on the one man who claims to know God’s plan for our lives.

  “Ladies.” He stands at a wooden lectern at the front, and someone closes the door with a faint metallic click. “I’m so glad to see you all here. Thank you for coming.”

  Some women murmur “thank you” in response.

  “I know there’s a lot of talk about what the Cloister is, especially when people see the Maidens in their white dresses and veils. But here, at this informational meeting, I’m going to tell you what it is and what it isn’t.”

  I know what it is.

  “The Cloister is a place of safety. Somewhere young women can go and live and learn for one year. There, you will be taken care of and treated as holy. Every need you have will be taken care of, and you will want for nothing. There is only one requirement that you must meet in order to be considered.” His gaze sweeps the room. “And I’m certain you young ladies won’t have a problem getting over this hurdle. In order to be sacred to the Lord, you must be pure of heart, mind, and body. I won’t go into details and shock your finer sensibilities, but if you aren’t sure what I mean, please feel free to ask one of your sisters here or, if you see a Spinner, she can guide you with the knowledge. The Spinners are holy servants, and serve me and the Maidens with equal parts love and devotion.”

  I glance around. A few of the women fidget, their fingers clasped in front of them. Others keep their eyes on the Prophet. I would guess that maybe a third of them just got disqualified. They have no idea how lucky they are.

  “We have a questionnaire for each of you to fill out. Basic questions about your heritage, education, interests—things like that. We wouldn’t want to pry, of course, but we need truthful answers.” He motions toward the door. It opens, and a Spinner walks in with a sheaf of papers. She passes them out, and I pull a pen from my handbag and start filling it out as the Prophet continues telling us all the benefits of becoming a Maiden.

  Name: Emily Lanier

  I print my address, birthdate, and social security number. They’ll use this information to erase me, to change me into whatever new persona the Prophet creates for me at the Cloister. I discovered the way they erase the victims when I was searching for records on Georgia. Her name had legally been changed to Mary, her taxes filed for her. They even claimed government benefits in her name—food stamps and welfare checks delivered to a Heavenly address. The Prophet’s scheme covers every angle, keeps the Maidens dependent on him, and changes them at an almost cellular level into whatever he wants them to be. By filling this out, I’m offering myself up to be destroyed. But I do what I have to do for my sister, for justice.

  I fill out every blank space, determined to seem as transparent as possible. I have to get in.

  When I come to the final question on the first page, I hesitate.

  Reason for Wanting to Become a Maiden:

  “The need to know what you bastards did to Georgia and why”—that would be the most accurate, closely followed by “revenge.” I write down neither of those and steal a glance at Sabrina’s page. In a neat cursive hand, she’s answered the question with “So I can serve the Prophet.”

  I know a similar answer is the key I need to unlock the Cloister. With a deep breath, I press my pen to the page.

  Chapter 5

  Delilah

  Ruth never returns to the Cathedral, even though the rest of the women, or “wives” as they call themselves, arrive shortly after the end of church service. When they open the main door, scents of food waft through the air, and my stomach twists. I can’t remember the last time I ate.

  The wives mill around for a few minutes, none of them meeting my gaze.

  “Where’s Ruth?” I approach the pregnant one whom I’d encountered briefly the night before, when I first arrived.

  She shakes her head.

  “Tell me.” I grab her elbow.

  “Not here.” She shakes her arm free. “Now lay off or you’ll get me in trouble.”

  I approach another woman, this one with demure braids and large, expressive eyes. “Why didn’t Ruth come back?”

  She doesn’t reply, but the ghost of an emotion—maybe pity—flickers across her face before dying. “I can’t help you.” Her small voice matches her steps as she backs away from me slowly. “I’m sorry.”

  More than hunger eats away at my insides. Something happened to Ruth. It seems like every crutch I’m given falls away the second I put the slightest bit of weight on it. I’m the common thread in all of it. Maybe that’s why she’s gone. Maybe they saw her talking to me.

  Some of the women change clothes and others use the bathroom. I watch them from a perch on one of the couches, though none of them dare approach me. Wait, Ruth had said to me so many times. I see why. Nothing here is under my control, and I’m at the mercy of the clock—always waiting for something to happen instead of making it happen myself. I grind my teeth and consider approaching another one of the wives. Surely, one of them will break free and say something helpful, or at least tell me what happened to Ruth.

  I rise from the couch, resolve firmly in place, when a low, dull electronic bell rings three times, and the women line up at the doors, a tingle of electric excitement running through them like a current.

  “What’s happening?” I step to the back of the line, trying to blend in with the wives as the row starts moving forward.

  “Lunch,” the brunette in front of me whispers.

  My stomach clenches
again, and my mouth waters as the scent of freshly-baked bread dances around me like a wispy dream. It’s odd how specific your sense of smell becomes when you’re hungry—I mean the “haven’t eaten in days” hungry, not the “I’m jonesing for my next meal” hungry. I can even pick out the notes of browned butter and the unwelcome odor of baked broccoli.

  We’re led down the main corridor, the guard paying me no attention. But I’m not fooled. I have no doubt that he knows exactly who I am. Whatever I’m doing, it’s being allowed by the Prophet.

  The sense of nervous excitement grows as the women walk quickly out of the dormitory area. We file through the nursery corridor, some of the women cooing at the babies, then through the hall with children’s rooms on either side. They’re empty now, the dark rooms with their childish décor eerie and silent.

  When we enter the dining area near the front door, the women walk quickly toward the tables, and I can see why. Children are seated at intervals, as if they’ve been assigned tables, and some of them amble around playing chase with their friends. The kids beam as the women—their mothers, I assume—rush to them and pepper them with kisses. The sweet tinkle of children’s laughter and the warm hum of mothers’ voices fills the room.

  I follow a line of women who aim for a long table against the back wall. No children welcome them, and some of them glance with open envy at the mothers who hug their excited little ones.

  The brunette who was in front of me sits near the end of the long table, and I take a seat next to her.

  “No kids?” I ask gently.

  “The Prophet has blessed me with his seed, but …” Her cheeks flush, and she clamps her mouth shut.

  “I’m sorry.” The words are out before I realize it’s an odd thing to say. But it’s a reflex. I apologize because I’ve hurt her. Even though the horror of it all isn’t lost on me—she’s upset because she hasn’t become pregnant by her rapist, the Prophet. No matter how willing she may think she is, she’s not. The Prophet’s lies brought her here, and his armed guards and locked doors keep her.