The Church

by Celia Aaron

  I stare at the stage door at the very end of the hall. That’s where my father will make his entrance just before it’s time to start. I balance on my good foot, waiting. After about ten minutes, the door opens and my mother walks in, her limp slowing her down. Castro holds onto her elbow and leads her up the stairs and through the door. They’re going to make their move. My mother usually comes to service, but she has an assigned seat in the crowd, surrounded by members of the Heavenly Police Force and Protectors. She’s breaking protocol. Expectation hums through me like a funeral dirge. It’s all about to go down.

  Running my fingers over the pistol in my pocket, I reassure myself that if she doesn’t get it done, I will. My father has to die today. Heavenly has to end. Before more people are lost, before Emily is sold to a monster, before anyone else falls into my father’s trap.

  The door opens again, and my breath freezes in my lungs. Emily walks in, Evan at her back. Her face is drawn and pale, and her shoulders are curved forward, as if she’s in a protective stance, seeking to shield her softest parts from attackers. Evan whispers something in her ear, then leads her to the stairs. When she gets to the top, she turns, her gaze resting on the door where I stand as if she can see me in the dark. The sadness in her pulls at me, yanking me toward her no matter the consequences. I rest my hand on the door handle, my heart pumping as if I’ve been sprinting through the trees again, racing after her. She stares for a moment longer, her gray eyes seeking. I turn the handle and start to open it.

  She turns, Evan leading her through the door to the stage and closing it behind them. My hand relaxes, the door clicking shut. She’s gone, but I feel her. In my soul, in every part of me that’s still alive. I won’t fail her. Not anymore.

  I wait, biding my time until everyone is in place. When the door opens once more, my father strides in with half a dozen Protectors. He hands a black satchel to Zion and gives instructions that I can’t hear. When he’s finished, Zion nods and motions for the Protectors to follow him. My father climbs the stairs to the stage in what I hope is his last performance.

  After a few minutes, I leave the dark room and push through one of the side doors to the sanctuary. The seats are already filled, an ensemble onstage singing a hymn as the crowd murmurs quietly. I ascend the stadium stairs and choose the only empty seat on the right side aisle.

  “What a blessed morning.” The man in the seat next to me is already too chipper for my tastes.

  “Morning.” I keep my voice low, my hoodie up.

  He doesn’t take the hint. “You a regular?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I’m Gene. Pleased to meet you.” He holds his hand out.

  Mine are still bandaged and in my pocket. “I’m sorry, but I’m getting over a cold, so it wouldn’t be—”

  “No need to say more.” He chuckles. “I don’t need to bring any sickness into my house. Got a newborn at home with my wife. I’ve brought my daughter and son to service, though. Don’t like to miss, not when the Prophet’s on fire like he has been the past few Sundays.”

  I could laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I nod along as he continues waxing warm and fuzzy about my father. I still haven’t looked the guy in the face, but I can picture him. Good ol’ boy. Maybe a beard. Laugh wrinkles next to his eyes. Seems harmless. But if he’s enjoying the Prophet’s teachings, there’s a part of him that hates. Hates so deeply that he comes here to indulge it once a week, to let it free under the guise of religion. Jez wants to destroy him for that hate. I hold onto hope that he can change, that his children can choose a different path. Perhaps I’m naïve. The more he talks, the more I’m sure of it.

  “—and what he said about the women needing to cover up? Amen. He’s right on, don’t you think?”

  “Mmhhm.” I tune him out even further as the singers near the end of their song.

  It’s almost showtime.

  Chapter 27

  Delilah

  The choir’s voices drone quietly over the backstage speakers, their version of “Great is Thy Faithfulness” steady and smooth.

  “We’re up first.” Evan holds my hand, his confidence suffocating.

  All I can see is blood. Chastity’s life flowing all over the perfectly polished floor, the Prophet stepping back so his shoes wouldn’t get splattered, Castro lowering her to the floor. Nothing will ever make it right. My body is numb, my heart sedated. I have a purpose, but it’s lost behind a veil of crimson—the thick, syrupy liquid coating everything I see.

  “You get through this, and we’re home free.” Evan squeezes my fingers lightly. “Then things will be fine. You’ll forget about this place, these people. I promise.”

  His promise rings hollow like his soul. There is no forgetting what happened here. Not to me, or Georgia, or Adam, or Sarah, or Chastity. Even if Heavenly is reduced to rubble, the scars it has inflicted will remain inside me forever. Indelible, raised marks that I can’t explain and don’t want to touch for fear of opening the old wounds.

  A young man fusses over the Prophet as he sits in front of a mirror with large, bare bulbs, just like you see in any decent showbiz film. Powder on the face, product in the hair, and then the final touch—a microphone looped behind his ear and poised near his mouth.

  The Prophet rises, but something catches his eye. He turns toward the darker depths of backstage, and I follow his gaze. Something is moving back there.

  Someone touches my hair. I turn my head to find Grace behind me, bobby pins sticking out of her mouth.

  She scrunches her forehead. “Dt moooooo.”

  I take it she means “don’t move,” so turn back toward the stage. Utterly unaffected by Chastity’s murder, she pins the white veil to my hair and tosses the fabric over my face. It hangs to my chest, a white blur on everything.

  “Beautiful,” Evan says as the choir crescendos toward the end of the song.

  Noise behind me catches my attention, and I cast a glance toward the commotion.

  The Prophet, red-faced and irate, points his finger at Rachel, his voice rising. She must have been the one moving in the wing. Castro stands beside her, his face placid, his hand in his pocket.

  “—lying whore. This will not go unpunished. Castro, take her down to the congregation and keep an eye on her.”

  “Can’t do that.” Castro pulls a pistol from his pocket and aims it at the Prophet. “It’s best you do what Rachel says. Make the announcement. Step down.”

  I move toward them to try and hear better.

  Evan grabs my elbow. “Don’t.”

  I shake him off and take another step before he grabs me again. “Delilah, this is clearly a family matter that we need to stay the hell out of.”

  “You, Castro?” The Prophet shakes his head. “Bastard of an ingrate. After all I’ve done for you. ‘He who shared my bread has turned against me.’”

  “Don’t try to use the Bible on me, old man.” Castro’s dark eyes rage, his voice shaking. “After all I’ve put up with from you. All the times you passed me over. You’re the betrayer, not me.”

  “Leon, there’s no point arguing.” Rachel holds up a hand. “All you have to do is announce that you are stepping down and that Adam will be taking your place as Prophet. If you don’t, Castro will shoot you dead, and I’ll make the announcement myself.”

  The Prophet seems to ignore the threat as he looms over his wife, every bit of him tense. “You’re the one who took Adam? You?”

  It’s as if I’m watching a movie through a frosted window, trying to follow the characters and guess what’s going to happen next.

  “That’s neither here nor there.” Unafraid, she glares up at him. Her weakness is gone. Was it always a charade? In its place, iron seems to run through her spine, and the malevolence in her gaze is only tempered by the veil that dims my vision. In the hazy light, I can see that Adam has her fire, the same indomitable will to survive, to carry on, and to win. Maybe she can pull this off. My heart leaps at the thought of it, ho
w easy it could be if she cuts the Prophet down to nothing in one smooth stroke.

  “You’re a witch!” the Prophet yells, his voice likely carrying to the Maidens along the front row. “An evil thing sent here to torment me!” He turns to Grace who’s been silently watching near the stage door. “Go get Zion or any Protector. I want Rachel and Castro detained until after service.”

  Grace reaches for the door and flips over the sliding lock. Her smug smile resurfaces, and for the first time, the Prophet seems to lose some of his steam. “Grace, do it now!” His voice quavers.

  She leans against the door and crosses her arms with a curt shake of her head.

  “You!” He points to the young man standing frozen next to the makeup chair. “Get out there and get me some help!”

  Unsure, he drops his makeup brush. “I, okay—”

  “Now!” The Prophet yells, and the man glances at the bright stage and starts to move.

  Grace tracks him like a cougar on a deer.

  “Don’t!” I lunge toward him, but Evan drags me back.

  “Leave it, Delilah,” he growls against my veil.

  The poor man takes half a dozen steps toward the stage before Grace is on him. I don’t see the blade, but I can tell by the jerking motion of her arm that she’s stabbing him in the back again and again. His yell is covered by the final notes of the choir, and I feel his body thump to the floor. Grace wipes her knife on his white shirt, then stands.

  “Witches, all of you!” the Prophet cries.

  The choir quiets, the song over.

  “Maybe I am.” Rachel smiles, drawing his attention back to her. “But it doesn’t matter. Either you do what I say or you die now, choking on your own blood. It’s up to you, dear husband.”

  “The Father of Fire will punish you.” He smooths the front of his jacket, his tone returning to even and reasonable. “You will not win this, Rachel. And once it’s over, you’ll be hung with the other whores in the punishment circle.”

  “Your threats don’t scare me. Not anymore.” She clasps her hands in front of her, her simple white shirt and black skirt hiding the complicated woman within. “Are you going to oblige?”

  Castro raises his pistol to the Prophet’s forehead as a green light blinks on the front wall of the stage just behind the shimmering gold curtain. It’s time for the Prophet to address his congregation.

  “Or shall I have Castro shoot you?” She shrugs. “Either way, your time is up. This is Adam’s world now. His to rule.”

  “You mean yours,” the Prophet sneers. “But I have news for you, sweet wife, Adam can’t be controlled. Not by me. And certainly not by a weak-willed female like you.”

  She shrugs. “I doubt that’s the case, but even if it is, I have another son.”

  Evan wraps his arm around me and slowly pulls me back. “We need to go. Now.”

  Grace catches his movements and scurries around us, cutting off our exit. A few more steps and we’d be bathed in the stage lights, the coup attempt on full display. But those mere feet are like a football field with Grace blocking our path.

  “We’re leaving.” Evan puts a note of command in his voice that is wasted on Grace.

  She holds the blade out toward my face. “Senator, you’re free to go. But Delilah is staying here. Sadly, her usefulness is at an end.”

  “She’s mine.”

  Her eyes flick up to his, and I see the fullness of how unhinged she is. How far gone. She’ll kill both of us. I know it, and so it seems, does Evan.

  His grip loosens. “We had a deal.”

  “Heavenly is under new management.” She waves the blade back and forth, a snake charming herself. “And no former deals will be honored. You leave now, or I gut you. She’s dead either way. But you have a choice.”

  Evan lets me go and scoots me to the side, then brings up his fists. “You don’t have a chance. I’m stronger, faster.”

  Grace laughs and points her knife at the bloodied man a few paces away. “I bet he thought the same thing.”

  I look for any escape. Only the darkness at the back of the stage is an option, but I don’t know where or how far it goes.

  Evan grunts in frustration, his gaze bouncing from me to Grace.

  “She’ll kill you.” Rachel calls, her motherly voice at odds with her dark words. “She doesn’t care who you are. I don’t either.”

  “Evan, you need to help me here.” The Prophet tries to flip the southern gentleman switch, but he just winds up sounding scared. “We can’t let these women—”

  Grace darts toward Evan. He jumps back right when she swings, and the knife barely misses his stomach. “Fuck!” he yells and scurries away toward the stage door.

  I take the opening and run toward the darkness in the rear of the stage, past the fabric backdrops that hang from the ceiling and the scenery from the Christmas pageant. My heart pounds, and I rip the veil from my face but keep it clutched in my hand.

  A tall, wide open door beckons to my left, but it’s the first place I’d guess. “You need to stop picking the first good place you see to hide. Be a little more sneaky.” Georgia’s voice whispers across my mind.

  Dashing to the right, I find a white tent set up against the back wall. Inside, dozens of life-sized angel wings are perched on metal stands, their white feathers gloomy in the dim light. It’s the best chance I have, so I hurry inside and pick my way toward the wall, then hunker down amidst the sea of white. My breathing is labored, fear and exertion seeking to give me away. I press my mouth to the back of my arm, using it to dull the sound. Is Grace on my heels?

  I don’t have a good view of the tent entrance, but I know she’s out there, her knife at the ready. Evan is long gone. I have no delusions that he’ll try to save me. The fear on his face when she swung told me that he had no problems abandoning me to save his own skin. Something hits the concrete floor—a loud click in the gloom. I shrink down a little more, my back pressed to the cinderblock wall.

  “Delilah,” Grace’s voice tickles through the gloom, coming from the dark room I passed up. I wipe sweat from my brow. I have to hold on, stay hidden, and when I see an opportunity, take it.

  My thoughts skitter into my memory again—Georgia hunting me in the backyard as I tried to stay as still as I could despite the mosquitoes and the stuffy summer heat. The need to pee is the same now as it was then. Hiding was never my strong suit.

  “I’d be able to find you in the dark. You shine no matter where you are, Firefly.” For once, I hope Georgia was wrong.

  Chapter 28

  Adam

  The choir has been done for too long, and the sounds from backstage have the audience tittering. Shouts and thumps and whispered voices—a deeply odd start to what is usually a flawless service. My mind itches, like bugs crawling all over the gray matter, as I wrestle with my need to keep Emily safe. She’s back there. I’m out here. If I move too soon—I glance at the Heavenly police officers scattered along the aisles—I won’t be able to help anyone, especially not her. Fuck. Where is Noah? I scan the crowd again, looking for him in the throng of faithful. He still isn’t there.

  The static whine of a microphone going hot pulses through the speakers, and my father appears onstage. He strides out slowly, his steps measured, as if he’s planning what to say. I lean forward as the crowd hushes, their attention on the mythical Prophet who looms on large screens all around the sanctuary.

  He stops in the middle of the stage, his head down, his hands clasped in front of him. Like this, he looks like just a man. Nothing more. His graying hair a little mussed, his shoulders down, his stance a little wider than a young man’s because he needs more help to balance. Even in the bright spotlight, he’s faded, frail, mortal. Can anyone else see it?

  Slowly, he lifts his head until his eyes search the silent crowd. Someone sneezes on the other side of the sanctuary, and a baby lets out a short wail that’s quickly cut off. The Prophet lifts one hand up, palm open, and says nothing.

  The
worshippers turn to each other, some of them shrugging, a few of them whispering. Even the Maidens perched along the front row seem unsure as they lean and speak amongst themselves despite the fact it’s forbidden.

  After a few more long beats of silence, a child down front stands and raises her hand, keeping it in the air just like the Prophet. Another child near her does the same, then another. Soon, the gesture spreads until the entire congregation is rising, hands shooting up. Beside me, Gene gets to his feet. I follow and raise my hand, hoping no one notices the bandaging.

  The entire sanctuary is silent, reflecting the Prophet back to himself. This is his perfect world. What he’s strived after for so long—conformity with him, his ideals, his goals. What the congregants likely view as an act of support is truly an act of sublimation. They are shoved under in a hellish baptism, their individuality denied as they take on the shape and desires of the Prophet.

  We stand long enough for me to wonder how badly my hand is going to hurt when the blood returns to it. Gradually, the Prophet lowers his palm and gestures for everyone to sit. A cacophony of seat cushions compressing, old folks groaning, and people getting settled fills the wide space and then dies away.

  “My beloveds.” He opens his hands and motions toward the entire congregation. “You are blessed, and you have blessed me. Without your love, Heavenly would not be what it is today. Strong, Godly, and devout. Your generosity has allowed us to flourish, our influence to grow. We have spread the Gospel to every corner of the planet, and we did it together in the light of the Lord.”

  The “amens” come from all angles. Gene beside me adds a hearty one once the others have died down a bit.

  The Prophet pauses, building the anticipation like water adding to a droplet, growing larger and larger until its weight drags it down. His whisper is barely a hiss. “But in every garden, there is a snake.”