The Church

by Celia Aaron

Some members gasp, others stare straight ahead, their attention demanding that the Prophet point out the traitor.

  “Our little church is no different. Here, we have made a new Eden, each of us working toward our heavenly reward. But just as Adam and Eve prospered in the garden and were set upon by the serpent, we too are under attack. I’ve told you many times of the forces of evil that live outside our walls that seek to harm us. They are still there, my friends.” He shakes his head. “They will always be there. But the true downfall of man always comes from within. And it always comes from a woman.”

  Gene shifts in his seat, and the restlessness flows through the audience, each of them glancing at their neighbor or their neighbor’s wife, wondering who the culprit is.

  “While we’ve been working to build, a rot has set in at the core of our church. At the very base of our tree, if you will. Sometimes, a rot is so strong, that you can’t save the tree, no matter what you do. In cases like that, it’s a mercy to cut it down, burn the stump, start anew.”

  Movement around the periphery catches my eye. The Protectors are flipping the latches on the double doors that lead out of the sanctuary. Silently, they engage the locking mechanisms, then close the doors. The hackles on my neck rise, and I grip the back of the seat in front of me.

  The Prophet shakes his head dramatically. “I should have known when my firstborn turned on me.”

  Another gasp rocks the crowd. Gene spits out a “the fuck?” then turns to his two girls next to him. “Don’t listen to Daddy.”

  The smallest one nods. “Didn’t hear nothing.”

  I grab his arm. “You need to get out of here.”

  “What?” His bushy brows rise as he looks me in the eye for the first time. “Hey, you’re—”

  “You need to leave, understand? If you stay here, you and your girls will die.” I point to the nearest door that hasn’t yet been locked. “Go now or stay and die.”

  “—redemption doesn’t apply here. I thought it might, when Adam first started going wrong. But that was a false hope. He never returned to the fold. Too far gone, mired in his love for yet another serpent, and turned his back on his Prophet. But she is not the one who caused the rot. No. She could have been dealt with. The decay goes much, much deeper. And it’s the sort that must be burned out.”

  Gene sits frozen, his eyes wide.

  “Listen to him.” I point at the Prophet and grip Gene by the front of his weathered t-shirt. “Listen to what he’s saying.”

  “Only holy, cleansing fire can save our immortal souls. And it has to happen today. Right now.” He drones on, but I turn my focus to Gene. I can’t save them all, but I can do this.

  Gene swallows hard and stands. “Girls, come on.” He takes the smallest one’s hand and the other follows as they edge past me and push out the door. Another family follows, and then another lines up to go, but a Protector blocks their way and pushes them back as he locks the door and shuts it.

  Panic spreads slowly, a grass fire after a wet summer. But the alarm grows as the Prophet continues to preach fire and brimstone. Polite at first, they try the doors that won’t budge. I stand and make my way down the stairs. No one pays attention to me now, their concentration on the rising fear.

  “And my son,” my father laments, “his disobedience hurt the most. But I know why. Now I know the cause.” He takes a deep breath and shoots both hands heavenward. “Why, Father, have you cursed me with a wife such as Rachel? She is the serpent. She took him from me. She turned my children, my Maidens, my wives against me. Her. But the Father of Fire came to me, warned me in a dream last night. So I can save us all right now. I will not let the snake eat us alive. Your Prophet will always protect you, and the Lord has given me the ability to do so.”

  I make steady progress toward the stage as the panic grows, jumping from one person to the next like hot cinders or a disease.

  “The snake will not win. I’ll never see my son again because of her. He won’t make it to my Heavenly home. He is lost. But all of you will be there with me. In glory. We will not wait for the terrors of the world to come here and rob our lives away. And we will not give in to the serpent who stalks us even now. You see, my Protectors have placed dynamite throughout this holy place. Dying as martyrs is a far better end than falling prey to the lure of the snake.”

  Now, men throw themselves against the doors, the timbers shaking but not giving. Children cry and somewhere someone is wailing. Even the Heavenly police officers are shouting—some trying to calm the throng, others kicking at the doors.

  I cut through the crowd and rush down the center aisle. “Here! I’m here!”

  Dad looks my way, his eyes widening when he sees me. “The Prodigal has returned.”

  Chapter 29

  Delilah

  The sanctuary is oddly silent, the stillness a promise of terrible things to come. I pick at the wings in front of me, pulling away a piece of the wire that forms their shape. The white metal doesn’t give easily, and the tips of the wings scoot across the floor as I pull. I yank some, then stop, listening for Grace.

  “Delilah,” Grace’s voice, dripping with menace, moves closer. I peer at the side of the white tent nearest to me, then freeze when I see a shadow ease by. She’s close, too close. I give the wire slight pressure, a light touch that doesn’t make a sound, but also doesn’t do much in the way of pulling it free.

  The Prophet starts his sermon, but I can’t pay attention to the words.

  The shadow moves on, disappearing beyond my view. The entrance to the tent is on the other side, so I angle myself to watch the white flaps. I take a breath and use a little more force on the wire. It’s almost loose when a ripping sound makes me jump.

  I turn toward the noise. A silver blade slices down the side of the tent only a few feet away. Everything comes into sharp focus, and I can’t seem to move. My heart beats in my throat, and my dress sticks to my sweaty body. The knife slides lower, clinks against the ground, and disappears.

  Move, Emily. Fucking move! Abandoning my wire, I step back and edge around the next set of wings, then duck down as Grace pushes into the opening, a black phantasm invading the feathery white space.

  “I know you’re in here,” she sing-songs.

  I want to close my eyes, to pretend I’m somewhere else, to be somewhere else. But I can’t. I can only watch as she moves through the angel wings, her black dress swishing against the floor and stirring up tiny bits of white feathers that float through the air. Pressing my back to the wall, I reach forward and try to feel for any loose bit of metal in this set of wings. My fingers graze sturdy construction, and nothing gives until I reach the very top where the wings join in the center. A piece of the wire there is undone on one side. I pull as Grace creeps closer. It gives a little, but not enough.

  “Just come out. No need to dirty up all these pretty wings with your filthy blood.”

  I stop moving, stop breathing as she walks just to my right, her back to me, her head turning this way and that. She steps away, aiming for the tent flaps. She pushes out of the tent, the flap slapping back closed. I give the wire one more soft tug, and the piece pulls free. It’s only about four inches long, but when I touch the tip, the metal is sharp. I wrap my veil around the end in my hand and scan the tent.

  Speakers pump the Prophet’s voice through the backstage area, his tone growing more and more dire.

  I ease toward the back corner, only scraping one set of feathers across the floor as I go. Stopping, I listen for Grace, but the noise from the sanctuary is too loud now. I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t think about it. My attention has to be on survival and escape. Creeping along the cinderblocks, my dress catching on some of the rough edges, I stop when I get to the corner where the tent meets the wall.

  Taking a deep breath, I re-check the wire in my hand, making sure the veil is wrapped enough for me to use it without cutting myself open. I try to calm my breathing, to ready myself to sneak out of the feathers and try
to circumvent Grace.

  When the knife plunges through the tent next to my face, I scream.

  “Bitch!” She slices down the tent as I push over the row of wings in front of me and run.

  Stumbling out of the tent flaps, I see her barreling toward me, the knife out in front of her.

  I gain my feet and run. I’m almost to the fabric backdrops when fire swipes across my back. A scream rips from me as I fall, then roll to the side as Grace comes down next to me, her knife sticking in the wood floor of the mainstage.

  She yanks at it as I scramble back. “You should have kept your veil on. I wanted you to look like a perfect bride when Adam found you covered in blood.”

  My back hits the wall and I force myself up despite the ripping pain across my shoulder blades. “You don’t have to be like this.” I keep the wire at my side.

  “Shut up.” She wrenches the blade free and stands. “You think you’re the first bitch to come between Adam and me?”

  “What?” I try to steady myself, to get ready for her.

  “I had a daughter. Did you know that? Faith was her name.” She rolls her eyes. “A little brat. I thought if I gave him a child he would marry me and we’d eventually dethrone the Prophet and rule together. But no.” She swipes the blade in a dangerous, angry arc. “He doted on her, fawned over that little shit. Ignored me. Only cared about her.”

  “He said she died.” I swallow hard, my eyes on the steel she’s waving around.

  “She died.” She nods and stills. “After months of poisoning, she died. It was only supposed to take a few weeks. I looked it up. Arsenic. A little in her food every day.” She makes a motion with her free hand as if she’s sprinkling seasoning onto food. “Simple, right?”

  I can’t stop the horror that sets my hair on end, my teeth on edge. My bowels loosen, and utter disgust constricts my throat.

  “No, of course it wasn’t,” she growls. “It took months. Months of her calling for Daddy every night, sleeping in his bed, wanting cuddles, taking all the attention that should have been mine. Instead of bringing us closer together, she drove us apart. I thought killing her would fix it. But then, he just got further away!” She steps closer, almost in range to strike.

  The Prophet’s still speaking, the word “serpent” twisting around us, punctuating Grace’s confession.

  Her face turns to a pout, her lips in a petulant frown. “She ruined us. Adam never wanted me after that. But at least he didn’t want anyone else either.” Her eyes focus on mine. “Until you.”

  I grip the wire harder, the gauzy veil compressing around the metal. “I wish I could say I pity you, that you’re a victim of the Prophet just like everyone else here.” I let her gaze go, kicking it to the dirt as I focus on the knife in her hand. “But you aren’t. You’re a monster of your own making.”

  Her pout dissolves, hard hate in her eyes. “At least I’m still alive.” She lunges forward, the blade aimed at my heart.

  I dart to the left, my injured back scraping against the wall. She comes at me again, holding the knife low and stabbing upward. I jump again, and her blade scrapes against the wall behind me.

  With a cry of rage, she rushes me. I stumble backwards, my feet tripping over some piece of scenery, and I fall backward into the fabric sheets hanging from the ceiling. They cushion me, but also keep me upright and within range of her blade. She stabs toward me again. I roll sideways, then shove my right hand out hard. The metal makes contact, and I twist, grunting from the effort to push it even deeper. The end cuts through the veil and pushes into my palm, but I don’t let up. Not until she drops the knife, the blade slapping against the wood slats beneath.

  I shove her back and let go of the metal, the veil still caught around the end. Blood stains the white fabric, some of it mine but more of it hers.

  She stumbles away and grabs the wire, then looks up at me, surprise in her wide eyes. “You cut me.” Disbelief colors her tone as she stares down at the blood spilling from the wound. Staggering farther, her heel catches and she falls. “I’m bleeding.” She holds up a red hand, then gives me a look more vicious than any before. “I’ll kill you.” Her foot comes out from beneath her and she tries to push herself up.

  I step back.

  But she falls, gasping for breath as she leans over on her side. She can’t get up, and I uncurl my shaking hands. My right one bleeds, the droplets coloring the floor beneath me. But I don’t care. Jubilation races through my blood. I beat her. I’m still alive. I take in a gulping breath and wrap my arms around me to try and keep myself together, keep myself from blowing apart with the enormity of what I’ve just done. I beat her, but I’ve taken a life. I should be sorry... I’m not.

  “I beat you,” I whisper.

  She lays her head down, her eyes closing. “You bitch.”

  The world rushes back—sounds of panic and the Prophet’s voice cooing about his “Prodigal son.”

  I turn and walk away, the floor reeling beneath me as I try to center myself. The Prophet’s voice is gone, only a deep static tone emanating from the speakers. The area begins to brighten the closer I get to the side of the stage.

  “—have to do it now.” Rachel’s voice is just up ahead.

  “I can’t get a shot.”

  “Don’t shoot Adam!”

  “I know!” Castro bites back.

  I lean on a support beam. Blood trickles down my back, and my hand burns, the sting like a thousand bees going at my bones.

  “Take it when you can. Then we need to go before he brings the whole place down. It’s such a mess.”

  “—crucified you, and then you were gone. I thought maybe the angels—” The Prophet’s voice wafts in and out. He’s nearby on the stage. Thumps, yells, and screams emanate from the sanctuary. A riot, but contained. Why can’t they get out?

  I keep moving until I see Rachel, her face ghostly because of the garish makeup lights aimed at her.

  “It’s over, Dad. All of it.”

  “Adam,” I breathe and take a few more steps forward.

  “Just take me. You don’t need to kill all these people.” Adam sounds so reasonable, so close. “I’m the one—”

  “This should have gone to plan.” Rachel crosses her arms over her stomach. “I don’t understand. The Father of Fire promised me. He promised! I carved and sacrificed that virgin. She was stupid and pretty, perfect! I did everything he asked of me. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Something was wrong with her. Maybe she wasn’t pure. Maybe Noah fucked her and didn’t admit to it…”

  My ears begin to ring, a wall of alarms blaring in my mind. “I carved and sacrificed that virgin.”

  I stare at her, the truth becoming clear. This was why Noah couldn’t tell me. Rachel killed Georgia.

  It had been her all along. The force of this terrible knowledge hits me like a physical blow, but I won’t let it knock me down.

  I force myself forward, ignoring the aches in my body and the rips in my soul. Killing Grace was self-defense. Killing Rachel will be vengeance.

  “Take the shot!” she barks.

  I pick up speed, aiming for her. I’ll use my hands or whatever I can grab. My sister rots in the ground because of this woman, and I will make her pay. A strange sort of relief floods me as I push past the makeup chair. I have a target now. I know what I have to do. No more guesswork, no more investigation. It’s just her and me.

  “He’s still in the fucking way!” Castro pulls my attention toward the stage. Adam stands with his back to us as he speaks to his father. The noise has grown so loud that I can’t even get snippets anymore, but they’re arguing.

  Rachel groans. “It’s all falling apart. He knew. Somehow Leon knew. He told the Cathedral to keep his bastard kids there. How did he know?” She’s speaking quickly, as if to herself. “Leon has to die. Now.” She scowls. “Shoot him even if it hits Adam. I don’t care. Noah can take his place. Just shoot the Prophet now!”

  I have to make a decision, and I only hav
e a second. Save Adam or get justice for Georgia. It’s not a choice. Not really. My body seems to make it for me before I even think it through. I throw myself at Castro, tackling him to the floor as he fires a single shot.

  “Puta!” he yells as we fall, and I land on top of him, his gun skittering across the floor and hovering on the edge of the stage. It teeters there in slow motion, as if it can’t decide whether gravity applies to it. I will it to fall, to get lost in the mayhem going on in the auditorium.

  Castro shoves me off, and I turn to see Adam coming toward me, his limp slowing him down.

  “Adam!” I scream and point at Castro who grabs the pistol before it falls over the edge.

  He turns, but it’s too late.

  The shot is fired, a life taken.

  Chapter 30

  Adam

  Noah runs down the center aisle toward me, a gun in his hand. Castro lurches sideways, a red burst blooming on his side.

  The gun still in his hand, he steps toward me. “Pendejo.”

  “I told you it would end this way, asshole.” I raise my pistol and fire one shot. He falls with a hollow thump, his eyes open and vacant, blood flowing from his forehead. I’ve never had fewer fucks to give in my life.

  I rush past him and drop to my knees next to Emily.

  “Are you okay?” I lift her up.

  She has blood on her white dress, and my hands go cold as I turn her over.

  She winces. “My back. Grace cut me.”

  “Fuck.” I sit her up and check the wound.

  “Your hand.” I pull it into my lap.

  “There was a wire.” Her lip trembles. “I had to.”

  I don’t follow what she’s saying, but it doesn’t matter. Pulling her to my chest, I hold her. “We’re getting out of here.”

  She nods, then looks behind her, her body going tense. “Where’s your mother?”

  “She took off when Castro fell.”

  “I have to find her.” Her tone is flat, cold.