The Maiden (The Cloister Trilogy 1)

“Delilah.” The sound barely reaches my ears.

“Your real name.”

“Delilah.”

“Fuck.” I lean back in my chair, staring her down.

She doesn’t meet my gaze, her mask of obedience firmly in place.

“We have one more small ceremony before you girls can retire for the night.” My father strides to me with Abigail at his side, a small green device in her hand.

“I’m sure you’re ready to get on with it.” He grins down at me.

I hold my hand out to Delilah.

She looks at it as if it’s a venomous snake.

“Take my hand.”

She glances at my father.

“Don’t look at him. Look at me.” I keep my tone even, but no less lethal. Showing weakness in front of my father isn’t an option.

She puts out one delicate hand. I engulf it with mine, keenly aware that every Maiden in the room is watching.

Abigail, her graying hair wrapped up in a tight bun, loads the plastic gun. “Hold her.”

I yank Delilah across the table.

She cries out in surprise, but I don’t let go. Instead, I rise and pin her arm down with both hands. After only a second of struggle, she returns to placid, as if someone flipped a switch inside her. She’s learning quickly, adapting to the violence that is this place. That is me.

“It’ll only hurt for a second, little one.” My father runs a hand through her hair, touching what’s mine.

In that moment, I hate him more than I ever have.

“Here we go.” Abigail places the end of the gun against Delilah’s upper arm. “It’ll sting, but you’ll be fine.” She squeezes the wide trigger, and the microchip slides under the pale skin. Then Abigail grabs a syringe from a tray held by another Spinner. “This is to stop your monthly curse. We value clean women here.”

Delilah doesn’t make a sound, her tenseness the only way I can sense that both injections hurt. The tracker insertion point bleeds a little, so Abigail applies a bandage.

“Well done.” Dad gives Delilah a pat, as if she’s a faithful dog who fetched him a prize duck.

They move on to the next girl as Delilah sits up and presses her palm to her arm.

One of the nearby Maidens leans over to whisper to another. A Spinner hurries from her spot along the wall and steps between them, a deep furrow in her brow. “No speaking when the Prophet is present unless it’s to say please or thank you.” She doesn’t draw her small baton and hit the talker.

Not yet.

Chapter 3

Delilah

I follow Adam down a long hallway. Doors break off to the left and right at intervals, and Spinners stand at a few of them, their hands folded in front of them, eyes down. I don’t need to see their faces to know I’m headed for a dark fate. My instincts scream at me to run. I don’t. I’m here for a reason, and I won’t leave until I get what I came for. I force my fear to take a backseat to my determination.

After what feels like one hundred yards of walking, he turns to the right and pushes through a set of double doors. A Spinner stands inside the new area. She’s young, maybe not even twenty-five, and a scar cuts across her forehead and disappears beneath her blonde hair.

“Which is hers?” Adam asks, impatience slicing the spaces between his words.

She turns and leads us down the hall. I count a dozen doors, each named after a book of the Bible. She motions to the Psalms door, and Adam pushes past her and into the room.

Something cold slithers around my spine, squeezing and cutting off my ability to move. If I go into that room, what will happen? Nothing good. But this is what I signed up for. I have no illusions like some of the other girls. The Cloister isn’t a haven, it’s a prison, and I walked right into it. This is just the iron bars clanging shut behind me.

“You’d best follow,” the Spinner whispers.

I glance at her, but she gives nothing away.

“Delilah.” Adam’s low voice carries more than a hint of menace. “Get in here.”

I steel my nerves and step into the room. Adam sits on the bed, his eyes on me. The room is bigger than what I’m used to. A small bathroom connects on the right, a closet on the left. The furniture is simple and matches the log cabin décor. A white bedspread covers the bed.

“Close the door.” He hasn’t taken his gaze off me.

I do as instructed, pushing it shut. The click of the handle carries a finality that chills me.

“Come.” He points to the floor in front of him.

Swallowing hard, I move to stand in front of him. He looks up at me, his eyes dark and fathomless. So much like his father’s that bile rages in my stomach.