The Maiden (The Cloister Trilogy 1)

“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 fall 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.