The Maiden (The Cloister Trilogy 1)

In the end, all of them—the true believers and the broken ones—all believe that the Prophet favors them, that they are chosen, that God has put his mark of favor upon them. I try to imagine how it must feel when they wind up at the Chapel or the Cathedral instead of on the arm of a politician or one of the South’s millionaires. Betrayal. I’m intimately familiar with that sensation.

Her head nods forward again, resting on the tops of her knees. This time, she’s out. As out as she can be.

“You’ve never watched one before.” Noah tucks the end of the gauze into the tight ribbons around my chest.

I let out another puff of smoke, the weed finally giving me that perfect sensation of soft disconnection. “She’s different.”

“Why?” He checks his handiwork.

“I don’t know.”

“Is she going to be a problem?” He takes the joint from my fingers and pulls in a long drag. “I mean, more than she already is?”

“She’ll fall in line. Mine always do.” The few times I’ve had to break my Maidens, I always managed it before the trials that begin at the 6-month mark. Maybe because I’m methodical. Maybe because of the consequences if I fail. Or, more likely, because I enjoy it.

“She looks so weird. With the hair and the white skin.” He shakes his head.

I reach for the remote. He shouldn’t be looking at her. At what’s mine. And his criticism cuts through the smoky haze of my high. I click the screen off.

“Touchy.”

“Fuck off.” I lie back down, the lines of fire across my back pulling a groan from me.

“After Newell, how many is it now?” he asks quietly.

“How many what?” I know what he’s asking, but the sadist in me wants to hear him say it.

“How many … you know … people have you…”

“Killed?” I stick the knife in.

He winces.

I should feel something. Maybe remorse. But there’s nothing there. Not even the emptiness bothers me anymore. “At current count, seven.” I grin. “But there’s always tomorrow.”

“God will forgive you.” He stubs out the joint. “You did it all for His glory.” He swallows hard. “Even Newell, since he may have had intentions of defiling one of the chosen Maidens.”

I open the top drawer of my nightstand and pull out a flask of whiskey. My brother’s blind belief is doing more to tank my high than even the pain in my back.

“Which god?” I take a draw, the heat pouring down my throat. “The one up top or the one below?”

“They are both one.” He pulls the blanket up to my waist. “You know this. There can be no light without dark. Our Heavenly Father and our Father of Fire have already forgiven you. Even Mom believes—”

“How do you know what she believes?”

He pinches his lips together, then relents. “I’m just guessing.” He sighs. “I don’t know. Anyway, I’m sure you’re forgiven. Doing things that seem wrong, if they’re done for the Heavenly Father or the Father of Fire—that makes them righteous.”

I take another long pull from the flask. I don’t berate myself for the way Noah is. Not anymore. He’s too steeped in my father’s bullshit, too much of a true believer, for me to ever pull him free. Maybe I’ve failed him, or maybe this was the way it was always meant to be.

“Get some sleep.” He stows the flask. “We’ve got the Ritual tomorrow night.”

“I know.” I settle into my pillow as he turns out the light. “Now the real mindfuck will begin.”

He shakes his head. “It’s for—”

“His glory. Yeah, I got it.” I don’t even want to shake him anymore. He’s too far gone to understand.

He closes the door, and I grab the remote. The screen glows to life, and there she is. Her fairy hair falling around her shoulders as she sleeps in a huddle. I hope she dreams of me, even if it’s a nightmare. How could it be anything else?

“It can’t be,” I answer myself. Like a lunatic.

She stirs and lifts her head as if she can hear me. She can’t. But she turns and looks straight at the camera, at me, her eyes luminous in the low light.

“Why?” I ask her. Why did I kill for her? Why is she different? Or, my mind answers, she’s not different at all. You’re just desperate for something new. For someone else besides the usual brainwashed acolytes.

“Why?” I ask her again, more demanding this time.

Do I detect a faint quirk to her lips, a touch of fire in her gaze? I blink hard, and when I open my eyes, she’s hidden from me again, her head resting on her knees, her breaths slow and even.

Chapter 10

Delilah

“Delilah.” The Head Spinner approaches as I stand in line for “training.”

I turn toward her, my eyes down, my hands clasped in front of me. The picture of demure purity, despite the fact I’m utterly naked.