The Maiden (The Cloister Trilogy 1)

“It’s a left. Over near where the creek splits by the shopping center the tornado hit.”

“Aw yeah, I remember that. Had a great Chinese place before then.”

“That was a long time ago.” When we were still kids, when Heavenly Ministries was nothing more than a vast plot of acreage. When our father was up and coming, not clinically insane. And when we were “normal” kids who went to a religious school and had a preacher for a dad. “Mom took us one time.”

“Yeah.” He swallows hard and drives, the sound of the wind whooshing through our dark thoughts.

We pull into the shopping center and park in front of Caldwell’s, a mom and pop hardware store with a respectable lumber yard out back.

“Keep it level.” Noah has always been the peacemaker. But sometimes, peace isn’t an option. That’s where I come in.

“As long as they do the right thing.” We walk in, and a small bell at the top of the door chimes. The shelves are in neat rows, the merchandise front-faced. The Caldwells take pride in their establishment. Good. That’s something I can use.

“Can I help you boys find something?” A middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair leans over the cash wrap to my right. His cordial smile and John Lennon glasses give him a friendly air that suits him perfectly.

“Mr. Caldwell?”

“That’s me. Say, don’t I know you?”

I stroll down the aisle with the nails and screws as Noah leans against the front door, blocking it. Snagging a hammer from a rack, I grip up on it, feeling its heft, then return to the counter.

By now, Mr. Caldwell is standing straight up. “You’re the Prophet’s boys, aren’t you?”

“That we are.” I amble over to him and set the hammer on the nicked wooden counter.

“Need a hammer?” He glances down.

“That depends.”

He fidgets with the pockets on his khaki apron imprinted with Caldwell’s on the front in green letters. “Depends on what?”

“You.”

He stops fidgeting. “How do you figure?”

I don’t want to hurt this man. Not like I wanted to hurt Newell. But I will.

I run my fingertips along the hammer’s wooden handle, but keep my gaze locked with his. “I hear you’ve been complaining about the business you’ve been getting from the church. You don’t appreciate—”

“Now, wait a minute. All I said was that—”

I hold up one finger. “Shh. This is the part where you listen.”

The blood drains from his face, and I haven’t even raised my voice.

“When our guys buy anything from you, they will pay with cash. You will not have a problem with this. You will take our money and you will say thank you. Do you understand?”

He nods.

Someone knocks at the door, but one look from Noah has him backing away.

“If I hear of any more problems—” I lift the hammer “—I’ll have to come back. And I really don’t want to.” I make a show of looking around. “This is a nice place you’ve got here. Neat—loved, even. I can tell you take pride in what you have. So keep it looking nice. Keep your doors open. And keep taking our money while your mouth stays shut. Are we clear?”

“Y-yes, sir.” He swallows audibly.

I drop the hammer onto the wooden counter with a thud, and he jumps.

“Noah, we’re done here.” I back away, then turn toward the door. “See you at Sunday service, Mr. Caldwell.”

A flyer in the window catches my eye. A missing persons poster. I pause and peer more closely, only to find Delilah’s gray eyes staring back at me.

Grace perches on the edge of the wide conference table, her blue eyes focused on me as I strip off my suit jacket and drape it over the back of a leather chair.

“Nice of you to join me.” Her tone is silky, deceptive as always.

“Let’s get on with it.” I drop into one of the chairs, the back springy with disuse. I suppose the Spinners didn’t find much use for this part of the Cloister.

“That’s the only hello I get?” She purses her lips in a faux pout.

I rub my eyes, my knuckles throbbing from the damage I’d done just the day before. “What do you want from me, Grace?”

She walks around the table and leans next to me, her ridiculous black habit covering her from head to toe.

“I remember when you used to be happy to see me.” She slides her fingers up my bicep and gives me her best come hither look.

I knock her hand away. “I’m here for business. Nothing else. What did you and that idiot Newell cook up for the winter solstice?”

“So easy for you, isn’t it?” she snarls. “Just throwing people away?”

“There’s the Grace we all know and love.”

“The Grace you made me.”

“I didn’t make you into anything.” I don’t want to rehash the past. Not again.

She hikes her skirt up and throws one leg over my lap, the lace of her black thigh highs peeking from beneath the dark folds of fabric as she straddles me. “Have you forgotten us?”