The Maiden (The Cloister Trilogy 1)

I could kick the door down, drag her out by the hair, and no one would say shit as I pulled her screaming down the stairs. But I don’t. Not because I have any care for her. She’s just another non-parent, someone who should have been trustworthy but turned out to be empty, rotten from the inside out.

Instead of taking vengeance on the woman, I keep walking away. It isn’t worth it, I tell myself. I refuse to believe I let her live so Delilah wouldn’t be needlessly hurt.

After all, hurting Delilah is my calling.

Chapter 24

Delilah

Chastity shoulders a backpack as we walk out of the Cloister and into the blustery afternoon. The sun is out, and I’ve never felt such a delight from the simplicity of soaking in the bright rays.

“Let’s go.” She sets off down the sun-dappled lane, and I keep up, drinking in the smells and sounds of the woods.

Though Grace clearly intends this trip to be some sort of punishment, my spirits lift as I see blue sky between the overarching tree limbs and hear birdsong. I’m never taking these things for granted again. But I have to turn my thoughts earthward, to Chastity. This may be my only chance to speak to her without any listening ears around.

“So, how did you come to the Cloister?” I tuck my hands into the too-big white coat she’d handed me before we left.

“We aren’t supposed to talk.” She crosses her arms over her stomach as a breeze rushes down the curving road.

“Oh, I just thought—”

“No talking.” She gives me a stern glare, then glances behind us.

I follow her gaze and find a Protector ambling up the road, an assault rifle slung on his shoulder. What the hell?

“Grace,” Chastity whispers and picks up her pace.

That’s the only explanation she needs to give. Even walking through the open air on the Compound, we’re watched.

We walk in silence for another ten minutes, and I try to focus on the world around me to temper my disappointment. But my thoughts stray back to Georgia, and then to Adam. His darkness is deep, seemingly complete, but he killed Newell to save me. That single event—even though I’m not allowed to speak of it—tells me that there’s light left in him somewhere. Maybe buried beneath an avalanche of gloom and horrible deeds, a sliver of hope remains. Or, it could be that I’m delusional and looking for things that aren’t there. But if that were true, why would he want me to trust him? Is it just another mind game meant to break me down?

We top another rise, and on the downslope, a church sits off to the right. It reminds me of country churches I’d pass on the highway when driving from Louisiana to Alabama. In my drone surveillance, I just assumed it was an old worship space, maybe the first Heavenly Ministries Church before the huge stadium sanctuary was built.

Chastity moves to the edge of the road, heading straight for the white church with the steeple reaching ever heavenward. A couple of Compound jeeps and golf carts, along with an out-of-place black limo are lined up in the gravel parking area beside the structure.

The Protector with the rifle follows at a distance, more of a warning than an immediate threat.

“Is that the Chapel?” I keep close to Chastity, our elbows bumping.

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

She hefts the backpack higher on her back. “Hell.”

My gut sinks as we crunch into the gravel parking lot. The sharp-edged rocks press into the bottoms of my white flats, likely leaving stone bruises in their wake.

“Just follow my lead. Don’t talk to anyone.” She walks up the peeling wooden steps, the white paint wearing off to show graying boards beneath, then opens one of the front double doors. Warm, perfumed air flows out as we enter the vestibule. The first thing that strikes me is purple. The carpet, the walls, the doors—everything is done in varying shades from lilac to eggplant.

An armed guard sits in a chair to the right of the next set of double doors leading to the sanctuary. He chews on a toothpick and plays on his phone, giving us a simple grunt and cocking his head toward the sanctuary.

My stomach churns as faint noises make it to me through the wood-paneled walls. Sighs, moans, masculine laughter. We shouldn’t be here. I want to turn and rush out the door into the sunlight again, but the Protector who’d been following us walks in, blocking the exit.

“Let’s go.” Chastity leads the way across the too-plush purple carpet and enters the worship space.

But it’s not a sanctuary at all. The narrow center aisle creates a corridor where, on either side, scaffolding has been erected to create two stories of rooms, all open. Some have gauzy curtains hanging in front of them, others are bare. Inside each is a woman. Some on the second story sit on the catwalk along the front of the rooms, their bare legs dangling. Others lounge in beds or chatter with each other while sending us inhospitable looks. Most are naked, young, and hostile as I follow Chastity down the row of what has to be two dozen women stacked in open cubes.