The Prophet (The Cloister Trilogy 2)

“You have time for me.” She twines her pinky finger with mine.

“Always. That’s what sisters are for, right?”

Chapter 12

Adam

The masses have assembled, each one of them aching for a show—the sort only their Prophet can provide. I check with Tony on the final preparations for the bonfire, then head toward the main pavilion.

The snow white line of Maidens at the front draws my eye, and I focus on Delilah. She looks straight ahead, but she’s not there. Lost in thought, she doesn’t see me approach. I stride onto the pavilion steps and tilt my chin at Noah who leans against the support post at the side. My father will make his grand entry there and greet his fans with an enthusiastic—and hopefully brief—Christmas Eve message.

Grace and a host of Spinners wait on the other side of the pavilion, their eyes on the Maidens.

A few churchgoers who don’t know any better greet me with handshakes and smiles. I return them, but something always dies in their eyes once they get a closer look at mine. Good.

I sidle over to Noah. “Ready to get going?”

“Yeah. I want to see some shit burn.”

I don’t comment on the whiskey on his breath. There’s no point. And, given our circumstances, I don’t blame him.

I focus my attention on Delilah, her veil hiding most of her profile from me. I want to rip that stupid bit of lace away and study her, see what’s going on inside. But I’m kidding myself. She keeps secrets from me—ones I’ll get out of her in time.

“Here we go.” Noah jerks his chin as my father appears at the side of the pavilion, a broad smile on his face.

“Welcome!” His voice booms as he shakes hands and manages to kiss a baby on his way to the podium.

Applause spreads through the pavilions until the din rises into the sky and dies far short of heaven. Dad casts a glance at the Maidens, then turns to address the crowd. Just holding up one of his hands stops the roar of appreciation. The big-screen TVs flicker on in each of the pavilions, my father’s face smiling down at all of Heavenly Ministries—including locations all over the United States and the world. Cameramen disperse through the crowd, shooting the happy churchgoers to beam into the homes of the faithful. I stifle an eye roll.

“My sacred children, welcome!”

Another roar from the sycophants tramples the air. Movement behind my father draws my eye. My mother moves silently, her head down, her face covered with a black veil.

“Hey.” I elbow Noah.

He looks and stiffens. “Does she seem okay?”

She walks with her usual limp, but nothing else seems amiss. Castro is at her side, his beady eyes surveying the crowd as he helps her to a black chair far to the side of the podium. He doesn’t manhandle her the same way he does in my father’s presence. I ignore this detail and focus on the fact that several goons are missing.

“Where are the rest?” I scan the area for my mother’s usual guards, but I can’t see them.

Noah stops leaning against the pillar. “They have to be here somewhere, but I don’t see them.”

My thoughts fire in rapid succession, creating a plan. Once the bonfire is going, all eyes will be on the flames.

I edge closer to Noah. “We can get her out this time.”

His eyes widen. “We can’t.”

“We can. I’ll take care of Castro. You grab her. I’ll grab Delilah.”

He glances around. “There’s too many people.”

“We wait until they’re dismissed.” I try to think ahead, to plan each step and take into account what happens when shit goes south. Our chances of success are slim—but if there’s a possibility I can save my mother and Delilah from my father’s cruelty, I have to try. “Then we make our move. If it’s just Castro, we can do this.” Other Protectors are sprinkled in the crowd, but I’ll do whatever I have to if that means freedom. “I’ll clear a path for us. But I need you onboard. All right?”

A memory of the last time flits through my vision. He agreed then, and we almost made it out. But that ‘almost’ led to some of the oldest scars on my back and our mother’s broken leg. He’s replaying it, too. I can tell from the way he tenses.

“Noah, we can do this, okay? This time—”

“This time what?” He keeps his voice low, but there’s anger in it. “We won’t get busted? Mom won’t get tortured right in front of us?”

I’m losing him. Fuck. Desperation dries my throat, and I swallow hard. “Noah, I can’t do this without you. We have to work together—”

“No way. Castro will kill her before you get the chance to do anything. And what about Dad?” His eyes burn into mine, as if he already knows my plans for our father. And maybe he does.