The Prophet (The Cloister Trilogy 2)

“It’s jammed.” He pulls a grimy handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes his brow.

“Did you wet the roofs before like I told you?”

“Yes, sir.” He swipes his neck. “Except one.”

“What?”

“It jammed right before we could spray the main children’s pavilion around the back side. We’ve been trying to…” He keeps yammering as I notice several people nearby, their ears cocked to listen though they don’t meet my eye.

I yank Tony by the arm and pull him away before he starts a panic. Problem is, this leads me away from Delilah and the senator. But I have to choose.

Embers swirl through the air, ones that could easily send the children’s pavilion up in flames. The senator leans closer, his silver tongue in Delilah’s ear. I want to rip him apart, but I can’t. Not now. I turn on my heel and stride out into the night.

It burns—sears my fucking flesh—to walk away from Delilah. But one thought of my sweet Faith tells me that I’m choosing correctly. What if she were in that pavilion?

“Come on.” I pull off my jacket as Tony and I hurry away toward the fire truck parked amongst the trees. “Let’s get to work.”

I barely feel the hilt of the pistol as it crashes into the back of my skull.

Chapter 13

Delilah

His sermon over and sealed with a prayer, the Prophet waves at his faithful as the inferno burns, the flames at the top still high, the sides smoldering with deep orange embers. “Go now, under the light of a loving God and with the blessing of your Prophet.”

“Amen!” ricochets around the clearing, and the crowd begins to disperse. The Heavenly police officers help herd the mass of people away from the fire and toward the road. I take a chance to look around for Adam, but he’s not here. Tamping down my disappointment, I survey the rest of the pavilion.

Senator Roberts still hovers at my back, but now he’s speaking to someone else. I want to shrink, to disappear into nothing so he won’t notice me anymore, but I can tell that isn’t going to happen.

“I like you in white,” he’d whispered as the Prophet gave his Christmas Eve sermon.

My skin crawls, and I take deep breaths to calm myself. Eve’s fingers graze my leg, and I grab her hand, keeping the forbidden bit of comfort hidden beneath the voluminous robes.

Glancing to the side, I see Adam’s mother rising from her chair and being escorted away by several armed men. What does she think of this pageantry, of the filthy empire her husband has created?

I get out of my own head and squeeze Eve’s fingers. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

She doesn’t respond but leans into me a bit. A little girl of no more than five walks down the row of Maidens, her eyes wide as she inspects us. I try to imagine what we look like to her. Creepy maybe? A line of ghosts with shattered souls hidden beneath white veils?

Her mother, wearing a dress that almost touches the floor, walks up and takes her hand. “Come on, baby.”

The girl resists her mother’s pull, her big brown eyes focused on me. “Can I be a Maiden one day?”

My stomach churns, and I fight the urge to dry heave.

The mother leans down. “If you are faithful and obedient, you may be chosen by the Prophet.”

The girl nods. “I will be. And then I can be a Maiden, too.”

Not if I can help it. Just looking at her angelic face and bright eyes changes something inside me. I watch her walk away, hand in hand with her mother, her steps light. I came here for Georgia, knowing it was too late to save her. She was dead and gone, vengeance my only mission. But watching that little girl, seeing hope in her eyes—the false hope put there by the Prophet—I realize that maybe Georgia led me here to do more than just avenge her death. Maybe I’m here to end this place—not for revenge, but to save any more girls from going through this hell.

“Delilah!”

I snap my head up and find Grace standing in front of me. “Yes?”

She bobbles the remote in her hand, her face pinched. “I was speaking to you. Senator Roberts would like to meet with you now.”

Breaking my grip on Eve, I stand and follow Grace around the last Heavenly stragglers. The senator waits against the far rail, a grin on his handsome face.

I keep my steps steady as my hands break out into a clammy sweat.

“We’re clear!” someone yells. Several shouts of “clear” ring out, and a low steady beat begins to play through the sound system. Servers appear from the tents set up at the rear of the pavilions, scurrying out with trays of drinks and food. Protectors and dozens of men—suitors, I assume—remain.