“When’s the wedding?” Noah asks.
“A month.”
Part of the contract on the Maidens is that the claiming suitor must marry them. Otherwise, the Prophet wouldn’t get a real foothold. The suitor could toss them aside and move on to his next conquest. The main way to get the suitors to stick to the deal is to withhold the Maiden until the day of the wedding so that he’s desperate to fuck her, and happy to say “I do.” “You expect him to keep his dick out of her for a month? She should stay here.”
“I can bend the rules for him. Doesn’t matter to me if he fucks her every which way he pleases, as long as he shows up on the wedding day. I’ve already got plenty of video from his visit this morning that he definitely wouldn’t want getting to the press. So I’m not worried about his commitment.” He pulls out his coke box. “Aside from that, I have another set of suitors in line for most of the other girls. Seems like everyone is jumping the gun this year. I want you to speak with them, cool them off, tell them the Maidens need the year of training in order to be perfect helpmates. We can’t go selling them all off before I’ve had a chance to make sure they’re loyal. Not to mention I need some of them for the Chapel and the Cathedral. And I’ve been thinking, we’re going to lower the age limit for the Cloister to 16.” His eyes flash with greed. “We’ll get purer girls that way, easier to train, not stained by the outside world. We’ll get waivers from their parents, no problem.” He pauses and rubs his chin. “Maybe we should say 14 instead of 16. The purest virgin bodies.”
I swallow my disgust and change the subject. “So I’m supposed to babysit hard-up suitors and take over the Cloister on top of handling the contracts for Monroeville, collecting the cash from the dealers in Birmingham, and keeping our books clean for the IRS? Anything else you need me to do?”
He arranges a neat line of powder and gives me a harsh grin. “Oh, I think you did plenty last night.”
My guts churn. The hatred must show on my face because Castro taps the butt of his gun and gives me a withering look.
I stand, forcing my throbbing feet to bear my weight.
“But I do have one more little task for you.” He frowns as Noah struggles to rise, his body probably aching worse than mine. “That apostate we kicked out, the one you beat the shit out of a month or so ago, what was his name?”
“Drew,” Castro offers. “Something like that.”
A memory flutters and lands. “Davis? Chris Davis, the former lieutenant?”
“That’s the one.” My father shoots an imaginary pistol at me with his fingers. “He’s been snooping around the edges of the compound ever since we kicked him out. Doesn’t seem like he got the message the first time. Find him and make sure he gets it this go-around.”
I can barely stand, yet my father expects me to go MMA on Davis. Fuck, maybe I can just shoot the guy and call it a day.
“Out. I’ve got visitors coming. The mayor of Birmingham doesn’t need to see you two sorry sacks of shit, especially not for a Christmas tea.” He turns his attention to his coke habit as we limp into the foyer and down to the basement. I can feel blood oozing from my left foot, the one that took the brunt of the “safety” glass when I walked through it last night.
I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes to try and grind away the images that I know will haunt me for the rest of my life, however short that may be. But Sarah is still there, her drugged eyes wide, her blood spilling in a warm crimson rush.
“What should we do first?” Noah grabs a bottle from the dwindling supply behind the bar.
I force myself back to the here and now. “Well, Old MacDonald, I guess you need to get your ass over to the farmland and see how much work it’ll take to clear all that acreage.”
He groans and twists the cap off, letting it fall onto the wood floor and roll away. “Fuck that. I’d rather help you with Davis.”
“How can you help?” I poke him in the ribs.
He doubles over. “Motherfucker!”
“Those are cracked, you’re probably pissing blood, and let’s not even talk about the limp.” I take the bottle from him and swallow two huge gulps. The burn is getting easier, and I can see how Noah has fallen into the alcohol, drugging himself as best he can.
“I can drive.”
“I’ll get an address.” We’ll pay Davis a visit at his home. See if he wants to keep shitting where he eats. “But we’re going to have to play this one smart. My feet are fucked, the rest of you is fucked, and we can’t give him the idea that we’re weak.”