Deep Redemption (Hades Hangmen 4)

The sound of my name coming from his mouth stopped me dead. I hated that name. “Rider,” I hissed. “My name is Rider.” Raising the file, I snarled, “Is this true? Is what’s in here fucking true?” My body swayed, still feeling the effects of today’s beating. I forced myself to stay standing. I needed to get these fucking answers more than I needed rest.

“Yes,” Brother Stephen replied. He meant it. I could see it in his dark eyes. I expelled a long breath and dropped the file to the floor.

“Shit!” I spat, shame at being part of this place surging through me.

“Rider,” Brother Stephen said and moved closer.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“I heard you telling Harmony who you were. We have never met the prophet—your twin—in the flesh; we did not know you shared the same face. Our guards did not recognize you under all the matted hair.” I turned to face the dark-haired woman who had answered my question. She was looking at me with tears in her eyes. I didn’t know why, but the way she stared made me feel awash with an indescribable sadness. It confused me more than anything else had this night.

“Sister Ruth,” I said.

She nodded her head, casting me a shy smile. “Yes.”

“So you know Judah is now the one in charge?”

“Yes,” Brother Stephen replied.

I looked at the guards. They were staring intently, listening to everything that was being said.

“You are disciple guards,” I said. “How . . . what . . . ?”

Brother Stephen held my gaze. “They are our friends.”

“Our?” I questioned.

Brother Stephen turned round and brought another chair to their makeshift circle near the guards’ desk. He held his hand out, gesturing for me to take a seat. Unable to support myself anymore, I moved to the chair and sat down. My eyes were like a hawk’s as I met the eyes of each of them, promising them without speaking that I would kill them if they tried to take me down, if this was some kind of sick ruse.

If they tried to take Harmony from my cell.

Brother Stephen sat down. The bigger of the two guards checked that the door of the building was locked, then re-took his seat, his gun held firmly in his hands.

“Speak,” I demanded, my voice displaying every morsel of the anger that was consuming me inside.

“Cain, have you ever wondered what happens to defectors of the faith?”

His question caught me off guard. “They are punished,” I said, picturing the Cursed Delilah. I winced, knowing that her treatment was all for fucking nothing. “They are made to pay in flesh or isolation for the sin they have committed. They are encouraged to repent. It’s in our scriptures.”

Brother Stephen nodded his head. “And afterwards? Where do they go? What if they do not repent?” He paused. “Have you ever noticed that the sinners rarely re-enter the commune?”

I stared at the older man in confusion. “I don’t know what the hell you mean. I was raised away from our people. I was kept away in seclusion with Judah in Utah. Up until a few months ago I had never set foot in the commune. It”—I ran my hands down my tired face—“it overwhelmed me. And Judah . . . Judah was the Prophet’s Hand. He was the inquisitor of the sinners. He doled out the punishments.” I shook my head. “What are you getting at? Who the fuck are y’all? And I want the motherfucking truth!”

I was over pussyfooting around. I needed these people to be honest with me, honest and straight to the point. I was done with trying to be polite and prophet-like in this delusional cesspit of a faith. My anger was in the driving seat right now. I had learned long ago to control it, to let the calmer Cain shine through.

I gave zero fucks about that anymore.

Prophet Cain was dead. That cunt was done.

Brother Stephen looked to Sister Ruth, then the two guards. They all nodded their heads at a silently asked question. “Our small commune was in Puerto Rico. We had been mostly left alone by the prophet’s men until recently.”

He sighed, but I could hear the barely contained rage in his voice. Brother Stephen clasped his hands together. “We, the people in our commune, were all defectors of the faith, Cain.” He pointed to the guards and Sister Ruth. “We were all cast out for doubting the beliefs and practices, sinning against the faith, or speaking out against the prophet. We were all punished, then sent to Puerto Rico to suffer in isolation.” He laughed a sardonic laugh. “Prophet David believed a commune in the stifling heat, a land so different from our own, would re-inspire our belief in his ways. He did not bargain on a small collective set of people finding solace in one another’s doubts.”