The Maiden (The Cloister Trilogy 1)

My thoughts veer past the punishment, rewind on the spool of my mind, and stop on Adam bursting into my room. He killed without a thought. The sureness in his shot, the coldness in his voice all telling me that he was no stranger to murder.

Was it him? Had he taken Georgia’s life with the same lethal calm? And would he one day take mine?

The Cloister dormitory is eerily silent as night falls. No heavy footsteps from the Protectors, no whispering Spinners outside the door.

I wait for Adam, dreading him but also wondering if he’ll talk about the murder. It’s funny how quickly I accepted it. A man tried to kill me only hours ago, and now he’s dead. Simple as flipping a switch. It certainly was that easy for Adam.

I shiver. He took a life as if it were commonplace, something he did as easily as closing a door or flushing a toilet.

He’ll want me on my knees, my nudity on display. But I don’t strip yet. Not until I have to. My last little bit of rebellion, I suppose. Though it’s stupid. I knew it would be like this, what I’d have to do if I wanted to be a part of the Cloister. The Prophet’s chats with the hopefuls—ones centered on being a pure child of God, an example for a fallen world—hadn’t fooled me.

I pick at the bandage on my right wrist. Would Adam ask what happened? Would he even care? What if he saw the red marks on my—

My door opens without a knock. I look up, but it isn’t Adam. Chastity motions for me to come, and I see several Maidens lined up in the hall, their white dresses ghostly.

“What’s going on?” I whisper as I pass her.

She doesn’t respond. I take my spot at the end of the line. Sarah and Eve come out of their rooms just as the Head Spinner appears through the double doors to the rest of the Cloister complex.

“God will bless those who are obedient, those who receive him with fear and trembling.” The Head Spinner walks down the line, her sharp eyes taking in every Maiden with close attention to detail. “Only those who bow down before the Lord and his Prophet will have a place in the heavenly realm beyond this one.” She hesitates as she reaches my side.

A ripple of fear courses through my blood, but she continues on, her voice loud and steady. “Once a week, the Prophet sees fit to allow you filthy Jezebels into his presence. I expect all of you to be on your best behavior. You will not speak unless the Prophet bids you to do so. You will not look the Prophet in the eye. Keep your eyes down with deference to his holiness. Try to rid your selfish, worldly hearts of anything other than pleasing him.” She walks back down the line, her black baton in her palm. “If any of you fail to comport yourselves appropriately, rest assured that the punishment will be quite memorable.” With a wave of her hand, the front Spinner begins marching out of the dormitories and into the hallway.

We follow, our eyes down, our hands clasped in front of us. Down the long corridors and then into a hallway we’ve never visited. We keep going until a Spinner enters a code on a keypad and opens a set of outer doors, sending a blast of cool air and dried leaves skittering onto the tile floor.

A white bus waits just outside, the engine idling and sending up puffs of white exhaust into the starless night. We must be at the back of the Cloister—the only area where a road connects it to the rest of the Heavenly Ministries compound. Though satellite images of it are obscured thanks to some deal the Prophet made with the tech companies, a well-flown drone had no problem giving me the exact layout of the “compound” as they call it. The Cloister, though large, is not the biggest building on the grounds. The main church sits at the front of the property, facing the main road. It’s larger than several of the football stadiums in the state. Behind it, the rest of the compound is encircled by acres of wrought-iron fence with spikes at the top and, in the wooded areas, ten-foot-high chain-link fences with looping barbed wire.

The only way in and out is through a guarded gate house just off the main road. The Prophet’s house sits just inside the fence near the church. It’s three stories of grandeur that would have made a Pharisee blush. On either side, smaller homes in the same Georgian architecture dot the grounds—the biggest ones belonging to the Prophet’s sons and the others to favored Protectors and their families. Beyond that, a line of trees and a slight ridge obscures the rest of the buildings from the public eye.