The Prophet (The Cloister Trilogy 2)

Bile rises in my throat, and I would vomit if I had any food left in my stomach. I jump to my feet and run toward the projector. With a hard shove, I push it to the ground. It cracks and breaks against the wood floor, the light from the back of the room going dark, but the sound continues. The men grunting, some laughing, and her choking noises. I can’t reach the speakers in the wall, can’t do anything to stop the horror.

I turn and run, pushing out the door into the hallway. Then I stop. I expected to find a Spinner waiting outside. But there’s no one. Just a long, empty hall to my left and my right.

My fight or flight turns into something more clever, and I take a left, creeping softly toward the kitchen. Most of the Spinners must be in training with the other Maidens, because the corridor is noticeably empty. The faint smell of vegetables roasting floats through the air, not the least bit appetizing.

Once I reach the kitchen, I crack the door and peek inside. Abigail stands in front of a large sink and washes dishes, the hiss of the sprayer covering any sound I might make. I can’t see Chastity through the sliver. It’s a risk, but I’m already in trouble for the projector, so I push the door open farther and glance to the right. Her back to me, Chastity is setting up the plates for lunch on the stainless steel table beneath the pass-through window.

I can’t get her attention without catching Abigail’s as well, so I gently close the door, then hurry to the dining room. I slip inside and keep to the shadowy wall, easing closer to the bright pass-through. When I get near enough, I make a “psst” noise.

Chastity’s head pops up, her gaze scouring the dim dining room. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Delilah. Just keep working.” The video will have seen me, but it doesn’t have to show Chastity speaking with me. I’m in deep trouble, but I don’t want her to join me there.

She drops her attention back to the plates and trays. “What are you doing?”

“I was in the TV room and got out. Can you tell me more about Georgia?”

She turns, likely checking to make sure Abigail’s still busy.

Chastity keeps her voice so low I can barely hear it. “The Prophet didn’t kill her.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know. But the night she went missing, the Prophet was at the Cathedral for the birth of one of his sons. We think she was killed that night.”

“Who is ‘we’?” I scoot a little closer, hunching beneath the window.

“I can’t put the others at risk by naming them, but there are women here who are willing to go to war if it comes to it. We just need an opening.”

War? I was thinking that she had friends—maybe at the Chapel—who wanted to escape. Maybe Chastity and I have even more in common than I thought.

I let the truth out. “I want to bring it all down.”

“It’s the only way,” she replies quickly.

“Who do you suspect killed Georgia?”

“That night, Noah and—”

The hiss of the water in the background stops. I hold my breath.

“Heavens, if we have to serve this broccoli one more time, I think the Maidens might revolt.” Abigail shuffles some plates and pans, then the water turns back on.

“It was Noah?”

“Maybe.” She slaps another tray onto the sill. “You have to go. Another Spinner will be coming any second to set up the dining room.”

“Listen.” I take a risk, and I hope it’s worth it. “Tuesday. At the Temple. Can you make sure you go with the other Spinners that night?”

“Why?”

“Can you go?”

She slides some trays onto the window sill. “I can try. What’s going to happen at—”

The water shuts off again. “All done here. I’m going to sit down and rest my tired old bones.”

“Sounds good.” Chastity’s voice rises to a normal level. “I’ve got all these ready.”

“Good deal.” Abigail sighs along with the creak of a chair. “That’s better.” She’s too close now. I can’t say a word or she’ll hear me.

I edge back toward the door.

I’m almost there when it swings open and the light flicks on.

Chapter 28

Adam

“I heard you were a bad girl today.” I toss my jacket on the foot of Delilah’s bed and sit in front of her.

She looks up, defiance in her eyes. “No, not really.”

Her biting tone makes me hard, because I’m a sick man who needs every ounce of pushback she gives me. “So, you didn’t break the projector and you didn’t go to the dining room looking for snacks and you didn’t threaten the Spinner who caught you?”

She shrugs, her bare breasts jiggling slightly with the movement. “Maybe.”

I laugh. She’s fucking adorable. Even if this is a charade. Even if we have an intense, whispered conversation right around the corner. This playful, sharp edge of hers is still the real her, the one that captured my attention from the very start. I want to tell her I love it—her sass and her fire—but that’s not a word I get to utter. Not to her. I don’t deserve it.