The Church (The Cloister Trilogy 3)

A click, and then harsh light from a bare bulb overhead blooms across the cinderblock walls and the woman tied to the table. Her bleach blonde hair matted, her eyes closed against the light’s assault. Stripped, her body is marred with bruises and cuts, and she shivers as the drop of water falls from above and taps her in the same spot where I can feel it even now.

I can’t stop the sob in my lungs, the despair that spreads across my body like a million spiders, their tiny legs invading every nook, caressing every nerve until I’m tormented. “Let her go,” I choke out.

“She’s staying here.” The Prophet shoves me into the guard’s steely arms and stands next to her.

She opens her eyes slowly. When she sees him, she tries to pull back, but there’s nowhere to go. Strapped to a cross, flat on her back, she’s at the Prophet’s mercy. I can feel the wood pressing into the back of my skull, taste the rubber and leather of the gag.

“Mom.” I try to reach for her, but the guard gives me no room.

Her gaze flickers to me, her eyes wide.

“Your mother belongs to me, witch. She will never leave this compound. As long as you are alive, I will keep her here.” He turns to me, his eyes black pools of hate. “Not in the Rectory the entire time. I’m not a monster.” He grins, as if he’s fully aware he’s the worst sort of monster and revels in it. “She’ll serve as a Spinner. Make herself useful instead of continuing down her path of ruination.” He jabs at the needle tracks on her inner arm. “We found her in an abandoned house. High, barely conscious. They told me that from the look of her, she’d just whored herself out for a hit. Come still crusting on her worn-out cunt.”

I can’t stop the tears coursing down my cheeks. Like so much else, I have no control. There’s nothing I can do for her. The guard’s grip and the Prophet’s insanity will keep running wild, and I have no power to stop it. Not yet.

“The reason I brought you here.” He turns to me. “Is so you know that if you disobey me, if you do anything to jeopardize your placement with the senator—” He walks farther into the room and pulls a scalpel from a table in the corner.

“Don’t.” I strain against the guard’s grip. “Please.”

“You need to learn, witch.” The Prophet returns to Mom’s side, knife in hand.

She makes a high-pitched sound in her throat.

“Please!” I yell, but the guard slaps a palm over my mouth.

He cuts her. Slow, shallow, tracing the knife down her chest.

“Stop!” I scream against the guard’s hand. Mom closes her eyes, the high-pitched noise dying in her throat as he finishes his stroke. Blood pools along the line, spilling down her sides in thin rivulets. A tremor passes through her, and she can’t seem to get enough air in through her nose.

My knees go weak, and I can barely stand. I have to help her, to comfort her, to do something to stop this.

The guard releases his hold on my mouth and wraps his arm around my waist, keeping me upright.

“Please, I’ll do anything. Please don’t hurt her anymore.”

He drops the bloody scalpel onto the table and returns to me, his demeanor smoother now, as if drawing blood soothed him like a lullaby. “You will do everything I ask, and you will do as the senator says. If you comply, your mother won’t be harmed. If you don’t, I’ll cut her life away bit by bit.”

He motions toward the door. The guard drags me out. I reach for my mother, but don’t get close enough to touch her, to tell her I’m going to fix it, to tell her this is all a temporary nightmare and that I’ll save her from it. The Prophet slams her door as he leaves, throwing her into darkness so complete that it eats you alive.

“Please,” I whisper, though I don’t know who I’m talking to. My entreaties have never moved the Prophet or anyone in this godforsaken place. There is no compassion here, no help.

The guard walks me out into the chilly morning, the sun playing across my face but offering no warmth. He shoves me into the back of the car, and the Prophet sits next to me. He hums a little, the torture pick-me-up lifting his spirit as mine mires in despair.

I shrink against the door as he turns to me, his lips almost in a smile.

“I must have misread the signs. The flames can do that. It’s more of an art than a science, you know?” He grabs my chin and wrenches my face to his. “But it makes more sense now. You will not be my downfall, witch. I will be yours.”