The Church (The Cloister Trilogy 3)

I will never be your anything.

He glances out into the foyer. “These rednecks are just a stepping stone for us.”

I nod. He’s saying exactly what I want—that he doesn’t care about Heavenly, has no stake in what happens to this place. It will make it so much easier for me to convince him to destroy the Prophet. But I still hold onto hope that I won’t have to do any convincing, that I’ll be with Adam, safely away from Evan’s grasp by the end of the day.

“Come on.” He sighs. “Let’s go get this over with so I can take you home.”

“Home?” I ask.

“I have a house in Birmingham, remember?” His smile sends a shiver down my spine. “It’s all set up for us. Everything we need for our little honeymoon.” Pulling me along with him, he leads me across the hall into the Prophet’s office. Noah and Castro are already there—Noah drinking and Castro scowling. Grace is perched on one of the leather chairs like an attentive bird, and in the far corner sits Ruth, the kind wife from the Cathedral. Both of her eyes are swollen, her lip split, and silent tears spill down her cheeks.

“What’s this business?” Evan walks to the chair next to Grace, sits down, then pulls me into his lap.

Looking around at the miserable faces, I sit there, Evan’s hand on the small of my back, his thumb rubbing a circle on the stiff fabric of the dress. I’m a prized possession, a pampered dog. Ruth doesn’t make a sound, but her tears are fresh and the bruises are just now forming around her swollen eyes. What is happening?

“Just a little something to show you how serious I am about Heavenly’s future.” The Prophet smiles, his blue seersucker suit doing its best to convince everyone he’s a southern gentleman instead of a sadistic devil worshipper.

I don’t look at Noah. I can’t. I feel certain our secret would be out, our alliance obvious if we were to make eye contact. So I stare at the arm of the chair and wait for whatever the Prophet has in store for me, for Ruth, for whatever victim in his web he’s chosen to devour.

“Bring her.” He points at Castro.

The man rises and leaves, but his footsteps don’t go far.

The Prophet opens his top desk drawer and draws out a blade.

I swallow hard, and black spots fill my vision. It’s the same blade that cut Sarah’s throat. Her face flashes through my mind—the empty, dead look in her eyes as her blood spilled. I unwillingly cringe away, back into Evan’s arms.

“Shh,” he whispers in my ear. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing here does. He won’t touch you, darling. You’re mine.”

The Prophet runs his thumb lightly along the blade, then nods. “Sharp enough.”

Castro returns dragging a woman in a Spinner’s dress. Her light hair is too familiar, and I lean over to see her better. I grip the arm of the chair and shake my head. No.

“You see, even for a man like me, there are problems that I have to solve before they become too big, too overwhelming.” The Prophet walks around his desk and leans against the front as Castro yanks Chastity’s hair, exposing her badly beaten face.

Noah shifts on the couch, but doesn’t intervene.

“Just a few days ago, I learned from Ruth that some of my sweet, devoted girls were planning to kill me.” The Prophet tsks and looks at Evan with comically raised brows. “Can you believe that?”

Evan pulls me tighter against him. “That’s a surprise.”

That day Ruth didn’t come back to the Cathedral—was that why? Had the Prophet gotten wind of her plan?

“It is.” The Prophet nods. “It was quite a shock, I can tell you that. But Ruth was truthful, eventually. I had to get my son involved, poor boy. Ezekiel is tough like his mother, though.” He points at Ruth. “She raised him well. He didn’t cry… at first.”

Ruth gasps in a breath and covers her mouth with her hand.

“She’s a good mother. That’s why I’m going to let her live.” He turns his attention to Chastity. “But you, my dear, have no value anymore. Too many mistakes. Too many attempts to disobey me. ‘God’s wrath comes on those who are disobedient.’ You, Chastity, have flouted my law for far too long. I’ve been forgiving. But now that time has passed. You and your friends planned to destroy the church.” He steps to the sofa where Noah sits, stone-faced, and reaches behind it. Grabbing a satchel, the Prophet stands and pulls a stick of dynamite from it. “Foolish woman. What good would that do? Even if you killed us all, more warriors of the Lord would rise to take our places.” He shakes his head and gently drops the bag on his desk, more khaki tubes rolling around inside.