The Church (The Cloister Trilogy 3)

“—and what he said about the women needing to cover up? Amen. He’s right on, don’t you think?”

“Mmhhm.” I tune him out even further as the singers near the end of their song.

It’s almost showtime.

Chapter 27

Delilah

The choir’s voices drone quietly over the backstage speakers, their version of “Great is Thy Faithfulness” steady and smooth.

“We’re up first.” Evan holds my hand, his confidence suffocating.

All I can see is blood. Chastity’s life flowing all over the perfectly polished floor, the Prophet stepping back so his shoes wouldn’t get splattered, Castro lowering her to the floor. Nothing will ever make it right. My body is numb, my heart sedated. I have a purpose, but it’s lost behind a veil of crimson—the thick, syrupy liquid coating everything I see.

“You get through this, and we’re home free.” Evan squeezes my fingers lightly. “Then things will be fine. You’ll forget about this place, these people. I promise.”

His promise rings hollow like his soul. There is no forgetting what happened here. Not to me, or Georgia, or Adam, or Sarah, or Chastity. Even if Heavenly is reduced to rubble, the scars it has inflicted will remain inside me forever. Indelible, raised marks that I can’t explain and don’t want to touch for fear of opening the old wounds.

A young man fusses over the Prophet as he sits in front of a mirror with large, bare bulbs, just like you see in any decent showbiz film. Powder on the face, product in the hair, and then the final touch—a microphone looped behind his ear and poised near his mouth.

The Prophet rises, but something catches his eye. He turns toward the darker depths of backstage, and I follow his gaze. Something is moving back there.

Someone touches my hair. I turn my head to find Grace behind me, bobby pins sticking out of her mouth.

She scrunches her forehead. “Dt moooooo.”

I take it she means “don’t move,” so turn back toward the stage. Utterly unaffected by Chastity’s murder, she pins the white veil to my hair and tosses the fabric over my face. It hangs to my chest, a white blur on everything.

“Beautiful,” Evan says as the choir crescendos toward the end of the song.

Noise behind me catches my attention, and I cast a glance toward the commotion.

The Prophet, red-faced and irate, points his finger at Rachel, his voice rising. She must have been the one moving in the wing. Castro stands beside her, his face placid, his hand in his pocket.

“—lying whore. This will not go unpunished. Castro, take her down to the congregation and keep an eye on her.”

“Can’t do that.” Castro pulls a pistol from his pocket and aims it at the Prophet. “It’s best you do what Rachel says. Make the announcement. Step down.”

I move toward them to try and hear better.

Evan grabs my elbow. “Don’t.”

I shake him off and take another step before he grabs me again. “Delilah, this is clearly a family matter that we need to stay the hell out of.”

“You, Castro?” The Prophet shakes his head. “Bastard of an ingrate. After all I’ve done for you. ‘He who shared my bread has turned against me.’”

“Don’t try to use the Bible on me, old man.” Castro’s dark eyes rage, his voice shaking. “After all I’ve put up with from you. All the times you passed me over. You’re the betrayer, not me.”

“Leon, there’s no point arguing.” Rachel holds up a hand. “All you have to do is announce that you are stepping down and that Adam will be taking your place as Prophet. If you don’t, Castro will shoot you dead, and I’ll make the announcement myself.”

The Prophet seems to ignore the threat as he looms over his wife, every bit of him tense. “You’re the one who took Adam? You?”

It’s as if I’m watching a movie through a frosted window, trying to follow the characters and guess what’s going to happen next.

“That’s neither here nor there.” Unafraid, she glares up at him. Her weakness is gone. Was it always a charade? In its place, iron seems to run through her spine, and the malevolence in her gaze is only tempered by the veil that dims my vision. In the hazy light, I can see that Adam has her fire, the same indomitable will to survive, to carry on, and to win. Maybe she can pull this off. My heart leaps at the thought of it, how easy it could be if she cuts the Prophet down to nothing in one smooth stroke.

“You’re a witch!” the Prophet yells, his voice likely carrying to the Maidens along the front row. “An evil thing sent here to torment me!” He turns to Grace who’s been silently watching near the stage door. “Go get Zion or any Protector. I want Rachel and Castro detained until after service.”

Grace reaches for the door and flips over the sliding lock. Her smug smile resurfaces, and for the first time, the Prophet seems to lose some of his steam. “Grace, do it now!” His voice quavers.