The Church (The Cloister Trilogy 3)

She leans against the door and crosses her arms with a curt shake of her head.

“You!” He points to the young man standing frozen next to the makeup chair. “Get out there and get me some help!”

Unsure, he drops his makeup brush. “I, okay—”

“Now!” The Prophet yells, and the man glances at the bright stage and starts to move.

Grace tracks him like a cougar on a deer.

“Don’t!” I lunge toward him, but Evan drags me back.

“Leave it, Delilah,” he growls against my veil.

The poor man takes half a dozen steps toward the stage before Grace is on him. I don’t see the blade, but I can tell by the jerking motion of her arm that she’s stabbing him in the back again and again. His yell is covered by the final notes of the choir, and I feel his body thump to the floor. Grace wipes her knife on his white shirt, then stands.

“Witches, all of you!” the Prophet cries.

The choir quiets, the song over.

“Maybe I am.” Rachel smiles, drawing his attention back to her. “But it doesn’t matter. Either you do what I say or you die now, choking on your own blood. It’s up to you, dear husband.”

“The Father of Fire will punish you.” He smooths the front of his jacket, his tone returning to even and reasonable. “You will not win this, Rachel. And once it’s over, you’ll be hung with the other whores in the punishment circle.”

“Your threats don’t scare me. Not anymore.” She clasps her hands in front of her, her simple white shirt and black skirt hiding the complicated woman within. “Are you going to oblige?”

Castro raises his pistol to the Prophet’s forehead as a green light blinks on the front wall of the stage just behind the shimmering gold curtain. It’s time for the Prophet to address his congregation.

“Or shall I have Castro shoot you?” She shrugs. “Either way, your time is up. This is Adam’s world now. His to rule.”

“You mean yours,” the Prophet sneers. “But I have news for you, sweet wife, Adam can’t be controlled. Not by me. And certainly not by a weak-willed female like you.”

She shrugs. “I doubt that’s the case, but even if it is, I have another son.”

Evan wraps his arm around me and slowly pulls me back. “We need to go. Now.”

Grace catches his movements and scurries around us, cutting off our exit. A few more steps and we’d be bathed in the stage lights, the coup attempt on full display. But those mere feet are like a football field with Grace blocking our path.

“We’re leaving.” Evan puts a note of command in his voice that is wasted on Grace.

She holds the blade out toward my face. “Senator, you’re free to go. But Delilah is staying here. Sadly, her usefulness is at an end.”

“She’s mine.”

Her eyes flick up to his, and I see the fullness of how unhinged she is. How far gone. She’ll kill both of us. I know it, and so it seems, does Evan.

His grip loosens. “We had a deal.”

“Heavenly is under new management.” She waves the blade back and forth, a snake charming herself. “And no former deals will be honored. You leave now, or I gut you. She’s dead either way. But you have a choice.”

Evan lets me go and scoots me to the side, then brings up his fists. “You don’t have a chance. I’m stronger, faster.”

Grace laughs and points her knife at the bloodied man a few paces away. “I bet he thought the same thing.”

I look for any escape. Only the darkness at the back of the stage is an option, but I don’t know where or how far it goes.

Evan grunts in frustration, his gaze bouncing from me to Grace.

“She’ll kill you.” Rachel calls, her motherly voice at odds with her dark words. “She doesn’t care who you are. I don’t either.”

“Evan, you need to help me here.” The Prophet tries to flip the southern gentleman switch, but he just winds up sounding scared. “We can’t let these women—”

Grace darts toward Evan. He jumps back right when she swings, and the knife barely misses his stomach. “Fuck!” he yells and scurries away toward the stage door.

I take the opening and run toward the darkness in the rear of the stage, past the fabric backdrops that hang from the ceiling and the scenery from the Christmas pageant. My heart pounds, and I rip the veil from my face but keep it clutched in my hand.

A tall, wide open door beckons to my left, but it’s the first place I’d guess. “You need to stop picking the first good place you see to hide. Be a little more sneaky.” Georgia’s voice whispers across my mind.

Dashing to the right, I find a white tent set up against the back wall. Inside, dozens of life-sized angel wings are perched on metal stands, their white feathers gloomy in the dim light. It’s the best chance I have, so I hurry inside and pick my way toward the wall, then hunker down amidst the sea of white. My breathing is labored, fear and exertion seeking to give me away. I press my mouth to the back of my arm, using it to dull the sound. Is Grace on my heels?