The Church (The Cloister Trilogy 3)

I don’t have a good view of the tent entrance, but I know she’s out there, her knife at the ready. Evan is long gone. I have no delusions that he’ll try to save me. The fear on his face when she swung told me that he had no problems abandoning me to save his own skin. Something hits the concrete floor—a loud click in the gloom. I shrink down a little more, my back pressed to the cinderblock wall.

“Delilah,” Grace’s voice tickles through the gloom, coming from the dark room I passed up. I wipe sweat from my brow. I have to hold on, stay hidden, and when I see an opportunity, take it.

My thoughts skitter into my memory again—Georgia hunting me in the backyard as I tried to stay as still as I could despite the mosquitoes and the stuffy summer heat. The need to pee is the same now as it was then. Hiding was never my strong suit.

“I’d be able to find you in the dark. You shine no matter where you are, Firefly.” For once, I hope Georgia was wrong.

Chapter 28

Adam

The choir has been done for too long, and the sounds from backstage have the audience tittering. Shouts and thumps and whispered voices—a deeply odd start to what is usually a flawless service. My mind itches, like bugs crawling all over the gray matter, as I wrestle with my need to keep Emily safe. She’s back there. I’m out here. If I move too soon—I glance at the Heavenly police officers scattered along the aisles—I won’t be able to help anyone, especially not her. Fuck. Where is Noah? I scan the crowd again, looking for him in the throng of faithful. He still isn’t there.

The static whine of a microphone going hot pulses through the speakers, and my father appears onstage. He strides out slowly, his steps measured, as if he’s planning what to say. I lean forward as the crowd hushes, their attention on the mythical Prophet who looms on large screens all around the sanctuary.

He stops in the middle of the stage, his head down, his hands clasped in front of him. Like this, he looks like just a man. Nothing more. His graying hair a little mussed, his shoulders down, his stance a little wider than a young man’s because he needs more help to balance. Even in the bright spotlight, he’s faded, frail, mortal. Can anyone else see it?

Slowly, he lifts his head until his eyes search the silent crowd. Someone sneezes on the other side of the sanctuary, and a baby lets out a short wail that’s quickly cut off. The Prophet lifts one hand up, palm open, and says nothing.

The worshippers turn to each other, some of them shrugging, a few of them whispering. Even the Maidens perched along the front row seem unsure as they lean and speak amongst themselves despite the fact it’s forbidden.

After a few more long beats of silence, a child down front stands and raises her hand, keeping it in the air just like the Prophet. Another child near her does the same, then another. Soon, the gesture spreads until the entire congregation is rising, hands shooting up. Beside me, Gene gets to his feet. I follow and raise my hand, hoping no one notices the bandaging.

The entire sanctuary is silent, reflecting the Prophet back to himself. This is his perfect world. What he’s strived after for so long—conformity with him, his ideals, his goals. What the congregants likely view as an act of support is truly an act of sublimation. They are shoved under in a hellish baptism, their individuality denied as they take on the shape and desires of the Prophet.

We stand long enough for me to wonder how badly my hand is going to hurt when the blood returns to it. Gradually, the Prophet lowers his palm and gestures for everyone to sit. A cacophony of seat cushions compressing, old folks groaning, and people getting settled fills the wide space and then dies away.

“My beloveds.” He opens his hands and motions toward the entire congregation. “You are blessed, and you have blessed me. Without your love, Heavenly would not be what it is today. Strong, Godly, and devout. Your generosity has allowed us to flourish, our influence to grow. We have spread the Gospel to every corner of the planet, and we did it together in the light of the Lord.”

The “amens” come from all angles. Gene beside me adds a hearty one once the others have died down a bit.

The Prophet pauses, building the anticipation like water adding to a droplet, growing larger and larger until its weight drags it down. His whisper is barely a hiss. “But in every garden, there is a snake.”

Some members gasp, others stare straight ahead, their attention demanding that the Prophet point out the traitor.