The Church (The Cloister Trilogy 3)

My back hits the wall and I force myself up despite the ripping pain across my shoulder blades. “You don’t have to be like this.” I keep the wire at my side.

“Shut up.” She wrenches the blade free and stands. “You think you’re the first bitch to come between Adam and me?”

“What?” I try to steady myself, to get ready for her.

“I had a daughter. Did you know that? Faith was her name.” She rolls her eyes. “A little brat. I thought if I gave him a child he would marry me and we’d eventually dethrone the Prophet and rule together. But no.” She swipes the blade in a dangerous, angry arc. “He doted on her, fawned over that little shit. Ignored me. Only cared about her.”

“He said she died.” I swallow hard, my eyes on the steel she’s waving around.

“She died.” She nods and stills. “After months of poisoning, she died. It was only supposed to take a few weeks. I looked it up. Arsenic. A little in her food every day.” She makes a motion with her free hand as if she’s sprinkling seasoning onto food. “Simple, right?”

I can’t stop the horror that sets my hair on end, my teeth on edge. My bowels loosen, and utter disgust constricts my throat.

“No, of course it wasn’t,” she growls. “It took months. Months of her calling for Daddy every night, sleeping in his bed, wanting cuddles, taking all the attention that should have been mine. Instead of bringing us closer together, she drove us apart. I thought killing her would fix it. But then, he just got further away!” She steps closer, almost in range to strike.

The Prophet’s still speaking, the word “serpent” twisting around us, punctuating Grace’s confession.

Her face turns to a pout, her lips in a petulant frown. “She ruined us. Adam never wanted me after that. But at least he didn’t want anyone else either.” Her eyes focus on mine. “Until you.”

I grip the wire harder, the gauzy veil compressing around the metal. “I wish I could say I pity you, that you’re a victim of the Prophet just like everyone else here.” I let her gaze go, kicking it to the dirt as I focus on the knife in her hand. “But you aren’t. You’re a monster of your own making.”

Her pout dissolves, hard hate in her eyes. “At least I’m still alive.” She lunges forward, the blade aimed at my heart.

I dart to the left, my injured back scraping against the wall. She comes at me again, holding the knife low and stabbing upward. I jump again, and her blade scrapes against the wall behind me.

With a cry of rage, she rushes me. I stumble backwards, my feet tripping over some piece of scenery, and I fall backward into the fabric sheets hanging from the ceiling. They cushion me, but also keep me upright and within range of her blade. She stabs toward me again. I roll sideways, then shove my right hand out hard. The metal makes contact, and I twist, grunting from the effort to push it even deeper. The end cuts through the veil and pushes into my palm, but I don’t let up. Not until she drops the knife, the blade slapping against the wood slats beneath.

I shove her back and let go of the metal, the veil still caught around the end. Blood stains the white fabric, some of it mine but more of it hers.

She stumbles away and grabs the wire, then looks up at me, surprise in her wide eyes. “You cut me.” Disbelief colors her tone as she stares down at the blood spilling from the wound. Staggering farther, her heel catches and she falls. “I’m bleeding.” She holds up a red hand, then gives me a look more vicious than any before. “I’ll kill you.” Her foot comes out from beneath her and she tries to push herself up.

I step back.

But she falls, gasping for breath as she leans over on her side. She can’t get up, and I uncurl my shaking hands. My right one bleeds, the droplets coloring the floor beneath me. But I don’t care. Jubilation races through my blood. I beat her. I’m still alive. I take in a gulping breath and wrap my arms around me to try and keep myself together, keep myself from blowing apart with the enormity of what I’ve just done. I beat her, but I’ve taken a life. I should be sorry… I’m not.

“I beat you,” I whisper.

She lays her head down, her eyes closing. “You bitch.”

The world rushes back—sounds of panic and the Prophet’s voice cooing about his “Prodigal son.”

I turn and walk away, the floor reeling beneath me as I try to center myself. The Prophet’s voice is gone, only a deep static tone emanating from the speakers. The area begins to brighten the closer I get to the side of the stage.