by Celia Aaron
I take another long pull from the flask. I don’t berate myself for the way Noah is. Not anymore. He’s too steeped in my father’s bullshit, too much of a true believer, for me to ever pull him free. Maybe I’ve failed him, or maybe this was the way it was always meant to be.
“Get some sleep.” He stows the flask. “We’ve got the Ritual tomorrow night.”
“I know.” I settle into my pillow as he turns out the light. “Now the real mindfuck will begin.”
He shakes his head. “It’s for—”
“His glory. Yeah, I got it.” I don’t even want to shake him anymore. He’s too far gone to understand.
He closes the door, and I grab the remote. The screen glows to life, and there she is. Her fairy hair falling around her shoulders as she sleeps in a huddle. I hope she dreams of me, even if it’s a nightmare. How could it be anything else?
“It can’t be,” I answer myself. Like a lunatic.
She stirs and lifts her head as if she can hear me. She can’t. But she turns and looks straight at the camera, at me, her eyes luminous in the low light.
“Why?” I ask her. Why did I kill for her? Why is she different? Or, my mind answers, she’s not different at all. You’re just desperate for something new. For someone else besides the usual brainwashed acolytes.
“Why?” I ask her again, more demanding this time.
Do I detect a faint quirk to her lips, a touch of fire in her gaze? I blink hard, and when I open my eyes, she’s hidden from me again, her head resting on her knees, her breaths slow and even.
Chapter 10
Delilah
“Delilah.” The Head Spinner approaches as I stand in line for “training.”
I turn toward her, my eyes down, my hands clasped in front of me. The picture of demure purity, despite the fact I’m utterly naked.
With a deceptively light voice, she says, “You will train with me today.” She continues walking, and I step out of line and follow. Sarah shoots me a worried look, but doesn’t say anything as I file past.
Goosebumps race down my body as the Head Spinner makes a beeline for the large wooden X suspended from the ceiling. The one with the straps.
She stops abruptly, her black skirt swishing forward at her ankles. “Step up.”
I want to turn and run, but there is no way out. I force my body to cooperate, to move forward despite the paralysis of fear. I walk past her and stand in front of the X, then lift my arms.
“Turn around.”
I spin and face the room, the Maidens in various states of training—some with dildos in their mouths, others on all fours with plugs in their asses, still others on top of benches, their legs held in place as Spinners wearing strap-ons fuck them in the mouth. One Spinner demonstrates the differently-sized dildos with a metal ruler, which she also uses to discipline any Maiden who she feels isn’t paying perfect attention.
The Head Spinner reaches up and fastens first my right wrist and then my left, pulling the leather bindings tight. She pauses for a moment to inspect the bruising on my neck, then steps back.
I wiggle my fingers, the circulation already slowing in them. They’ll be numb in a few minutes, and maybe that will be a good thing.
There are leather cuffs for my ankles on the bottom of the X, but she doesn’t fasten them. I breathe a small sigh of relief. If she’d spread my legs and left me completely open, the terror might have overtaken me.
She edges past the X, then reaches for a green industrial-looking button in the nearby wall. Foreboding coats my tongue like a sour taste. A loud mechanical click sounds from above. I look up and see the chain receding through a small hole in the ceiling. The X rises, pulling my arms taut, and cinching the leather even tighter on my wrists.
I struggle, trying to loosen the bindings and ease the ache, but the leather only grips tighter. My back is pressed against the X, a crucifixion before an audience of Maidens and Spinners.
She slows my ascent, just as I go up on my tiptoes, the very last chance I have to keep at least some of my weight on the ground. The machine quiets, and I’m left mostly hanging, my body protesting the strain, my mind yelling at me to focus on something other than the fear, the torture, the smug Head Spinner.
“This is an important lesson, and I’m glad to be the one to teach it.” She eases around me until I can see her again.
The room is silent, all the other training halted.
She raises her hand and presses it to my chest. I can’t get away from her touch. She lets her fingers trail between the valley of my breasts, down my stomach and then lower.
Her eyes glint as she cups my sex. “This is what happens to sluts who disobey the Lord’s commands,” she whispers so low that only I can hear.
I tremble and press my legs together even though it puts more strain on my wrists. She releases her grip and backs away.
“The Prophet demands your obedience.” Her voice rises, the sound piercing every woman in the room. “God demands sacrifice from all his chosen. And if you fail to comport yourselves as the godly women you are meant to be, there are consequences.”
“Amen.” The Spinners in the room form one voice.
“Cloister Maiden Delilah caused the death of a Protector. His blood is on her hands. Because of her whorish Jezebel ways, she has broken the Prophet’s law. Does she deserve punishment?”
“Yes!” the Spinners cry.
“I asked you all, does she deserve punishment!” Her voice is a whip.
The Maidens react, even Sarah crying yes under the harsh gaze of the Head Spinner. Some of the girls look on with expectant, hungry eyes. But others seem locked into their own horror, though I can’t tell if their trepidation is for me or themselves.
“Better.” The Head Spinner walks to the wall of implements and chooses a crop, the handle long and thin, and the end a piece of flattened black leather.
“The book of Isaiah tells us what happens to the wicked among us. ‘I will punish the world for its evil, the wicked for their sins. I will put an end to the arrogance of the haughty.’” She stands in front of me and runs the crop along her palm. “Your arrogance is an affront to the Prophet. You must learn your place. It is at His feet. At the feet of your Protector. At the feet of our mighty Prophet. And at the feet of our Lord.” The fervor rises in her voice. “Here, with your sisters, you will learn to be a model female, one that carries the blessings of God wherever she goes. But first, you must be punished.”
I can’t look away from her, the mad sparkle in her eyes, the sheer weight of belief in her voice, and the violence in her arm as she swings the crop right at my vulnerable sex.
My scream rips through the room as the most intense pain I’ve ever felt rushes through me. I cross my legs, but my wrists feel like they’re shredding as the leather digs in. I have to put my feet back down, leaving myself vulnerable. Tears well, though I try to fight them back.
“You see, Maidens? Disobedience, wickedness, or a return to your fallen ways will not be tolerated.” She swings again.
I can’t get enough air, and I pull my knees up to try and defend myself, even though I can feel blood trickling down my forearms.
“Soon, you will speak the truth of the prophets! ‘Let me die the death of the righteous, and may my final end be like theirs!’”
“Amen!” shout the Spinners.
My legs give out, everything in me vibrating to the frequency of agony, and the Head Spinner draws back. When her arm flies forward, my wail comes from a deep reserve of suffering somewhere inside me. One I didn’t know was there. A primordial well of terror and hurt.
“‘The Lord rewards everyone for their righteousness and faithfulness.’” The Head Spinner’s voice is full of rapture. “I will make each one of you righteous and faithful.” She pulls up my chin, forcing me to meet her stony gaze. “Even you, sinful Delilah.”
She releases me, and tears leak freely down my face as my body goes limp. I lean forward, my shoulders twisting as I let the leather
tear into my wrists. Deep sobs wrack me. I don’t know how long I hang there, my tears dripping onto the floor, but I feel when someone lifts me, their shoulder under my stomach. Then hands gently release the leather at my wrists.
Someone carries me over to one of the waxing tables. I blink away my tears to find an older, stout woman hovering over me. I recognize her from the microchipping. She’s Abigail, the oldest Spinner I’ve seen.
“I’m going to tend to your wrists and your maidenhood.”
I glance around wildly, looking for the Head Spinner through the haze of tears.
“She’s gone.” Abigail scowls. “Likely to do some sort of high and mighty business. Who knows. Now just lie still, and I’ll fix you right up.”
Sarah stands next to me, her face pale. Chastity assists Abigail with bandages as the other Spinners bark at the women to return to their “studies.”
“I’ll stay.” Sarah pushes my hair from my forehead.
“I didn’t do anything.” The words bubble up, as if my guilt or innocence matters in the least.
“I know. I know you didn’t.” She wipes my cheeks with her palms. “It’s not your fault.”
“Sarah!” A Spinner barks. “Do you need another demonstration of what happens to those who disobey?”
“Go. Please go.” I close my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“It’s okay.” I don’t want her to suffer. My pain is plenty.
Her warmth fades as she leaves, and then Abigail’s shadow falls over me. She mumbles under her breath, none of her words particularly Spinner-appropriate. I want to ask her how she got here. She clearly wasn’t a passed over Cloister Maiden like so many of the others seem to be. She is too old, too smart, too clear-eyed.
“This is going to sting.” She presses something cold against my wrist. Then the burn sets in. I clench my eyes shut.
“You aren’t too bad off. The leather only tore your skin in a couple of places. With a little salve, you won’t even scar. Thank the Lord. Scarring would send you right to the Chapel when your year is up.” She resumes grumbling. “Could’ve used … and there are padded cuffs…damn sadist.”
She cleans first one wrist and then the other as I wonder what the Chapel is and try to keep from crying out. I stare up at the rustic logs, each one forming an elaborate lattice above me. Planned, perfect, and built with human hands. Just like the Cloister. But instead of holding up a structure, the Cloister is designed to rip a person down to the barest foundation.
“Your maidenhood will recover just fine.” She bends over my crotch.
Only a week ago, I would’ve felt uncomfortable with someone hovering so close to my private area. Now, I sigh with relief as she applies some sort of cooling gel to the skin, easing the burn of the crop.
“Are you all right?” Chastity stares down at me, her voice barely a whisper.
“I think so. And … thank you for …” For helping me with the dead man. The words are there, but I can’t seem to utter them.
“You’re welcome.” She moves down the table and begins wrapping my wrists.
The rest of the room continues with training as Abigail and Chastity tend to me.
My thoughts veer past the punishment, rewind on the spool of my mind, and stop on Adam bursting into my room. He killed without a thought. The sureness in his shot, the coldness in his voice all telling me that he was no stranger to murder.
Was it him? Had he taken Georgia’s life with the same lethal calm? And would he one day take mine?
The Cloister dormitory is eerily silent as night falls. No heavy footsteps from the Protectors, no whispering Spinners outside the door.
I wait for Adam, dreading him but also wondering if he’ll talk about the murder. It’s funny how quickly I accepted it. A man tried to kill me only hours ago, and now he’s dead. Simple as flipping a switch. It certainly was that easy for Adam.
I shiver. He took a life as if it were commonplace, something he did as easily as closing a door or flushing a toilet.
He’ll want me on my knees, my nudity on display. But I don’t strip yet. Not until I have to. My last little bit of rebellion, I suppose. Though it’s stupid. I knew it would be like this, what I’d have to do if I wanted to be a part of the Cloister. The Prophet’s chats with the hopefuls—ones centered on being a pure child of God, an example for a fallen world—hadn’t fooled me.
I pick at the bandage on my right wrist. Would Adam ask what happened? Would he even care? What if he saw the red marks on my—
My door opens without a knock. I look up, but it isn’t Adam. Chastity motions for me to come, and I see several Maidens lined up in the hall, their white dresses ghostly.
“What’s going on?” I whisper as I pass her.
She doesn’t respond. I take my spot at the end of the line. Sarah and Eve come out of their rooms just as the Head Spinner appears through the double doors to the rest of the Cloister complex.
“God will bless those who are obedient, those who receive him with fear and trembling.” The Head Spinner walks down the line, her sharp eyes taking in every Maiden with close attention to detail. “Only those who bow down before the Lord and his Prophet will have a place in the heavenly realm beyond this one.” She hesitates as she reaches my side.
A ripple of fear courses through my blood, but she continues on, her voice loud and steady. “Once a week, the Prophet sees fit to allow you filthy Jezebels into his presence. I expect all of you to be on your best behavior. You will not speak unless the Prophet bids you to do so. You will not look the Prophet in the eye. Keep your eyes down with deference to his holiness. Try to rid your selfish, worldly hearts of anything other than pleasing him.” She walks back down the line, her black baton in her palm. “If any of you fail to comport yourselves appropriately, rest assured that the punishment will be quite memorable.” With a wave of her hand, the front Spinner begins marching out of the dormitories and into the hallway.
We follow, our eyes down, our hands clasped in front of us. Down the long corridors and then into a hallway we’ve never visited. We keep going until a Spinner enters a code on a keypad and opens a set of outer doors, sending a blast of cool air and dried leaves skittering onto the tile floor.
A white bus waits just outside, the engine idling and sending up puffs of white exhaust into the starless night. We must be at the back of the Cloister—the only area where a road connects it to the rest of the Heavenly Ministries compound. Though satellite images of it are obscured thanks to some deal the Prophet made with the tech companies, a well-flown drone had no problem giving me the exact layout of the “compound” as they call it. The Cloister, though large, is not the biggest building on the grounds. The main church sits at the front of the property, facing the main road. It’s larger than several of the football stadiums in the state. Behind it, the rest of the compound is encircled by acres of wrought-iron fence with spikes at the top and, in the wooded areas, ten-foot-high chain-link fences with looping barbed wire.
The only way in and out is through a guarded gate house just off the main road. The Prophet’s house sits just inside the fence near the church. It’s three stories of grandeur that would have made a Pharisee blush. On either side, smaller homes in the same Georgian architecture dot the grounds—the biggest ones belonging to the Prophet’s sons and the others to favored Protectors and their families. Beyond that, a line of trees and a slight ridge obscures the rest of the buildings from the public eye.
What the buildings are for? It’s anyone’s guess. But there are several of them, each large and often surrounded by vehicles. The entire campus is a humming hive, though in an affront to nature, each worker bee seeks to please the king instead of the queen. The Prophet rules over it all, taking far more than he’s ever given.
“Move!” A Spinner gives me a light shove, and I climb onto the bus. It’s a short school bus that’s had every single surface painted white. The stiff seat is cool beneath me as I sit, and Sarah slides in next
to me.
“Are you okay?” she whispers. Her eyes dart to the Protector in the driver’s seat, his gaze focused on the Maidens via a wide mirror above the windshield.
“I’ll live.”
In a gesture of pure rebellion, she grabs my hand and squeezes, then lets it drop as the Head Spinner boards the bus. She grabs the handles on either side of the aisle, and then we take off, easing over the smooth paved road that serves as the artery between the different parts of the compound.
The white windows give no clue about what lies on either side of the road. The only glimpse I get is through the windshield, but I can only glance every now and again.
We travel for a few minutes, moving up a steep slope, then cresting it and rolling down the other side. I consult my mental map, and try to place myself. It doesn’t help. We could be at one of three ridges on the sprawling compound. The ground levels out again, and the driver turns to the right. Another minute and he slows to a stop.
“Remember what I said, Maidens.” The Head Spinner opens the bus doors. “Best behavior.”
She steps out, and we follow, two other Spinners herding us into a line as we step out into the night and then through another set of double doors, not unlike the ones at the Cloister. But this building is different. The hallway we walk down is lined with various paintings and photos of The Prophet. He watches from every angle, sometimes smiling, sometimes stone-faced, always looking down. Unlike the log cabin look of the Cloister, this building has golden wallpaper in an intricate pattern and fancy chandeliers hung at intervals.
A low hum charges the air, and it grows louder as we take the twists and turns that lead us deeper into the structure.
The Head Spinner stops in front of a set of golden doors and holds up a hand. “You are entering one of the holiest places on the campus. This is the Temple. Here, you are like children before your Lord. Remove your clothing.” She snaps her fingers, and we dutifully obey, used to the dehumanizing constant nudity at this point. “When you are in this place, in His presence, you are more than yourselves. You are made holy, but only by the grace of the Prophet.” She adds an unnecessary note of menace. “Act accordingly.”
