The Maiden (The Cloister Book 1)

by Celia Aaron

  “I’m from Heavenly Ministries.”

  Something like a smile splits her face, though it turns into more of a grimace. She’s only 54 years old, but she looks more like 70. When she swings the door inward, I finally get a sense that she really is Delilah’s mother. The same slight frame, a certain way of carrying herself—not too stiff, but with her shoulders back.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” She points to the double bed that’s still made, then wraps her pink bathrobe tighter around herself as she sits on the other mattress.

  I keep my body language open, resting my elbows on my thighs as I lean forward. “I’d like to start by saying that your daughter is safe.”

  Her eyes narrow. “I don’t believe you. Your cult has gone and brainwashed her.”

  “I can assure you that’s not the case.”

  “Then why isn’t she here? Tell me that, smart guy.” She reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand.

  “The program she’s in is an intensive, year-long immersion in biblical living.” I try to keep some sort of warmth in my tone, even if my words are robotic lies. “We take care to ensure that each of the program participants is given the chance to experience the Word of God firsthand, on their own terms, and within the safety of Heavenly Ministries.”

  “Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me. Anything that needs that many words is bullshit.” She lights up, taking a deep pull, the wrinkles on her upper lip appearing like crevasses in the side of a prehistoric mountain. How did this woman create the otherworldly creature back at the Cloister?

  I lean back, watching her watch me. “Let’s cut to the chase. What is it that you’re after?”

  She blows smoke at me in a direct puff, but doesn’t have the lung capacity to finish the insult, and the smoke doesn’t make it all the way to me. “I want to know my daughter’s safe.”

  “She is.”

  “I want to see her. I need proof.”

  I pull out my phone, tee up the video, and play it for her. Just hearing Delilah’s lilting voice soothes me. I want to see her, but I keep the phone held out as her mother scrutinizes every word.

  “That’s her.” She waves the screen away, not even waiting until Delilah is done speaking.

  “See? Safe just as I told you.”

  She laughs and takes another long drag from her cigarette. I can actually see the flame eating away at it in record speed. Then she grabs another, lights it from the dying one, and blows a smoke plume to the ceiling.

  “You think I don’t know my own daughter? The girl I nursed at my breast, the one I raised, the one I slept with in my arms?”

  The one you let your husband prey on. I swallow my indignation; I have no right to it.

  She continues, “I see her. She looks fine. But she doesn’t look right. Something in her eyes, the way she holds herself. You’ve done something to her.”

  “She’s where she wants to be.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it.” She laughs, a raspy, sickly sound. “She’s exactly where she intended.”

  “So you’ll leave this alone, then? No more flyers?” I pull the one from my pocket and toss it on the floor. I’ve already had two other Protectors scouring the city for the rest.

  “That depends.”

  Here it comes. I’ve known plenty of addicts. Her ploy is no more sophisticated than any other. I stare at her, waiting for the inevitable ask. Like every addict, she has no idea how far down the rabbit hole she’s gone—with the drugs or with me. A junkie from Lousiana with no ties except her most recent good-for-nothing boyfriend, she could disappear right this second and no one would care. I could wrap my hands around the crepe-like skin of her neck and squeeze. She wouldn’t be able to make a sound. I know right where to press, and how the blood vessels in her eyes will blow, and the way her body will tense and finally, finally go limp. And when I let go, the air that got trapped and festered inside her will come out in a death rattle. More blood on my hands. Another unwilling sacrifice to the Father of Fire. How the fuck did I get here?

  “Are you even listening?”

  I return my attention to Delilah’s very-much-alive mother. “No. Start over.”

  “Asshole. I said you can keep my daughter there—” She raises a finger “—unharmed, and I won’t make a stink about it. But I’m going to need some funds to carry me through these months without her.”

  There it is. Selling her daughter to the devil as long she gets her next fix. Maybe all parents are like her. My father certainly is.

  “How much?”

  She nibbles the end of her cigarette. “One hundred thousand ought to do it.”

  I turn the number over in my mind. Is that what Delilah is worth? A measly sum. Thirty pieces of silver.

  “I could get greedy, you know.” She shrugs, a piece of ash falling to her robe. “But I’m trying to keep this reasonable.”

  I rise, suddenly feeling the need to get out of this room, away from this faint, profane shadow of Delilah. “Fifty-thousand, and you don’t set foot in this state again. Ever.”

  “Seventy-five.” She puts out her cigarette.

  “Sixty. Take it or leave it.”

  She holds out a leathery hand. “Deal.”

  I turn my back on her and stride to the door. “The money will be delivered within the hour. I want you across the state line before sundown.”

  “I will be.” She follows me. “And one thing.”

  “There are no more things.” I open the door and inhale the cool air on the catwalk.

  “Don’t kill her.” Her voice softens. “Not like you did that other one.”

  I still. “We didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Fine, whatever you say. Just don’t kill my daughter.” It’s the only motherly thing she’s said, though her request sets the bar pretty low. “Promise me?”

  “What is my promise worth?” I grip the railing as a pigeon lands a few feet away. “Should I knock another five thousand off your price?”

  “No. We agreed on sixty.” She answers too quickly, and I’m disgusted with her all over again.

  “Then I’ll do with your daughter whatever I please. Stay out of Alabama or face the consequences.” I turn and scowl at her.

  She shrinks back into her room. “Please don’t kill her. Like you did Georgia.” She closes the door, and I hear the lock being thrown.

  Georgia—the murdered Maiden. I eye the door. She must have done her research, reading about the scandal and connecting it to Heavenly, despite our heavy payoffs to the local police and media to keep it quiet. Fuck.

  I could kick the door down, drag her out by the hair, and no one would say shit as I pulled her screaming down the stairs. But I don’t. Not because I have any care for her. She’s just another non-parent, someone who should have been trustworthy but turned out to be empty, rotten from the inside out.

  Instead of taking vengeance on the woman, I keep walking away. It isn’t worth it, I tell myself. I refuse to believe I let her live so Delilah wouldn’t be needlessly hurt.

  After all, hurting Delilah is my calling.

  Chapter 24

  Delilah

  Chastity shoulders a backpack as we walk out of the Cloister and into the blustery afternoon. The sun is out, and I’ve never felt such a delight from the simplicity of soaking in the bright rays.

  “Let’s go.” She sets off down the sun-dappled lane, and I keep up, drinking in the smells and sounds of the woods.

  Though Grace clearly intends this trip to be some sort of punishment, my spirits lift as I see blue sky between the overarching tree limbs and hear birdsong. I’m never taking these things for granted again. But I have to turn my thoughts earthward, to Chastity. This may be my only chance to speak to her without any listening ears around.

  “So, how did you come to the Cloister?” I tuck my hands into the too-big white coat she’d handed me before we left.

  “We aren’t supposed to talk.” She crosses her arms over her stomach as a breeze rushes dow
n the curving road.

  “Oh, I just thought—”

  “No talking.” She gives me a stern glare, then glances behind us.

  I follow her gaze and find a Protector ambling up the road, an assault rifle slung on his shoulder. What the hell?

  “Grace,” Chastity whispers and picks up her pace.

  That’s the only explanation she needs to give. Even walking through the open air on the Compound, we’re watched.

  We walk in silence for another ten minutes, and I try to focus on the world around me to temper my disappointment. But my thoughts stray back to Georgia, and then to Adam. His darkness is deep, seemingly complete, but he killed Newell to save me. That single event—even though I’m not allowed to speak of it—tells me that there’s light left in him somewhere. Maybe buried beneath an avalanche of gloom and horrible deeds, a sliver of hope remains. Or, it could be that I’m delusional and looking for things that aren’t there. But if that were true, why would he want me to trust him? Is it just another mind game meant to break me down?

  We top another rise, and on the downslope, a church sits off to the right. It reminds me of country churches I’d pass on the highway when driving from Louisiana to Alabama. In my drone surveillance, I just assumed it was an old worship space, maybe the first Heavenly Ministries Church before the huge stadium sanctuary was built.

  Chastity moves to the edge of the road, heading straight for the white church with the steeple reaching ever heavenward. A couple of Compound jeeps and golf carts, along with an out-of-place black limo are lined up in the gravel parking area beside the structure.

  The Protector with the rifle follows at a distance, more of a warning than an immediate threat.

  “Is that the Chapel?” I keep close to Chastity, our elbows bumping.

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  She hefts the backpack higher on her back. “Hell.”

  My gut sinks as we crunch into the gravel parking lot. The sharp-edged rocks press into the bottoms of my white flats, likely leaving stone bruises in their wake.

  “Just follow my lead. Don’t talk to anyone.” She walks up the peeling wooden steps, the white paint wearing off to show graying boards beneath, then opens one of the front double doors. Warm, perfumed air flows out as we enter the vestibule. The first thing that strikes me is purple. The carpet, the walls, the doors—everything is done in varying shades from lilac to eggplant.

  An armed guard sits in a chair to the right of the next set of double doors leading to the sanctuary. He chews on a toothpick and plays on his phone, giving us a simple grunt and cocking his head toward the sanctuary.

  My stomach churns as faint noises make it to me through the wood-paneled walls. Sighs, moans, masculine laughter. We shouldn’t be here. I want to turn and rush out the door into the sunlight again, but the Protector who’d been following us walks in, blocking the exit.

  “Let’s go.” Chastity leads the way across the too-plush purple carpet and enters the worship space.

  But it’s not a sanctuary at all. The narrow center aisle creates a corridor where, on either side, scaffolding has been erected to create two stories of rooms, all open. Some have gauzy curtains hanging in front of them, others are bare. Inside each is a woman. Some on the second story sit on the catwalk along the front of the rooms, their bare legs dangling. Others lounge in beds or chatter with each other while sending us inhospitable looks. Most are naked, young, and hostile as I follow Chastity down the row of what has to be two dozen women stacked in open cubes.

  We pass one on the right with two women inside, a gray-haired man grunting and thrusting into one while the other plunges a thick dildo into his ass.

  I put my hand to my mouth and speed up, almost stepping on Chastity’s heels. But she’s slowing down. I peek around her and see a man in a suit standing in the aisle, watching three women in one cube lick and grind on one another. He’s in the middle of taking off his tie as we try to pass.

  He holds out his arm, blocking us in next to the narrow stairs leading to the upper level. Mid-thirties, blond, handsome—but nothing warm lives in his light blue eyes. “Are you two on the menu?”

  “No, sir.” Chastity shakes her head, eyes downcast.

  “I think you should be.” He takes my hand and pulls me toward him.

  I dig my heels into the purple carpet. “No.”

  “No?” He laughs and yanks me close. “You’re going to say no to a U.S. Senator?”

  All the blood drains from my face, and I can’t seem to breathe. He leans close, as if he’s going to kiss me.

  I shove away from him and try to retreat down the aisle, but his grip on my wrist is like a vise.

  “Look who’s back.” A woman in a black bustier and stiletto heels walks down the rough wooden steps from the top catwalk. “I’m sorry Senator Roberts, but these two belong to the Prophet. If you’d like more company—” She snaps her fingers, and three more women exit their rooms and hurry toward us. “I’ve got you covered.”

  He finally loosens his grip enough for me to wrench my wrist away. I wonder if he’s re-aggravated the healing skin, but everything seems fine.

  He smirks. “A Maiden, eh?”

  I try to shrink, hunching my shoulders forward and clutching my elbows.

  “I’ll be seeing you.” He winks and returns to the debauchery in front of him.

  “Come.” The tall woman in the bustier walks ahead of us, her hips swinging and her hair falling behind her in a straight, dark slash.

  She passes through a door and up a few shallow stairs to the old church’s altar. It’s been converted to a lounge area, couches and a desk filling the space. An area to the right is walled off with a door leading to a separate bedroom. The baptismal is filled in with dirt, exotic plants with deep green leaves unfurling in the colored sunlight streaming through the stained glass. Two bronze birdcages hang on the branches of a lemon tree, the birds inside oddly silent and watchful.

  Sinking onto an ornate wooden chair with gold cushions, which could have been original to the church, she crosses her legs at the knee. “Take a seat.”

  “We have work to do.” Chastity pulls her backpack off and sets it on the desk.

  “Can’t spare me a moment?”

  At first I thought she was older, but looking at her in the light filtering through the stained glass, I can tell she’s maybe late twenties. Beautiful, her bare breasts don’t need the bustier’s help to sit up and demand attention. I study my fingers, but glance up at her when I think she’s not looking.

  “I’m just here for the swabs, Jez, nothing else.” Chastity’s voice turns harder than I’ve ever heard it.

  Jez reaches out and touches Chastity’s skirt. “How’s the scar?” Something in her face seems to crack, the overdone makeup unable to hide her sorrow.

  “It doesn’t hurt.” Chastity pulls out an array of long swabs, like extra-large Q-tips, each enclosed in a sterile blister pack. “Can you call the girls?”

  “Can we please talk? Just for a minute?” Jez’s eyes water, the deep brown glistening like melted chocolate.

  Chastity shoots a glance to the upper front corner of the sanctuary. I follow her gaze and see a camera, the red light flashing, pointing right at us.

  “We can’t.”

  Jez lets her hand drop and retreats into the golden chair, but she never takes her eyes from Chastity. I appreciate being ignored as I try to take it all in. A whorehouse on the Compound. Then again, what is the Cloister but a whorehouse-in-training?

  “What’s wrong with you?” Jez glances at me.

  “The Maidens. We come here? This is where we end up?”

  Jez grins, the warmth she’d shown to Chastity draining away as she looks me up and down. “You too good to spend some time at the Chapel?”

  The word “yes” lights up in my mind and pops like old-timey flashbulbs. “I-I—”

  “We’re ready.” Chastity hands me a pair of medical gloves, then frowns at the bro
ken finger. “Just be careful not to touch anything with your bare hand. I’ll hand you the sample. Each one goes inside one of these.” She sets an array of long glass vials onto the counter. “Before you place it inside, you’ll need to write down the girl’s name. I’ll either say it or ask her when she comes in.” Pulling a Sharpie from her bag, she gives it to me without looking at me.

  “What exactly is it that we’re doing?” I eye the long swabs.

  “This one talks too much. I thought Maidens weren’t allowed to speak unless spoken to.” Jez shrugs. “Maybe rules have gotten lax since my time at the Cloister.”

  I glance to Chastity, who continues with her work as if she hadn’t heard me. I try again. “So, we’re doing what?”

  “STD testing.” Jez smirks. “We can’t have the girls passing shit to the fine, fine gentleman who frequent this establishment, now, can we?” Her tone tells me she’d be more than happy if every man who visited left with herpes.

  “What about HIV?”

  “More questions, Maiden?” She looks me up and down. “You’re an interesting one. We give blood samples every six months. But our clients are more worried about the clap than anything else.”

  “Oh.” I say ‘oh’ as if that clears everything up for me. As if a whorehouse on a religious compound makes total sense. As if I don’t have questions about how Maidens end up here. I do some quick math and reassure myself it’s impossible for every Maiden to be in the Chapel. There isn’t enough room, and I didn’t see that many women on the way in. Not to mention, I know some get married off to important or wealthy men. Some of the others return to the congregation or their parents, but very few.

  “Go ahead.” Chastity motions to the door, and—with one more long look—Jez walks over and opens it.

  When she turns her back, her dark hair brushing to one side, a row of scars appear. Small circles sprout in a row down her spine and disappearing into the bustier. Though I can’t be certain, they look like cigarette burns.

  She swings the door open and calls out, “Girls, time for the check. Get on in here if you aren’t busy. If you are, come when you can.”