The Maiden (The Cloister Book 1)

by Celia Aaron

  He gave. I shake my head. He didn’t take anything from me. Not like I expected. Not like in the past. Adam had pushed me, showed me the extent of his control, but instead of taking advantage, he gave.

  I lie back and stare at the beams in the ceiling, though Adam plays like a movie before my eyes. When a scream cuts across the hall and dies out, I try to shake myself out of it. This place is hell, and Adam is just another one of its devils.

  Maybe he gave tonight, but he’s a taker. They all are. It’s just another mindfuck. He doesn’t have to do these things to me, to anyone. He enjoys it. He’s a sadist just like all the rest. I close my eyes and curl into a ball.

  My mind repeats the sins of this place, of Adam. But my body is forever changed and so, I fear, is my heart.

  Chapter 26

  Adam

  Sunday’s church service begins with the usual prayer and exhortation for the Holy Ghost to inhabit the space as the Prophet takes the stage. The sanctuary is bedecked in Christmas finery, huge garlands hanging from each level of balconies and draped across the front of the stage. Heavenly Ministries spares no expense for the season, setting up a live manger scene out front that runs around the clock every day, replete with a crying or sleeping baby.

  The seasonal décor only reminds me of the impending winter solstice. Preparations are underway, but three weeks isn’t much time. Newell was half-assing it, but I can’t do the same. My father expects me to fail, to go small. I intend to knock his fucking block off with the spectacle. Not that it will bring me much comfort. But, for once, I have something in common with normal father-son relationships. Or, at least I think it’s normal to want to blow up the old man’s shitty expectations. Maybe it’s twisted, too.

  Delilah kneels in her customary spot, eyes down, hands folded. Ghostly in her white gown, she seems to hesitate between this world and the next. An ephemeral spirit, one I will slowly darken with each touch of my hand, each word from my lips. I am the poison that will drain her spirit, the wolf that will rend her limb from limb.

  Those cold facts didn’t stop me from tasting her last night. I shift from one foot to the other as my cock wakes up. She does that to me, just the thought of her, the way she looks on her knees. It took all my self-control to tear myself away from her after I feasted on her cunt. I made it home, only to jerk it for all of thirty seconds before spending on my stomach as I lay in bed, the video of me between her legs on replay. I wish I still had her taste on my lips. But I’d get my wish this evening.

  “—in the coming war.” I cock my head as my father goes off script.

  “You see, there is a war coming, my friends. One that we haven’t prepared for. But it’s one we must win.”

  Noah elbows me and mouths what the fuck?

  I shrug. This is new. The teleprompter is stopped on the words “We must pray to our Heavenly Father for a prosperous…”

  Those words don’t come from Dad’s mouth.

  “The fallen of this world will seek to destroy us. The good people here—the heathens out there want you dead.”

  Some voices of agreement rise from the packed house. The rest of them are silent, staring wide-eyed as my father preaches the end times.

  “Terrorists, feminists, Jews, atheists, Muslims, illegal immigrants, socialists, Black Lives Matter, communists, baby-killers, the godless who are so depraved they won’t even say the words ‘Merry Christmas’ anymore, and even worse, transgenders who mutilate themselves and want to do the same to your children, the gays who prey on the weak—”

  More angry shouts echo in the sanctuary, and the hackles on my neck rise.

  “All of these are forces of evil. Every single one of them wants to hurt us. To hurt you.” He points to the congregation. “Bobby Williams. Your daughter, Ivy. Right now, there are men out in the fallen world who covet her. Who look at her 15-year-old body and think lascivious thoughts.”

  I stifle a dry laugh. My father has coveted Bobby’s daughter since she was twelve.

  He points to another congregant. “Penny Barnes, you’re a widow raising three kids. How can a single mother possibly be able to fight off the demons of this world when she’s out there alone?”

  Penny shakes her head and bursts into tears.

  “That’s right, Penny. The world breaks us down, tears at our souls. It isn’t godly. They say being conservative, being Christian, is a sin. Well I say they will burn in hell, and we will go to the Lord’s promised land.”

  Shouts of approval shake the stage. Noah gives me a look that carries various shades of “oh, shit.” I turn to Delilah. Her gaze is on me, her gray eyes wide as my father continues slinging fiery rhetoric to an increasingly agitated crowd.

  But my father is a showman. And he can work a crowd like a ventriloquist with one hand up the dummy’s ass.

  His voice softens, his tone growing calm. “God has spoken to me.”

  The crowd relents as if the tempest has abated, the surface of the water growing still, rapt.

  “As the Gospel of St. James reminds us, ‘The wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere.’” My father looks skyward, one hand raised to the God he imagines above the clouds. “But God has told me of the wicked beyond our gates who have no love for peace. He has told me that destruction is coming, and that we must prepare. Just as he told Noah, He’s warned me of the flood of sin, evil, and worldly terrors. But He also told me there is one way we can fight this. Only one way.”

  A reverent hush has fallen over the crowd, all eyes turned toward the stage or one of the many huge screens projecting the Prophet.

  “We must stand together, my friends. We must be as one. Only by joining with each other and holding the line can we beat back this darkness. Pooling our love and our resources—”

  “And there it is,” I whisper. “The money grab hidden in prophecy.”

  “…in this together. We must stick together to fight the evils of this world. That’s why, as some of you know, we are constructing our own community. Monroeville will be built in phases, and the first one is estimated to be completed in only two months’ time. This will be a place where your children can play in the street, stay out catching fireflies in the twilight hours, and you will never have to worry about one of the godless stealing them away from you, hurting them, or worse. You will be safe. They will be safe. And the best part? The housing is free.”

  A cheer swells through the masses. I hold onto Delilah’s shock as she glances at the Prophet and then back to me as if to say ‘did you know about this?’

  My father’s tone brightens further, light through a dense dark cloud. “Anyone who wants to live in Monroeville, can. We will build until all the faithful are safe inside. Our schools will grow, our people will thrive, and we will be a shining beacon to the rest of the world. Christ is alive, and He is here, in us, in you.”

  As the crowd roars with approval, Noah says, “I thought we weren’t rolling this out for a while.”

  I shrug. “I guess he wants them paying their dues sooner rather than later. And, at this point, they won’t even balk at turning over half of their earnings to Heavenly.”

  “Ah, the fine print.” Noah wrinkles his nose. “Maybe they’ll lose faith when they see that little addendum.”

  “It won’t matter to them. Hell, a lot of them already double tithe anyway. They’ll sign on the dotted line, and then Heavenly will own them.” Just like it owns Noah and me. I return to Delilah, always drawn back to her light. Even though I know that Heavenly owns her, that my father owns her, I still entertain the fantasy that she’s mine. That I can keep her safe from everyone but me. It’s a fiction, but one I indulge in even now as she searches my face for some sort of reassurance. She believes that I can give it, and I want her to believe it, even though it’s a lie as big as the ones my father is telling.

  “They’ll be broke, living on property they don’t own, but they’ll be ev
er so safe,” Noah sneers.

  Sometimes, he reminds me of me, and in those moments, I worry about him. But at least maybe he’s waking up to the rising bullshit.

  “All I hear is more shit for me to do.” I’d started working on the contracts for the housing with our lawyer, but as my father is already setting the process into motion, I’ll need to front-burner that. I’ll also have to move some money around to make way for the new “donations.” Heavenly is a perfect conduit to launder money since it’s a non-taxable church, but large influxes of cash can still raise eyebrows. I’ll need to prepare new accounts to accept the tithes, keep the trail clean, and funnel most of it into my father’s off-shore accounts. I pinch the bridge of my nose as a tension headache threatens.

  The Prophet finally moves on to follow the teleprompter, smoothly picking up where he left off. The crowd falls right into step with him, never sensing that the walls are building up around them. They’ll be closed in, buried alive, and beholden to the Prophet for their next mouthful of food or breath of air.

  Delilah studies the floor once again, head down in what looks from most angles like reverence. Even though I can sense her mind is racing, replaying my father’s words. Maybe she’s impervious to his spell, but it doesn’t matter. She’s still just another lamb to the slaughter, and I’m the one who’ll wield the blade.

  Chapter 27

  Delilah

  It’s TV Tuesday, and the Maidens spread out in the ratty recliners and couches as the screen flickers to life. Abigail keeps her muttering to a minimum this time, seeming to have gotten the hang of how it all works.

  I glance at Sharon’s empty chair, and foreboding falls over me like a shroud. Where did they take her? My stomach turns as I imagine the sort of tortures they might visit on her for her rebellion. I wonder if Georgia was like Sharon—brave, ready to fight for her freedom. Or was she docile, accepting of the constant shit shoveled by the Spinners and the Prophet. Who was her Protector? Adam’s face flashes through my mind, but I push it away. Whether he was or wasn’t doesn’t matter. What matters is who took her life. But progress on that front is slim. I have even more questions than I did when I walked into this mindfuck.

  The light blinks, pulling me from my thoughts. A younger Prophet appears on screen, his posture relaxed as he sits on a brown leather couch. He smiles and gives off a Mr. Rogers vibe as he invites us to “sit and have a talk” with him about life at the Cloister.

  “Now I know some of you may be having doubts.”

  Sarah snorts.

  “But I’m here to assure you that everything is going according to God’s plan. The things you are learning from the Spinners and your Protectors are the guideposts that will lead you through your life as a lamb of God. You are the future, the purest hopes that Heavenly Ministries has for a bountiful life on earth as well as in heaven…”

  I tune him out, my mind once again floating to his son. Adam hasn’t been back to my room. Two nights have passed with me waiting on the bed, wondering which one of him will come through the door—the tormentor or the lover. And when he didn’t show up, I hated the disappointment I felt. To assuage the self-loathing, I tell myself that it’s natural I take comfort in him. He’s the only one that’s truly allowed to get close to me, so it makes sense that I want him. But, of course, this is just another part of the mindfuck that is the Cloister. The conditions force you to cling to your abuser, because there is no one else. I’ve only been here a little more than a week, and my mind is already a swamp of regret and confusion.

  My attention fades even further as Chastity walks into the room and whispers into Abigail’s ear. I need to get alone with her again, to question her, to find out if she was talking about Georgia. She had to be. Abigail nods along with whatever Chastity is telling her, then both women walk out together.

  Once the door clicks, Sarah hops up and walks to the front of the room, her face lit by the projector light. “Enough of this propaganda bullshit.” She waves at the board behind her. “We need to discuss what we’re going to do about this hell we’re in.”

  “We are where we’re meant to be.” Mary’s gentle voice overlays with the Prophet’s.

  “Okay, Mary’s a goner. I knew that from the second she pissed on me.”

  Susannah claps her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

  Sarah’s tone hardens. “And I know right this second, in your little faith-addled brain, you’re thinking about telling on me. But, darling Mary, if you do, I promise I’ll do much worse to you than a golden shower.”

  Mary fidgets in her seat, but says nothing.

  Sarah moves to the side, the Prophet’s crotch superimposed on her face. “We didn’t sign up for this. None of us. Not even Mary over there. We’re being abused, raped, and broken so the Prophet can sell us off to the highest bidder or worse.” She runs a hand through her dark hair. “I don’t know what the worse is just yet, but I’m assuming that going home with some rich prick is like, the grand prize. The opposite end of that, well, I can’t imagine.”

  I know where we go. The Chapel. But I’m not about to stop Sarah’s forward momentum.

  “So, does anyone see Sharon in here? No. They took her after she tried to escape. Does anyone know where they took her? I can assure you it’s not somewhere any of us want to be. And if we stay here, we’ll only get more and more damaged. That’s what they want.” She glances at the door. “They’ll be back any second. Look, if you aren’t with me, fine. But if you are, you don’t have to say anything. Just let me know one way or another. Keep yourselves safe. And if anyone is even thinking of ratting me out—” She glares at Mary “—just know that I will find out who it was, and I will visit so much pain on you that you’ll think I’m a Protector.” She darts up the steps as the door opens and Abigail returns to the projector.

  “These lessons are necessary and set you apart from the godless whores who thrive outside Heavenly’s gates…” The Prophet’s voice comes to the fore once again, promising reason and protection in a place that has neither.

  We don’t have lunch. A few of the women grumble as the Spinner leads us past the dining hall without stopping. We walk straight to the training room and disrobe, then spend two hours taking turns with a flogger. Unfortunately for me, I get paired up with Mary.

  Sarah raises a brow at me as I drop to the floor and the Spinner instructs Mary—over the rumble of my stomach—how to hold the flogger and swing from the elbow.

  I flinch as the first strike whips across my bare bottom, but am relieved to find that Mary is a light touch with the leather. She swats me several times, the pain faint and bearable. I think about how I would feel if it were Adam holding the flogger, abrading my flesh again and again until I begged for the soft touch of his tongue. Heat seeps into my veins, and I switch my concentration to something else, quick. Bad things—like the women at the Chapel, their degradation, and the senator there who grabbed me. My blood cools, and I take the hits without complaint.

  “Swap.” The Spinner claps her hands, and the row of Maidens stands and switches.

  Mary hands me the flogger, but the Spinner walks down the row and switches them out with fresh ones. At least hygiene is important, if dignity isn’t.

  “Get to work.” The Spinner claps her hands.

  I use my wrist to fan the leather strips along Mary’s backside. She tenses at first, then loosens her shoulders when I go easy on her. A few more hits, and I’m getting into a rhythm, focusing on my movements and ignoring the gnawing hunger in my gut. Down the row, one of the Maidens is going to town on poor Susannah. Even the Spinner tells her to take it down a notch, because “more intensive training comes later, once we all have the technique correct.” Naturally.

  The training room door opens, and the Head Spinner walks in. Her hands are joined in front of her as she strolls along the row of Maidens. I silently will her to keep walking past me, to ignore that I’m even here. But, no. Of course not.

  She stops right behind me. “P
oor form, Delilah.”

  My arm falters, but I swing anyway.

  “Pathetic, really.” She moves to my back, her starched dress pressing against my skin, and grabs my wrist. “Like this,” she hisses in my ear. Pulling back, she swings my arm forward, the leather slapping against Mary’s backside. She jolts but doesn’t make a sound.

  “Harder.” Grace pulls my arm back farther and swings even harder.

  Mary lets out a cry as red streaks appear on her pale skin. This is nothing like the other Spinners taught us.

  “That’s what I want to hear.” Grace releases me and steps back. “Hit her again.”

  Mary is tensed, her back quivering from the strain. I strike her, but nowhere near as hard as Grace. The room is quiet now, all eyes on me.

  “I see.” Grace retreats to the wall and drags down a short whip. “Either you do this right, or I’ll show you how.”

  Blood rushes to my head and sound becomes thick in my ears as I imagine the damage that whip could do.

  “Hit. Her.” She slides the leather through her palm, her light eyes on me.

  I pull back and put a little more force into it. Mary jerks, but doesn’t make a sound.

  Grace clucks her tongue. “I’m afraid that won’t do. Step back and I’ll—”

  “I can do it.”

  Her blonde brows furrow, then smooth out. “Go ahead.”

  Mary glances at me over her shoulder. I mouth “I’m sorry” to her, but she doesn’t respond, just lets her head hang between her shoulders.

  Bile churns up my throat, but I swallow it down and draw the flogger back. With a vicious swing, I land the leather with a resounding slap.

  Mary screams.

  Grace smiles. “Again.”

  “But I—”

  “Shall I do it?” She threatens with the whip.

  “No.” I fight the tears that try to well, and look down at the raw, red skin along Mary’s backside. You’re saving her, I tell myself. The flogger is better than the whip. It has to be better than that.