3. 2
Eyes narrowing with anger, she seethes, “Forgetting yourself already? I do not need to explain it to you.”
Then she yanks so hard on my arm I fear she might pull it out of the socket in spite.
Spite has always been her sin. Her weakness. I know she likes to believe she’s above everyone else. Always scolding, always correcting those around her. Pointing out their failures and weaknesses.
But I’ve witnessed enough over the years to know what makes her tick.
And I know from experience that if I continue to defy her, she’ll find some horrible, awful way to not only get me to do what she wants but also make me suffer for it.
Reluctantly, I let her pull me to my feet, but as soon as I’m standing I try to yank my arm back. “I need to change into something clean first.”
Not having any of it, Sister Agatha turns away from me and begins to drag me to the open door. “There’s no time for that.”
I’m tempted to dig in my heels, to wail and protest, but what good will it do? Beyond angering her more? I have no power here. No allies.
I have no choice in anything.
If I don’t do what they tell me to do, they’ll find a way to make me. A way that usually involves torture and suffering.
Tugging me by the arm, Sister Agatha leads me out of my cell and into the hallway. Her pace brisk, she forces me to keep up with her.
Taking my obedience as a given.
It’s still early in the day, and the hallways we walk are eerily quiet and empty. A few candles and torches have been lit here and there, but without living bodies filling the halls, the place truly feels like a crypt for the dead.
The path we take is one I know too well. One I’ve traveled for years on my knees, scrubbing the floors.
It’s so engrained in my muscles and bones, I don’t even have to think about putting one foot in the front of the other or watching where I’m going. I just follow my body.
Until Sister Agatha deviates from the path.
It’s only one left turn when it should be a right, but it throws my entire being off balance.
Alarm bells ring in my head and my steps falter. I’ve never gone this way. I’m not supposed to go this way. Whenever there is a choice in turns, I must always go to the right.
My entire life is a circle that must not be broken.
Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Sister Agatha tugs harder on my arm, too hurried to glance back at me. Accepting I truly have no choice in this, I push away my reservations.
My heart quickens with the thrill of change, and though these weeping stone walls look the same as the other stone walls, I savor them. My eyes eat them up simply because they’re new to me.
There are variations in the cracks I have yet to trace a million times. New stories I can make up to amuse myself by pretending the cracks are rivers or roads leading to a magical destination.
When we pass through an open doorway and reach the bottom of a set of steps, my heart beats so hard I’m afraid it might beat right through my chest.
Are these the very steps she dragged me down after the Judging? Is that the spot, right there on the dusty floor, where Jeffrey first beat me?
I try to look closer, letting the memories of that day flow through me, but Sister Agatha snaps at me. “Would you stop your gawking, you little idiot!”
Making a disgusted sound in the back of her throat, she grabs her habit and starts up the steps.
Any other day, any other time, I’d quickly correct myself to avoid her ire. But not today. Not when my very soul is aching for more of not the same .
Reaching the top, Sister Agatha drops her habit and yanks me down a short, dark hallway.
Memories come flooding back to me. Memory of this very hallway. This has to be the way she first led me after the Judging, and that means for the first time in a decade I’m above the ground again.
My breathing quickens to match the beat of my heart and my head grows light at all the implications.
Sister Agatha pushes open a door and sunlight, blessed sunlight, hits me.
My vision swims with tears, leaving me mostly blind. I’ve lived in the dark for so long, it feels like my eyes are being stabbed by a thousand tiny needles, but I don’t care.
Elation and giddiness fills me and I turn myself toward the sunlight. Wanting to feel it on my face. Wanting to feel it warm my flesh.
Not having any of it, Sister Agatha viciously yanks on my arm, pulling me closer. “What is wrong with you?! Have you lost all your senses?!”
She drags me away from the sunlight, and I twist in her hold, desperate to feel it again. The urge to run to it, to throw myself at the stained glass windows, to be free, thrumming through my very soul.
We make it a few feet of me dragging my heels and trying to pull away from her before she completely loses her temper.
“Keep your face down!” she snaps. Shoving my head down, she tweaks a muscle in my neck. “There are holy men present!”
Ah, yes… men . The literal bane of my existence. The reason I’ve been locked away and hidden for so long. The Order afraid I’ll somehow lead them all astray with a mere look and into the clutches of Satan.
How could I forget?
Forced to stare at the floor, I finally notice how quiet it is around us. Like a hush has suddenly fallen. Were there sounds before? I think so but I’m not sure because I was so caught up in the moment.
The back of my neck prickles as Sister Agatha leads me across the cathedral. Eyes are upon me, and no doubt I’m a shocking sight.
Dressed in a white nightgown stained with blood and being forcibly dragged against my will by a nun.
But if there are holy men here to witness this, as Sister Agatha claims, none of them speak a word.
The shadows on the hardwood floor grow darker and darker, and we pause just long enough for Sister Agatha to open a door.
Though I can’t exactly see where we’re going, between the lack of sunlight and the dusty staleness in the air, I sense she’s leading me somewhere deeper in the cathedral.
Somewhere less used.
Hushed voices reach my ears a few moments before Sister Agatha suddenly jerks me to a stop. She was rushing me so fast, my head spins and I sway on my feet from the abrupt change.
“Sister,” a man growls in irritation. “I hope you have a good reason for interrupting us.”
I become very aware of eyes on me again, their judging weight pressing down on me like the stone I just escaped.
Daring to peek up, I see two priests standing close together. One is older and unknown to me, but the sight of the other priest fills me with dread.
Father Dominic.
Out of all the priests I’ve had to interact with over the years, he is by far the cruelest.
And I hate him immensely.
The majority of priests tend to be uncomfortable when they’re forced to be in my company. They avoid looking in my eyes, and shift and move around a lot, as if I make them uneasy.
But Father Dominic likes to go out of his way to remind me that I am cursed and a burden that should be dealt with swiftly. He’s always quick with his insults and has it made no secret that he believes I should be put down like a rabid animal.
In his eyes, keeping me alive by feeding me and sheltering me is too risky.
Sister Agatha’s grip tightens around me, and her body stiffens with tension.
“Yes, Father, forgive me,” she says, some of her rigid composure slipping. “I need to see the Prophet, it’s an emergency.”
Hearing her cowed with her voice cracking after all the years I’ve spent trapped under her thumb, subjected to the harsh lash of her tongue, should be gratifying. For once, she is not at the top of the totem pole, so to speak.
But the dread in my stomach becomes a solid ball of ice. As much as I despise her, I need her to protect me from him.
Father Dominic clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “An emergency, hmm?”
My skin starts to crawl, and I don’t need to look up to know that he’s looking at me.
Sister Agatha bristles at his tone, her spine straightening. “Yes, Father,” she says more confidently. “The Prophet has given me specific instructions and I need to speak with him immediately. It is my duty.”
Father Dominic chuckles as if he finds something amusing. “I have no doubt you were given such instructions. Unfortunately, you will have to wait.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sister Agatha shake her head in disbelief. “But—"
“No buts, Sister,” Father Dominic says harshly. “Our business is more pressing.”
Sister Agatha sucks in a shrill, sharp breath, and I instinctively wince. I can practically feel her outrage pouring off her in waves.
Anytime I’ve ever earned such a sound from her it was always followed by a hard beating from Jeffrey.
“Dominic,” the man with the gray beard says gently, trying to diffuse the situation. “Our business is not that urgent. There’s no need for us to get between Sister Agatha and her duty.”
Sister Agatha lets her breath out in a gush of relief.
But Father Dominic huffs angrily. “Not that urgent? McCall, our time, our business will always be more important than this… this…” He flicks his hand toward me dismissively. “This creature who should have been smothered at birth.”
I know I should be insulted, but I’m too freaked out to feel it. I’m in no rush to stand in front of the Prophet again.
The last time I stood in front of him was terrifying, and that was in front of the entire congregation. I have no clue what he’ll do this time when Sister Agatha drags me before him without an audience.
Will he kill me today?
I’ve never had reason to fear such before, given how much trouble the Order has gone through to keep me alive and hidden all these years.
Yet there’s something about the way Sister Agatha is behaving, something in her rush to get me in front of the Prophet that makes me think I’m in more danger than I’m aware of.
Now that I might fully manifest and come to bear the cursed mark, everything has changed. I’m no longer simply tainted…
I’m a liability.
Little of the mark is known to me, only the bits and pieces Sister Agatha has leaked to me over the years. I know it’s supposed to appear after my first period as a red figure eight somewhere on my body.
And once it appears I’ll somehow be connected to a vampire.
What being connected to a vampire actually entails, besides somehow birthing evil into the world, has never been explained.
Though, I’m quite sure it is all very unpleasant, and if given a choice I’d rather avoid it.
I don’t want to be connected to anything or anyone. I’d rather be free.
Father McCall lets out a weary sigh. “Yes, Dominic, I understand that, but perhaps this—"
A door opens somewhere, its hinges squealing in high protest, and Father McCall falls silent.
“Sister Agatha,” Jeffrey says in a rush, sounding breathless, “the Prophet will see you now.”
Father Dominic laughs incredulously, and I peek up again to see him glaring daggers at Jeffrey. “Unbelievable.”
Sister Agatha lifts her chin and the corners of her lips twitch, repressing a grin. “Thank you, Jeffrey.”
Jeffrey nods sharply, his blonde hair not falling into his eyes for once because it sticks to his sweaty forehead. I wonder if he ran all the way here after telling Sister Agatha what happened?
Sister Agatha tugs on my arm, signaling I should follow beside her.
As we pass through the door, I hear Father Dominic grumble behind us, “Well, I must see what is so important that we’re to be left waiting like a couple of wet-behind-the-ears seminarians.”
Sister Agatha shoots a dirty look over her shoulder, but otherwise pinches her lips together and remains silent. She leads me into a dim room lit only by a few scattered candelabras.
The air is mustier than the hallway we just passed through, and I can see a thousand specks of dust floating like golden glitter in the air ahead of us.
It would be pretty, maybe even reassuring, if the room itself wasn’t so derelict and depressing.
Tall bookshelves line the walls, full of old books, and the windows are covered in thick, red velvet curtains caked in dust.
Out of curiosity, I glance down and examine the floor. The old wood is dull and the finish has worn down in several places. There’s so much dirt and dust, I doubt anyone has scrubbed or polished it in years.
Why would the Prophet meet anyone here when it’s obvious the room has been left to fall into disrepair?
Up against the back wall, placed between two dusty red curtains, is the strange throne from the day of my Judging.
And sitting in the throne, clad head to toe in a plain black hooded robe, is the Prophet himself.
The sight of him causes me to swallow back a gasp of surprise. It’s been so long since I’ve been in his presence, I thought all the memories I had of him were the product of my young, traumatized imagination.
But he’s even more scary than I remember.
Stopping us in the center of the room, Sister Agatha takes a deep breath and says with utmost reverence, “Your Holiness.”
Then she shoves her palm against my neck and forces me to bow my head.
My chin digging into my neck, I stare at the dirty floor and my mind struggles to make sense of all of this.
How can the entire Order revere and defer to a man who looks like he’s molded himself into a clone of Death?
“Sister Agatha,” the Prophet says in return, his voice cracking against my ear like the snapping of dry twigs. “Young Jeffrey has informed me something urgent has happened to our charge?”
“Yes,” Sister Agatha says in relief, her hand on my neck relaxing. “I’m afraid, despite our efforts, she’s begun her menses.”
“I see…” the Prophet drawls out after a long moment, his voice dipping into a growl.
And I can’t help but shiver at the menacing tone.
“I’ve followed all your directions with no deviations,” Sister Agatha explains defensively. “Nothing has changed to my knowledge. She’s received her tonic and pills every morning. The doctor even increased her dosage when she started developing. Everything was going as it should. I’m not sure what went wrong.”
My head spins and my entire world tilts to the side. I’ve come to accept that Sister Agatha will never treat me with any respect. But drugging me? With what? And for how long?
“Well, you must have made a mistake somewhere,” Father Dominic snarks from behind us.
Sister Agatha gasps in indignation and out of the corner of my eye I can see her habit twisting to the side. “I assure you, Father, I did not!”
Father Dominic chortles. “Then how else did her menses start, hmm?”
“I… I don’t know…” Sister Agatha stutters.
“I do,” Father Dominic says with too much confidence. “You made a mistake.”
Sister Agatha’s wimple sways as she shakes her head in denial. “I didn’t…”
“Of course you did,” Father Dominic insists. “You’re a woman, after all. It’s in your nature.”
“It matters not how the mistake was made,” Father McCall says, adding his own opinion to the mix. “What matters now is how we fix it.”
“Oh, I beg to disagree,” Father Dominic says with a touch of eagerness. “Such a dire mistake should be addressed immediately and with severe consequences.”
“Father Dominic and Father McCall, how nice of you to join us in this most urgent matter,” the Prophet says dryly.
His tone switching to one full of humility and respect so quickly I can’t help but think it’s feigned, Father Dominic says, “Forgive me for the intrusion, Your Holiness, my curiosity got the better of me.”
“You are forgiven,” the Prophet says dismissively before asking, “Does she bear the Mark of the Beast?”
A sharp slice of terror pierces my heart as Sister Agatha is reduced to stammering again. “I… don’t… don’t know. I was in too much of hurry. I forgot to check.”
“Check her now,” the Prophet orders.
Hand quivering on my neck, Sister Agatha bobs her head up and down. “Yes, Your Holiness.”
Using her hold on my neck to guide me, Sister Agatha turns me to face her. When she bends down to grab the bloody hem of my nightgown, I know without a doubt she means to undress me right here.
“No!” I cry out and step back, ripping my gown out of her grasp.
I’ve endured countless indignities over the years at her hands. I’ve tried my best to endure them all with as much grace as possible, hoping one day I would be released and given freedom.
But this…
This I cannot bear without protest.
“Ah, such false modesty.” Father Dominic says snidely. “If I didn’t know any better, I might believe it.”
Trembling, I ignore his words, refusing to let them get to me, and take another step back.
Clenching her teeth together, Sister Agatha scolds me. “Alena, stop this nonsense. The Prophet has given an order. You will obey.”
Staring past her at the Prophet, at a man who appears to be more wraith than man, I know deep in my heart this fight will be futile.
I’m surrounded by too many obedient hands.
But how can I meekly submit to such a violation? I’ve lived the past ten years of my life covered from head to toe. My normal attire is an itchy brown robe made from the same fabric as my blanket.
Even my hair is to always be covered, lest the sight of it tempt a man. Modesty has literally been beaten into me on many occasions.
And now they want to strip me naked in front of the very men I might tempt? How does this make any sense?
Sister Agatha makes another grab for me, but I scramble to the side, narrowly dodging her lunging hands.
“Would you like some aid, Sister?” Father Dominic offers with a chuckle. “I’d be more than happy to lend a helping hand.”
“No!” she barks at him, her face flushed red. “Alena, this is your last warning. Obey or face the consequences.”
Tears filling my eyes, I shake my head in refusal and plead, “Not here. Please. Can we not do this somewhere private?”
Sister Agatha seems to hesitate for a moment, and my chest swells with the hope that my plea for mercy isn’t falling on deaf ears for once. She even gives me a look full of sympathy, as if she understands my reluctance.
Only to narrow her eyes in steely determination a second later. “Jeffrey, help me with this stupid girl!”
The floorboards beneath my feet vibrate as Jeffrey stomps over from the doorway.
Twisting my head side to side, I search for a way to escape, but I’m completely surrounded. Even if I somehow make it out the door, there’s an entire church to cross before I’ll reach the outside.
And then what? I go running down the streets in my bloodied nightgown?
The people outside these walls will think I’m insane.
Jeffrey makes a grab for me, throwing his entire body at me.
I try to dodge him, but in doing so I end up throwing myself against Sister Agatha. Her thin, vicious hands immediately latch onto me with no mercy.
Nails sinking into the skin of my arms as she spreads them apart, she commands Jeffrey to, “Remove the nightgown.”
A flash of fury appears on Jeffrey’s face as he begins to bend down. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the command angers him for some reason.
But it doesn’t stop him from complying.
I try to jerk myself out of Sister Agatha’s grip, but when I feel my knees exposed to the cold kiss of the air, I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on enduring the humiliation.
A heavy silence falls over the room as the cold air kisses more and more of my body. From my knees, to my thighs, to my hips. The sound of my own frantic panting echoes inside my head as Jeffrey peels the nightgown up to my armpits.
“Do you see anything?” Sister Agatha asks.
“No,” Jeffrey answers through gritted teeth.
Sister Agatha suddenly releases her grip on my arms, but I’m so frozen by the shame and humiliation, I can’t move if I wanted to. “Help me get it over her head.”
A couple of heartbeats pass, then the last of my dignity is ripped over my head. The buttons snagging on my hair. A warm hand touches my bare shoulder and gives it a little squeeze, but there are no more words spoken.
There is no need for words now that I’m not fighting them.
Treating me like a doll, I’m turned side to side, spun around, then each of my arms is lifted. Someone even wipes at the blood on my thighs.
Sister Agatha declares, “I can see no mark.”
“You haven’t checked everywhere,” Father Dominic counters.
Sister Agatha sniffs with indignation. “I assure you, I’ve checked every visible inch of her.”
Father Dominic starts to argue, “You haven’t checked—"
But Father McCall raises his voice and talks over him. “From what I’ve witnessed over the years, the mark only appears in a few places. Sister Agatha has been adequately thorough.”
“I agree,” the Prophet says, putting an end to the argument.
Hoping the nightmare is over now, I manage to work up enough nerve to wrap my arms around myself.
But I freeze up again and my eyes fly open when the Prophet suddenly orders, “Bring the girl to me.”
Sister Agatha nods at Jeffrey.
Clenching his jaw, Jeffrey refuses to look at me as he grabs my arm and jerks me nearly off my feet. Forced to trip and stumble beside him, I try my best to cover myself with one hand.
Bone-white fingers gripping the arms of his throne, the Prophet leans forward as we approach. When Jeffrey shoves me down to my knees, I can feel the darkness beneath his hood biting into my skin like thousands of icy needles.
“Tell me, child,” the Prophet says, his words scraping against my nerves. “Do you love God?”
Out of everything that’s happened to me today, I didn’t think I could be more freaked out. But with his attention biting into me, the question fills me with dread.
What will they do to me if I answer honestly and tell them no? Strip the meat off my bones? After what’s already happened to me, I wouldn’t put anything past them.
Feeling as if I have no other choice, I bow my head and say, “Yes.”
Somewhere behind me, I hear someone exhale in relief.
“Good,” the Prophet says, his rattling voice somehow sounding pleased. “There may be hope for you yet.”
Hope.
Foolish, stupid hope. It’s what has kept me alive all these years and brought me to this very moment. Perhaps I should have given up long ago and avoided all of this torment.
Because right now, kneeling naked at the Prophet’s feet, violated and completely humiliated, I don’t feel like it was worth it.
Just as a sob catches in my throat, the Prophet says, “I believe we can still prevent the connection.”
Connection? What connection?
“How?!” Father Dominic asks in disbelief before catching himself and clearing his throat. “I mean, how do you plan to prevent that, Your Holiness?”
“The same way we’ve blocked… the other. We’ll bleed it out,” the Prophet answers.
“She is not like her,” Father McCall says in a rush. “It could kill her.”
“Perhaps,” the Prophet agrees coldly. “But we’ll fill her with holy blood first.”
“Holy blood?” Father Dominic repeats in shock, taken aback. “You can’t mean…”
“Not mine, if that’s what you’re thinking,” the Prophet says. “Jeffrey, you’ve recently performed your sacrament, yes?”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” Jeffrey answers, his voice as meek as he can make it. “I received my sacrament yesterday.”
“Good,” the Prophet says. “Retrieve the goblet from the shelf and return to me quickly.”
The floorboards beneath my knees vibrate as Jeffrey stomps off on his mission, and my sobs die away as my mind starts to go crazy with panic over what the Prophet plans to do to me.
He plans to bleed me out in some way, but will fill me with holy blood first?!
How? How does he plan to do it?
And will it really keep the mark from appearing?
The room falls into an uncomfortable silence as we all wait for Jeffrey to do as he was told.
And every second that ticks by, I can feel the Prophet staring at me, the icy bite of needles ever present.
As the needles dig and dig, I hysterically wonder if they’re trying to reach my soul.
And what they’ll see if they actually make it there…
Thankfully, before I can find out, the floorboards beneath my knees vibrate again.
Jeffrey comes rushing back into my line of sight with a golden goblet clutched in his hands.
“Approach,” the Prophet orders, and I swallow back a sigh of relief as the needles finally release me from their icy bite.
Bowing his head, Jeffrey approaches the Prophet and holds out the goblet.
“Give me your other hand,” the Prophet demands, the hint of a growl back as he slides a dagger out of his sleeve.
Stepping closer, Jeffrey does as commanded.
The Prophet’s fingers snatch up Jeffrey’s arm, then there’s a glint of light in all the darkness.
Jeffrey grunts and tries to yank his arm back, but the Prophet tugs it closer, until it’s hovering over the goblet.
Mercilessly, the Prophet grinds the dagger into Jeffrey’s wrist, causing dark red blood to spill forth.
My mouth suddenly begins to water and a strange desire to taste Jeffrey’s blood appears out of nowhere. Disturbed by the unnatural urge, I consider biting the inside of my own cheek when the scent slams into me.
It doesn’t smell like any blood I’ve ever smelled before. There’s no hint of copper, no smell of life.
Jeffrey’s blood smells… wrong . It smells old and rotten.
The scent of decay clogs up my nostrils, and I nearly retch in earnest as my stomach clenches with more cramps.
The Prophet holds Jeffrey’s arm over the goblet until it’s nearly overflowing. Then he snatches up the goblet and shoves Jeffrey’s bleeding hand away, done with him.
I watch Jeffrey pull his arm to his chest and rub at his wrist. Then, right before my eyes, his wound begins to heal, the skin stitching back together.
What magic is this? I wonder. A gift from God? Or something else…
“Come here, child,” the Prophet says, his icy attention sinking back into me.
Run , a little voice screams inside my head.
I would, but I’m trembling so hard I can’t get to my feet.
“Do as His Holiness says,” Sister Agatha hisses in warning.
Shaking my head back and forth, I scoot backwards a little on my knees.
The Prophet clicks his tongue, the sound like two hollow bones knocking together. “Poor thing is terrified of God’s grace.”
Dropping his arm, Jeffrey takes a menacing step toward me.
“Don’t hurt her,” the Prophet orders. “Help her closer, gently.”
Jeffrey looks at him in surprise. Then reluctantly moves to where I’m kneeling.
He peers down at me with a scowl, trying to figure out how to touch me without hurting me. No doubt, it goes against everything in his nature.
Finally, he decides to move behind me and gets to his own knees.
I gag, unable to stop myself. The scent of his blood clings to him like a thick, cloying perfume of death and decay.
Ignoring my heaving, he nudges me forward by pushing his knees into the back of my thighs.
“Yes,” the Prophet says with approval. “Hold your charge and help her receive the blessing.”
I sense Jeffrey stiffen behind me in more surprise.
But a breath later, he’s wrapping his arm around my middle and holding me upright.
Placing his palm over the goblet, the Prophet murmurs something in Latin.
When he’s done, everyone in the room, besides me, murmurs, “Amen.”
Bending down, the Prophet extends the goblet towards me. “Drink, child. Drink and receive God’s mercy.”
The smell… the awful smell that made me gag is… gone. Replaced by a smell of milk and honey.
Milk and honey?!
It has to be some kind of trick. There’s no way Jeffrey’s blood really smells like that. Not when the body pressing against mine still reeks of festering meat.
And there’s no way I’m drinking it.
I turn my face away from the goblet and hold my breath.
The Prophet lets out a heavy sigh. “Help her, Jeffrey. The child doesn’t know what is good for her.”
His arm around my middle tightening, Jeffrey grabs my chin and forces my head to turn back.
But as the Prophet presses the goblet to my lips, I clench my teeth together, refusing to let the foul liquid pass.
Jeffrey’s dark red blood pours down my chin, dripping wasted onto the floor.
“Pry her jaw open if you have to,” the Prophet growls now, losing his patience.
Thumb and forefinger digging in and doing just that, Jeffrey forces my mouth open, allowing the Prophet to spill some of the blood onto my tongue.
The blood is overly thick. Thicker than any blood I’ve ever tasted from my own tongue or cheek, and it tastes sweet.
Sickly sweet.
Gagging again out of pure reflex, I spit the blood back out, spraying the Prophet.
“Damn it all!” the Prophet curses, his voice cracking like thunder. “You will drink! You will obey! I demand it!”
I try to recoil in fear, but Jeffrey is holding me too tight.
The Prophet tries once again to pour blood past my lips and down my throat, clinking the goblet against my teeth.
But as soon as the foul liquid hits my tongue, my body protests for me. My stomach cramps hard, not allowing a single drop to go down.
Even if I wanted to, I can’t swallow.
I can’t obey.
When I spray the Prophet with another bloody mist, he finally loses his temper.
His anger crackles and pops like static in the air.
“I had hoped you’d be compliant. It would have made everything that’s to come much easier,” the Prophet warns.
His other hand snaps out and he presses his fingers hard into my forehead.
Electricity sizzles through my veins, causing me to jerk and spasm against Jeffrey as if I was just struck by lightning.
As indescribable pain surges through me, stealing all thought, stealing all breath…
The last thing I hear is the Prophet snarling in Latin.
“Wake up,” someone pleads. “Please, you must wake up. I can’t carry you.”
The desperate urging of the words begin to tug me out of oblivion. But the moment I feel sharp pain throbbing through my limbs, I choose to ignore them.
I don’t want to wake up ever again. I don’t want to know what the Prophet did to me.
But the annoying words persist. “Wake up, Alena. Please wake up! I beg you!”
A warm, sweaty hand touches my shoulder and shakes me.
Every nerve in my body screams in misery. I cry out in reflex and taste something thick and foul coating my tongue.
“I’m sorry. I know it hurts, lass,” the man apologizes. “But for the love of God, you must wake up!”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I huff and pant through the pain. “No.”
Fuck God’s love.
It hurts too much.
The man sucks in a surprised breath. “Please don’t say that. I know what’s been done to you is unforgivable, but I assure you God had nothing to do with it.”
“Go away,” I groan and try to roll away from the man, wishing he’d remove his sweaty hand.
“I can’t do that. If I leave, you will truly be damned,” he insists.
I’d laugh at that if it wouldn’t hurt so bad.