Chapter 23 Jules
JULES
The atmosphere in the main tent is electric. Even though the carnival has been in town for a few days now, interest doesn’t seem to be dying down yet. I guess it’s a credit to the brothers’ showmanship skills.
But the crowd doesn’t know that this carnival hosts a captured cultist. They don’t know that the ringmaster cracking his cane—a cane he used to make me come last night—against the stage boards will soon orchestrate a very different kind of performance.
Elias owns the space. Spotlights follow him as his voice carries, introducing each act. Fire blooms in Logan’s hands. Cole’s knives flash silver. Silas tricks the audience’s eyes as they gasp in disbelief.
And through it all, the ringmaster watches me. I feel it.
I know they have someone standing at the exit in case I try to make a run for it.
But the thought hardly crosses my mind. I’ve seen enough in the files to believe that this horrific cult existed.
And I’ve felt so much with Elias that I’m reluctant to walk away from it.
Passion like ours doesn’t come often, and I never thought I’d experience it myself. Not with my past…
Every cheer from the crowd tightens something inside my chest, though. Because I know when the last curtain falls… the real show is about to begin.
After the crowd spills out in a cloud of laughter, the masks disappear.
“You ready, Little Sapphire?” Elias asks me as he leads me to an inconspicuous-looking trailer among the equipment haulers.
My pulse hammers. There’s no more running, no more games.
“Yes,” I say, proud when my voice only shakes a little bit.
The trailer looks tiny with all of us inside. It’s set up like the perfect torture chamber. There’s a metal table, a drain on the floor, and lots of plastic sheeting. The lights are dim, the windows blacked out.
Ezekiel Moore is tied to a chair near the drain. His face is already swollen, and the cloth gagging him is bloodstained, but he’s still conscious.
When he sees me, something flickers in his eyes. I recognize hope. Probably thinks a woman’s sensibilities would be too tender for torture, that I’ll convince the guys to let him go. But after what I’ve seen last night? I just need proof. I always need proof before I pull the trigger on a story.
I pull up a clean chair and sit, crossing my legs. I nod at Jonah, who’s standing closest to Ezekiel.
“Can you remove his gag, please? I want to ask him some questions.”
Jonah glances behind me and must get the approval he’s after, because he pulls down the cloth gagging the cultist.
“Young lady,” Ezekiel begins, hollow eyes locked pleadingly on me. “This is all a misunderstanding. I don’t know why these men have taken me. Please. Do the Christian thing and persuade them to let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone about this.”
I tilt my head, my stomach twisting at his words. The Christian thing.
“Mr. Moore,” I say calmly, folding my hands in my lap to stop them from trembling. “I’m a reporter.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and I offer him a polite smile.
“Which means I don’t deal in misunderstandings. I deal in documentation. Witness statements. Facts.”
His eyes narrow now, as much as the swelling allows. Good.
“I’ve read police reports,” I continue. “I’ve seen property records. I’ve seen the photographs.”
His breathing shifts now. Subtle, but there.
“These men think you’re a Prophet of the Sanctum of Ash. But maybe they’re wrong.” I’m grateful when some of the brothers just shift their stance, not interrupting me. “Maybe you were just… dragged into something.”
“I was never a Prophet,” he says quickly—too quickly—making Silas snort. “That was slander spread by the enemies of the church.”
I nod slowly, as if considering it.
“So you were just a congregant?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And the rituals?” I press gently. “The fasting? The purification ceremonies?”
“All symbolic,” he says, recovering a bit of his composure. “Spiritual discipline. Children today lack structure. We provided it.”
I let silence sit. Reporters know this trick; people rush to fill the silence.
He does.
“We were misunderstood,” he continues, gaining confidence. “We were preparing souls for salvation.”
“Through isolation?” I ask mildly. “Food deprivation? Corporal punishment?”
He lifts his chin. “Spare the rod, spoil the child.”
Cole shifts behind me, but I ignore him.
“So you believe physical discipline is necessary,” I say thoughtfully. “Biblically justified.”
“Yes.”
“And who determined the severity?” I ask. “You?”
“No,” he snaps. “The council.”
“There was a council,” I say softly.
He freezes. Just for a second. I’m on the right path.
“And who sat on this council?” I ask.
Moore hesitates.
“I… I don’t recall names.”
“You don’t recall the names of the men who governed your church?”
His lips press together, and he looks at Elias. I lean forward slightly.
“You said you weren’t a Prophet,” I say quietly. “But you know that there was a council. And that there were governance decisions. And that punishment severity was discussed.”
His breathing grows heavier.
“I never hurt anyone,” he says suddenly.
“Liar,” Logan growls viciously. “Zach died from internal bleeding the night we escaped. It was you. He was five, you sick bastard!”
Rowe puts a hand on Logan’s shoulders, the scar tissue on his inner arms raised slightly in the dim light.
Bile rises, pushing its way into my throat, but I swallow it down, leaving behind a horrible burn. I take two deep breaths to gather myself.
“You never hurt anyone?” I repeat softly once I can speak again.
“No.”
“And the five-year-old?” I ask. “Zach?”
His face goes blank even as Logan’s breaths become audible.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I nod slowly.
“Okay,” I say calmly. “Let’s approach this differently.”
Ezekiel relaxes a fraction. He really shouldn’t.
“I’m going to say a name,” I continue. “Let me know if you recognize it.”
He stares at me.
“Abel Hawthorne. Peter Kane. John Fields.”
Nothing.
“Samuel Harlan.”
His jaw flexes. Next to me, Rowe lets out a whimper, moving away from his volatile twin and into the shadows.
“There we go,” I murmur.
“I don’t know him,” Ezekiel snaps.
“I didn’t ask if you knew him,” I say evenly. “I asked if you recognized the name.”
Silence.
I lean back in my chair.
“I just need to understand the hierarchy.”
Moore swallows hard.
“Hierarchy?” he repeats.
“Yes. Who made decisions. Who signed off. Who approved the… offerings. You weren’t at the top,” I say gently. “You don’t seem like a visionary. You seem like a follower. An administrator.”
That hits him. Men like him hate being small.
“I was not a follower,” he says sharply.
I tilt my head.
“No?”
“No.”
“So you led?”
His nostrils flare.
“You signed off on rituals,” I continue softly. “Didn’t you?”
When he doesn’t answer, I switch tactics again.
“You told those children pain was devotion,” I continue. “Did you believe that?”
He looks away and clears his throat.
“Yes.”
“You believed pain purified,” I whisper. “That suffering was holy.”
“Yes,” he says again, but this time there’s less hesitation. “The body is weak. The flesh must be disciplined.”
“And children?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately, so I reframe the question.
“Children are the purest vessels, aren’t they? Closer to God. More moldable.”
His lips press together.
“Yes.”
I have to work hard to keep my expression neutral.
“And when a vessel is impure?” I continue gently. “When it resists?”
“It must be corrected.”
“How did you correct Zach? The five-year-old?” I ask mildly.
“There was no five-year-old!” Ezekiel snaps, his arms pulling at the restraints.
Silas clicks his tongue. “What are we doing here? This is going in circles. It’s time to make him bleed, Elias.”
I look back at my… lover? Is that what he is? Elias searches my eyes for something before nodding.
“Let her continue,” he decrees, making Logan scoff angrily.
I roll my lips together before continuing my questioning.
“So there were no five-year-olds in your church?”
“What?” Ezekiel starts. “You’re twisting my words!”
“You weren’t a Prophet?” I ask again.
“No.”
“You weren’t on the council?”
“No.”
“You didn’t oversee punishments?”
“No.”
“You didn’t approve rituals?”
His eyes flare.
“I never touched them.”
“You didn’t touch them,” I repeat slowly. “So someone did. And you watched?”
His face twists.
“You don’t understand the covenant,” he whispers.
There’s a change in him now. He’s not defensive anymore—he’s fervent.
“Explain it to me,” I say gently.
Moore searches my face for something. Maybe judgment, disgust, condemnation. I’ve been a reporter long enough to know how to show only curiosity.
“Sin enters through the flesh,” he says hoarsely. “It must be cut out. Burned out. Broken out.”
My throat tightens.
“And children carry inherited sin?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And pain drives it out?”
“Yes.”
“And blood seals the covenant?” I press.
His pupils dilate.
“Yes.”
There it is. Despite the restraints, the bruising, the humiliation, his filthy sleepshirt tents obscenely over his erection.
I hear Marek exhale behind me, feel Elias’s eyes on the back of my head.
“You signed off on the covenant,” I say quietly, fighting to finish this before I throw up.
“I safeguarded it,” Ezekiel whispers.
“And what happened when a vessel resisted?” I ask. “What happened when a child screamed?”
His face hardens.
“They were reminded that obedience brings salvation.”
“How?”
His breathing grows heavier.
“They were restrained.”
“How?”
“Tied.”
My stomach churns harder.
“And then?”
He closes his eyes.
“They were corrected.”
“With what?” I whisper.
His lips tremble, and his tongue darts out to moisten them.
“Whatever was required.”
“And the baby?” I press. “I saw the pictures.”
His eyes pop open.
“The mother was defiled,” he snaps suddenly. “She was impure.”
The room goes dead still.
“She was chosen,” he continues, voice gaining strength. “Her womb was compromised by outside contamination.”
“Outside contamination,” I repeat faintly.
“She let a man touch her who wasn’t sanctioned. The child carried sin.”
My hands go cold.
“So you removed it,” I say.
He lifts his chin.
“We preserved the sanctity of the covenant.”
I stare at him.
“You cut a baby out of her.”
“It was mercy,” he hisses. “Better than letting corruption spread.”
The word mercy makes something in my chest crack. I don’t realize I’m shaking until Elias’s hand comes to rest lightly against my shoulder.
“Is that enough, Little Sapphire?” he asks, his lips by my ear, his warm breath warming my icy cold skin.
“Yes,” I say decisively. The reporter in me is satisfied. The other part of me, the survivor of her own nightmare? She wants blood.
Standing up, I move the chair away before extending a shaky hand to Cole.
“May I have a knife, please?”
The knife thrower blinks at me before his lips stretch into a slow grin.
“What kind do you need, Blue?”
“Something good for removing vile appendages.”
Logan whistles, leaning back against the trailer wall.
“Little bird has some fire. I like it.”
“Don’t cut his dick off, he’ll bleed too fast,” Silas remarks, like he’s giving me advice on what outerwear to pick on a rainy day. “Want to make it last a bit.”
I furrow my brow, looking at the jagged knife Cole placed in my hand, while Ezekiel screams in outrage.
“Fine,” I say over the cultist’s shrieks. “I’ll cut his balls off instead. Can someone hold them for me?”
“Never touching a Prophet’s junk again,” Rowe says from his corner, voice hollow.
“I’ll do it,” Cole says gleefully. “Love a little castration before bedtime.”
“I’ll cauterize the wound,” Logan offers casually. “I want to make him confess to what he did to Zach before he dies.”
“He’s still hard,” Marek says to no one and everyone.
“Not for long,” Elias chuckles. “Not after my Jewel’s done with him.”
“You don’t know that,” Jonah rumbles. “He could be into this shit.”
“She’s too old and the wrong gender for his tastes,” Logan spits.
“You’re all insane!” Ezekiel screams. “You’ll burn in hell for this!”
I lean over his chair, letting him see the knife I’m going to use to give him a higher singing voice.
“You’ll be there first,” I whisper. “Save us a seat.”