Chapter Five
Grace
The vague scent of soap surrounds me. But it’s not mine. My soap smells like gardenias and jasmine. AJ’s is good, old-fashioned Irish Spring. This is almost…industrial. Harsh, with a bite of lemon that burns my nose.
My lids are so heavy. I force them open, catching a quick glimpse of a wood ceiling before they close again.
Wood? Our bedroom is a light beige. Where am I? This pillow is too thin. Lumpy. Same with the mattress.
The headache splitting my skull makes it hard to think. I don’t remember how I got here. I was out on a run. I left the lake behind. Then…?
I try for another peek at my surroundings. God, the light makes my head pound even harder.
“Drink!”
The memory of that harsh voice, of someone holding me down, is too much. I roll onto my side, bile crawling its way up my throat. It’s only the shock of what I’m wearing that stops me from vomiting.
My running clothes are gone. I’m braless, barefoot, and clad in a white cotton dress that buttons all the way up to my neck.
Scrambling back, I kick at the sheet and blanket. I’m so dizzy, but when I bring my hands to my mouth, I realize I’m…clean.
Someone kidnapped me, brought me here—wherever here is—bathed me and dressed me. I reach between my legs and find a pair of simple cotton panties. They’re dry. Nothing hurts down there. But the idea that I could have been raped while I was unconscious…
The nausea hits again, so strong I dry heave over the side of the bed until my stomach muscles ache and sweat dots my brow.
Collapsing back against the thin pillow, I struggle to clear the fog muddling my thoughts. There was a van. Then pain. But after that, nothing.
The room is still blurry, and I rub my eyes until tears gather at the corners. They’re so dry. My throat too.
This time when I sit up, the dizziness isn’t so bad. An old, beat-up desk and chair sit against the wall to my left. On the other side, two solid wood doors. One is open a crack.
You can do this, Grace. Get up and find a way out.
Feet on the floor. A hand on the rough-hewn headboard to steady myself. And I’m standing. Wobbly, but upright. Slowly, I shuffle toward the open door.
Stark white walls, a simple tile floor, a toilet, sink, and tiny shower.
For a few seconds, I stare at the faucet. If I turn it on, someone could hear. But I’m so dehydrated, I won’t last much longer without water.
As I reach for the handle, the world tilts. The next thing I know, I’m on the floor, my cheek pressed to the cool, white tile. The side of my head throbs, and tears leak from my eyes. Everything hurts. Panic tightens my chest. I’m shaking.
“Move, darlin’. You can do this. Try that other door. Now.”
It’s not my voice I hear in my head. It’s AJ’s. Does he know I never made it home? He’ll search for me. He’ll find me. But I can’t just lie here and wait. Whoever took me did it for a reason. I don’t want to find out what it was.
Wrapping my fingers around the edge of the sink, I pull myself up, holding on until I’m mostly steady. Each step feels like a mile until I make it to the other door. But the knob only rattles when I try to turn it.
A dull thudding sound gets steadily louder. Shit. Someone’s coming.
I stumble back until I hit the far wall. My heart pounds so hard, I can barely breathe. My legs tremble. Fear and the after-effects of whatever they gave me combine until I’m sure I’m about to collapse again.
A key rasps in the lock, and the door swings open. The man who enters is tall and solid. Dressed in a pair of black pants and a gray shirt. The collar almost looks like it belongs to a priest, but there’s no telltale white boning in the center. Gray threads his black hair and full beard.
“Blessed day, Nova,” he says with a small smile. His voice is familiar. It terrifies me, despite the warmth in his tone.
A vague memory fights its way free from my addled mind.
Sweat. Stifling heat. Fear. And that one word.
“Drink!”
He’s the one who took me. Fuck. The way he’s looking at me is almost…reverent, and that’s the most terrifying thing of all.
“I said, ‘Blessed day, Nova.’”
The warmth is gone now. His dark brown eyes narrow on me as he approaches. Backed into a corner, there’s nowhere for me to go, and he captures my chin in a bruising grip.
“You will answer when I speak to you, Nova.”
“You’re…hurting me.” My voice crackles weakly, rasping over my dry throat.
He holds fast as another man, this one younger and bigger, carries a tray into the room and sets it on the desk. Eggs. Hash browns. A glass of water. A cloth napkin. And a plastic spoon.
“Wait outside, Brother Malone,” he commands.
The second man nods, his eyes downcast, and shuts the door behind him.
“We’re going to try this again. ‘Blessed day, Nova.’”
He shifts his hand to my throat. His fingers stay loose, but the threat is there.
“Who the hell…is Nova?”
The slap comes so quickly, my vision blurs as fire blooms over my cheek. My knees buckle and I slide to the floor.
“Members of the Blessed Flock are not allowed to swear, Nova,” he snaps. “We keep ourselves pure in service of the Glorious One.”
I’m hallucinating. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Heat stroke. A head injury. Whatever drug they gave me.
“My name is Grace.”
He hauls me up by my arm and shoves me against the wall. “Your old life was without purpose. Now, you are Nova, the bright light to banish all darkness and bring about the Glorious One’s return.”
“Look, asshole, I don’t know who the fuck you are—”
His hand flies to my throat again, but this time, he squeezes hard enough I can barely breathe.
Desperate, I claw at his fingers, but the world is getting dimmer by the second.
Until he suddenly lets go. Coughing and wheezing, I try to put some distance between us, but the room is so small, he’s on me again in a heartbeat.
This time, he wraps his arm around my shoulders like he’s trying to comfort me.
“I should have introduced myself before. I am Prophet Zeke, the head of the Blessed Flock. Sit down. Eat, and I will explain everything.”
This guy is out of his gourd. He’s bouncing between sweet and enraged so quickly, it would leave me dizzy—if the room weren’t already spinning. He guides me into the chair. My stomach rumbles loudly, but I push the plate away.
“You kidnapped me! You drugged me. I’m not eating this.”
Zeke plucks the spoon from the desk and takes a bite of the eggs. “The rohypnol was to ensure your safety—and mine—on the journey. And to protect my wives when they bathed and dressed you.”
“W-wives?” Oh, God. This is some sort of cult. “What else did you do to me?” I squeeze my legs together and wrap my arms around myself tightly. “Did you…? Did anyone…?”
“No!” he shouts, his lip curling in a look of pure disgust. “That is not allowed here.”
The relief only lasts a moment. “But kidnapping is?”
Knowing the slap is coming doesn’t make it hurt any less. I taste blood, and it turns my stomach.
He composes himself, and the small smile reappears.
“I did not kidnap you. I freed you from a life without purpose.”
Oh, hell no.
“Taking someone against their will is kidnapping, asshole. And you picked the wrong woman. My husband is a Texas Ranger. He’ll find me. And when he does, you and your entire Blessed Flock will go to jail for the rest of your lives!”
Zeke throws his head back and laughs. “We’re more than seven hours from Austin, Nova. No one will ever find you here.”
“Seven…hours?” A tear tumbles down my cheek. The food. It’s…breakfast. Sunday breakfast.
“We’re less than a hundred miles from the border. Now, please eat.”
I’m starving. My stomach is hollow and my mouth feels like cotton. I don’t trust the water, but I force a bite of the eggs because if I don’t get something in me, I’ll be useless.
Zeke sits on the edge of the bed, looking absurdly pleased with himself, like we’re having some kind of demented picnic.
“When my son told me he’d found you, I admit I did not believe him at first. Joshua has a flair for the dramatic. But then he sent me the photo of your tattoo.”
The spoon clatters against the plate. “Joshua? Joshua Nichols is your son?”
He beams. “Yes. My Joshua. He and his betrothed will be wed this evening, and he will take his place as my newest junior cleric.”
The room tilts. This wasn’t random. Joshua knew where I’d be running yesterday. He knew I’d be alone. Vulnerable. Icy fear and dread churn in my stomach. The whole world narrows to the pounding of my heart.
Zeke chose me. All because of the ink on my skin?
As surreal as it is to be having a conversation with a deranged kidnapper, I have to convince him that he made a mistake. “Millions of people have tattoos like mine. I’m not your Nova.”
Zeke’s expression hardens. “Open the drawer.”
His tone carries a sharp edge that warns another slap will follow if I don’t obey. So, I wrestle the drawer open. A heavy, leather-bound book with words burned into the cover sits in the center. “‘The Doctrine of the Blessed Flock as told to Prophet Zeke by the Glorious One’?”
He has got to be kidding.
“Take it out and turn to page thirty-three.” The Doctrine is heavy enough, I might be able to chuck it at him and do some damage. But if that Malone guy is waiting right outside, what good would it do me?
I’m so lost in my own scattered thoughts, I don’t move. Zeke loses patience with me, snatches the book from my hands, and slams it down on the desk.
With a hoarse yelp, I shove the chair back and run for the door. The dress tangles around my legs, and I’m too slow. Too clumsy.
Zeke catches me with an arm around my waist and drags me back to the chair. He tries to shove me down, but I spin and drive the heel of my hand into his nose. The crunch of cartilage is oddly satisfying. As is the blood dripping down his chin.
“Fuck you and your Blessed Flock.”
He wipes the blood from his upper lip with his sleeve, his face a mask of calm, as if getting his nose broken is an everyday occurrence. “Page thirty-three, Nova. Or you will learn that actions have consequences.”
“No.” I won’t give him the satisfaction. Even if we are seven hours from Austin, AJ will find me. He’d burn down the entire world before he’d let anything keep us apart. The kind of love we share—the kind we’ve worked so hard to keep—doesn’t surrender to the whims of a madman.
Zeke grabs my shoulders, slams me down into the chair, and opens the book himself.
“Oh, my God.” Lines of text cover the parchment in a bold, heavy scrawl. But it’s the image in the center that terrifies me.
My tattoo. Not a vague representation, but an almost exact replica down to the way the phases of the moon curve over my shoulder and the curl of the ribbon around the stems of the delicate oleander flowers.
“Read it,” Zeke snaps, his finger jabbing the first paragraph.
“Th-the Prophet will find the one who b-bears the m-mark of the Blue Moon over the most sacred of oleander flowers. Sacri—oh, God—sacrificing the Nova on a Blue Moon will honor the Glorious One. He w-will grant the Prophet and his entire flock eternal…life.”
“You…you’re g-going to k-kill me?”
I have to get out of this room. Surely there’s someone in this Blessed Flock who doesn’t condone murder.
“On the next blue moon, yes. In two years, eleven months, and one day. Until then, you will be a revered member of my flock.”
Killing me isn’t enough? He’s going to keep me prisoner for almost three years?
None of this is real. I have to be in a coma. Or dead. That’s it. I’m already dead and the afterlife is some massive mind fuck that never ends. Except, my cheek still throbs where he slapped me. My mouth is so dry, I can barely swallow.
The way Zeke is looking at me…he truly believes this. All of it.
I grab his sleeves, ready to beg if I have to—even though the idea of touching him disgusts me.
“Let me go. Please. I won’t tell anyone you took me. Not even my husband. I’ll…make something up. I hit my head. Blacked out. Ended up across town sleeping in a bus station or something.”
“No. This is your home now, Nova.” Zeke shakes off my hold, then strides for the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob. “Read the book, Nova. All of it. Then you will understand there is no going back. You are the Flock’s salvation.”
For what feels like hours, I stare at the plate. If I don’t eat, I won’t have the strength to escape. But if any of the food is drugged, I could lose another day. Or more.
I dump the water in the sink, wash the glass with that awful lemony soap, and fill it directly from the tap. The first few sips are pure heaven.
Returning to the desk, I risk a bite of hash browns. They’re cold, oily, and disgusting, but I don’t care. If I still feel okay in a few minutes, I’ll have more.
“Read the book. All of it.”
Hell, no. I’m not reading the delusions of a guy who thinks killing me will give him eternal life. Instead, I pick up his precious Doctrine and throw it across the room.