Chapter Nine
Grace
The inky blackness of a moonless night stretches for miles beyond the small window over the desk.
Sometimes, I watch the stars or the rain long enough, I can almost convince myself AJ is seeing the same sky. That he’s caught in the same storm.
Other times, the darkness swallows me whole.
After months of pious devotion—Zeke’s term for complete and total acceptance of my fate—he moved me into this slightly larger room where I can see the sky.
His bedroom is down the hall, with my former cell in the middle—a reminder that he can take away what little I have in an instant.
His four wives and nine children have their own house next door.
Each night, he brings a different wife into his bed.
None of them complain. Some even look eager.
But I can’t be sure if that’s devotion or survival.
I’m rarely allowed to speak to them. Even in the greenhouses, where we tend to herbs and vegetables, or endless rows of oleander bushes, their blooms so sickly sweet, the scent is permanently etched on my skin, the men stand watch.
The only time I talk to anyone is in the dining hall. The women and children all eat together, but most of them talk about me, not to me. I don’t say much more than, “Blessed day,” or “Please pass the potatoes.”
Zeke tests me on the Doctrine every week. If I answer correctly, I’m rewarded. A second pillow. A heavier blanket for winter. But never any semblance of freedom. I’m watched, always. And at the end of the day, Zeke or Malone lock me back in this room.
I press my ear to the door, holding my breath. Silence. No footsteps, no murmurs. Nothing but the thrum of my own pulse and the faint whistle of the winter wind threading through the boards.
Though I don’t have any way to tell time, it’s been hours since Zeke bade me a blessed night.
Turning on the lamp would be too dangerous, so I feel my way back to the bed. Weeks ago, while scattering feed for the chickens, I spotted two thin scraps of wire. I pocketed them like contraband, tucked them under my mattress, and prayed no one would search my room.
AJ taught me how to pick locks one weekend when a winter storm left us snowed in. It was a fun diversion. I never thought the knowledge might save my life.
The mere thought of my husband makes my chest ache. Is he still looking for me? Or has he given up?
For a while, I tried to keep track of the days, but now…
I only count the moons. Eight times, Zeke has gathered everyone around the altar in the center of the compound, forced a crown of oleander blooms onto my head, and made me lie on the hard stone—no matter what the weather—so he could rehearse my death.
The box was hell, but at least it’s over. This…this is a promise of what’s to come. Only at the end, he won’t stop the knife an inch away from my skin. He’ll drive it deep into my side so my blood “purifies them all.”
“Stop it, Nova.”
My legs give out, and I collapse onto the thin mattress. Silent tears tumble down my cheeks. Despite Zeke’s constant repetition of Nova, Nova, Nova, my inner voice has never forgotten who I am. Until now.
I dig my fingers into my thighs hard enough to leave bruises. “No. I’m Grace. Grace Stone. I have a husband, a father, a dog, and friends back in Austin. A job I love. A whole life.”
I’m not Nova. I’m not a sacrifice. I’m a person.
Swiping at my eyes, I realize how wrong I am.
I was a person. Now, unless I can run more than twenty miles before dawn, I’m nothing.
The day Zeke took me, I was planning on eighteen. But that was after months of marathon training. I haven’t run a step since. I’ve lost so much weight. The meals here are small. Bland. Some days, I can barely force them down.
But every night, I pace the room for hours, do sit-ups until I want to vomit, and go through a series of post-running stretches to keep myself in shape.
I’ll need a miracle to make it off the flock’s lands. But I have to try.
First step? Get out of this room.
I’ve picked the lock every night for the past week. I can do it no matter how hard I’m crying. Or how dark it is on the new moon.
Interior door locks have six pins. Six steps closer to freedom. Or…the start of it.
The first is easy. Two and three are more difficult. Four, five, and six click into place, and the door opens a crack. The brief moment of joy is shattered by a loud creak from the hinges.
Shit.
Zeke is going to come running down the hall any second. I should shut the door and get in bed. But this cold, moonless night is my best chance. So I count to sixty.
The house is still utterly silent.
I skip the third and eighth stairs—the ones with loose boards—and slip out into the frigid night.
I’d give anything for my running shoes. Or my sports bra.
But all I have is a simple, white cotton dress, a light gray sweater, and hand-me-down work boots with thin socks.
I’ll be lucky if I don’t freeze to death before I make it past the first hill.
I press myself to the back wall of the house and try to quiet my breathing. When my heart stops pounding, I peer around the corner.
Four lookout towers topped with tiny shacks surround the main part of the compound.
Zeke is so paranoid about security, they’re manned twenty-four hours a day.
But with the biting cold, the sentries will—hopefully—be huddled in front of the space heaters inside.
If any of them see me, I’m done for. Zeke will send me back to the box, and I doubt there will be anything of Grace left when I come out again.
I’m almost to the edge of the cluster of houses when voices drift over the air.
Shit.
Zeke has a strict curfew for his flock. The morning bells go off at six a.m. Everyone works.
From feeding the cows and chickens to planting and picking crops in the greenhouses, cooking, cleaning…
even the children have assigned chores. So by eight p.m., no one but the sentries are supposed to be outside their homes.
Ducking behind a small shed, I hold my breath.
“Prophet wants this next shipment ready to go by the end of the week,” Malone says.
“He wants a lot of things. That don’t mean they’re possible,” the other man grumbles. “We’re short thirty-two firin’ pins, eighteen slide rails, and a hundred trigger assemblies. Unless tomorrow’s delivery truck has some new 3D printers on it, we’re buzzard bait.”
Malone mutters something under his breath, then asks, “You got enough people to run overnight til Friday?”
“Not unless Prophet lets another three brothers in on the flock’s side business. I’m gonna light a fire under the night shift, but that’ll only get us so far.”
“I’ll talk to him, Brother Nolan. Brother Joshua can be trusted. Brother George as well. I’ll need to make sure Sister Johanna doesn’t say a word to the other wives, but I can help out starting tomorrow.”
The men move out of earshot. Holy shit. Firing pins and trigger assemblies? The flock is manufacturing guns? Here? Why?
Some Waco-type standoff? Zeke is certainly paranoid enough. No. Malone said they were shipping them somewhere.
For months, I’ve wondered how Zeke affords this place.
Sure, the couple hundred people here all work the land.
The women sew and mend clothing. Solar panels cover every roof top.
But farm equipment breaks down. Plumbing fails.
Storms uproot trees. No one’s spinning cotton or wool for clothing. Or mining copper for wiring.
From my window, I’ve seen trucks coming and going from time to time, but they stop so far away, I’ve never gotten a good look at what’s inside them.
Is this how they make their money? Guns?
Stop.
It doesn’t matter what Zeke is doing or how he’s doing it. If I can run far enough by morning to get off the flock’s lands, I’ll be free.
A blister bursts on my heel with a quick, sharp sting.
My lungs burn. I haven’t run in so long, my body is failing me.
The rain doesn’t help. Cold needles slice at my skin, turning the prairie into a mud pit.
Hours—God, it feels like hours—and I have no idea how far I’ve gone.
Six miles? Ten? What if it’s only three?
With no stars to guide me, I might not even be running in a straight line.
I pick a tree in the distance, run until I reach it, then collapse against the trunk for a count of sixty before I choose another.
My legs feel like they’re made of lead, and my boots sink so deep into the muck, I might as well be running through quicksand.
A bolt of lightning tears a hole in the sky. Thunder follows—so loud, it rattles my teeth.
The second strike hits the tree I was keeping in my sights. For a moment, I can’t see a thing. Another rumble. But this one…sounds wrong. Lower. Closer. Longer.
Not thunder. Horses.
Ice floods my veins. Panic squeezes my chest so tightly, I can barely breathe, and I push my legs harder.
“There she is!” a man shouts. Vincent, I think. He was on guard duty tonight. Flashlight beams sweep through the rain, slicing across the field until they blind me.
“Give it up, Nova. You can’t outrun us!” Malone’s rage lashes at me through the storm. He’s the meanest of Zeke’s clerics. The only one besides the deranged prophet who truly scares me.
I’ve failed.
All my planning. Every “Blessed day” and “Yes, Prophet” and “Praise to the Glorious One” I uttered as my soul fractured into pieces. The blisters on my feet and scratches on my legs from running through the fields for hours.
But it’s the loss of hope that sends me to my knees.
The two men circle me several times, their horses kicking mud in my face. When they finally stop, Vincent keeps his flashlight trained on me, while Malone dismounts with a wide smile.