Chapter Seventy-Nine
Grace
The harsh clang of the morning bells drags me from a haze of exhaustion. My head pounds, and my stomach won’t stop twisting itself into knots.
I’ve been lying on this wretched bed, working on my words for hours. Nothing complicated. The simplest sounds. Broken syllables I might be able to use to convince Prophet I’m dying now. He won’t like that. He’ll call his father.
Not long after the drone flew away, I remembered Abe. How he was kind to me. How he wanted to help me, but didn’t know how.
“P-poh-suh. Poh-sun. Siii…sick.” I hold onto the brief moment of triumph like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Right now, it is. Those two words might be enough. At least for Prophet.
Abe… Maybe he’ll have a pen? Or maybe…he’ll just know what I need.
Footsteps thud on the stairs. Two sets. Like always. Prophet and Brother Malone.
I burrow deeper under the thin blanket, and as the heavy steps get closer, I start to shake. It’s only partially an act. I’m terrified Prophet will see right through me. Or that he won’t care.
The heavy locks thunk, and the hasps open with a metallic screech.
“Blessed day, Nova,” Prophet says, a hint of reverence in his voice. Brother Malone follows him into the room, sets a tray down on the desk, and retreats back into the hall. But he doesn’t leave. He never does. In case I manage to find a burst of strength or decide to claw Prophet’s eyes out.
God, I wish I could. But I’m so tired and dizzy, I’d probably end up with my fingers poking into the man’s ear instead.
“Sit up,” Prophet orders. “You need strength for the ceremony tonight.”
I moan softly, then roll my eyes as far back in my head as I can force them.
He sighs, dragging the heavy, uneven chair closer to the bed and lowering himself into it.
“I failed the flock last time. I see that now. I should never have allowed Jefe to dictate the timing of your sacrifice. But tonight…the Glorious One will be pleased. My wives have picked all the oleander flowers in the greenhouses. The holy wine will be twice as strong. I will slit your throat, letting your blood bathe the sacred ground beneath the altar until not a single drop remains in your body.”
He’s almost apologetic. I’d laugh if I didn’t need him to believe I’m too close to death to move.
I squeeze my eyes shut. If I can’t get Abe here, if I can’t delay, AJ won’t have time. He’ll die. Along with Connor. Jasper. Hardison. And Parker…Parker’s still in the box. By the time anyone else comes, I’ll be dead, and she’ll…she’ll be gone too.
Another weak moan, and I tighten my throat so it sounds like I can barely breathe.
Prophet scoops up a spoonful of eggs and holds it close to my lips. I don’t have to fake the gag. The scent—mixed with the oleander I can’t get away from—sends bile rushing up my throat.
I turn onto my side and vomit.
The chair legs scrape over the floor. “Nova?”
I let my head hang half off the bed. The position sends a drum beat slamming against the inside of my skull.
“Si…si… Poh-sun.” The words are only half formed at best. But with a shaking hand, I try—unsuccessfully—to push some of the flowers away.
Prophet grabs my shoulders and shoves me onto my back. His eyes narrow on me. “Poison? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
I nod and clutch my stomach harder.
He barks out a laugh. “Not poison. Purification. You are still resisting me, Nova. You know that is not allowed.”
I roll my eyes back a second time. “Huur…ts.” The word escapes on a sob.
Prophet’s grip tightens on my shoulders, his face inches from mine, his tone so sanctimonious, I want to vomit all over again. “You will not defy me, Nova. You will eat, or I will force the food down your throat.”
My vision blurs. The stench of the flowers is everywhere. Prophet pries my jaw open and shoves some of the eggs into my mouth. “Eat!” he shouts.
His sharp command, the bruising grip on my jaw, and three years of conditioning conspire against me. I swallow automatically, but the taste—God, the taste—sends the food right back up onto his hand.
“Brother Malone!” Prophet shakes the eggs from his fingers in disgust. “Send for my father. Now! If she dies before the ceremony, the Glorious One will not be pleased!”
The door slams shut, rattling the bare wooden walls. Prophet paces in front of the bed. I feel each heavy step deep in my chest. I want to cower, to pull the blanket over my head to hide from his angry gaze, but I have to make him believe I’m too weak to move.
His eyes track every ragged breath. Every tremor in my limbs. “If you think this weakness will spare you, Nova, you are mistaken.”
If I have my way, Prophet, this weakness will spare me, but end you.
For endless minutes, the only sounds in the room are his boots striking the floorboards and my wheezing.
Until Brother Malone’s steps rush back down the hall, and the door slams open.
“Father Abe,” Prophet snaps.
The man who steps over the threshold is a stranger and not at the same time. My only memories of him are of his voice. And how gentle he was with me. How he’d call me Grace if he knew no one would overhear.
But he looks so much like Prophet, I can’t meet his gaze.
He shuffles closer, his fingers trailing over the flowers, pausing on the wilt showing at their edges. His nostrils flare. “She’s weak,” he says. “If you expect her to make it to the ceremony, all these flowers must go. Now.”
Prophet stomps closer. “The blossoms will purify her.”
“They’ll kill her in under an hour if you leave them here. Son, I believe every word you’ve ever written. You know I do. The Glorious One requires his Nova to be breathing when her blood is spilled.”
Abe reaches for the bandage over my temple. I whimper, try to turn my head away, but fear locks my muscles up tight.
“Look at her, Prophet.” Gently, he pulls the bandage away. “Her surgery was less than forty-eight hours ago. The incision hasn’t even started to heal. If you want her strong enough to take the holy wine and complete her sacrifice, you’ll let me treat her.”
“Fine,” Prophet snaps. “I will send my wives up to bring the anointed flowers to the altar. Brother Malone will be right outside. Treat her quickly. You still have to mix the holy wine for tonight. Twice as strong as last time. I want it ready by eight.”
“Yes, Prophet,” Abe says, his eyes downcast. “Twice as strong.”
The door shuts—almost softly—and the sound of his boots fades away.
Only then do I draw an easy breath.
Abe listens for another minute, then carefully lowers himself down into the chair. “Grace, I am sorry.” His lower lip wobbles slightly. “When he found out you were alive…he kept me in the box for three days. Until he learned it was hypothermia that saved you.”
Tears prick at my eyes. I fumble for Abe’s hand, and squeeze once. How could Prophet be so cruel as to torture his own father?
Floorboards creak beyond the door. Abe jerks his arm back as Prophet’s four wives, clad in identical pink dresses, file into the room.
Their eyes never meet mine. They move like ghosts, scooping up armfuls of blossoms, their skirts brushing against the bed frame.
Petals scatter across the floor, bruised and torn.
When they leave again, the air is a fraction clearer, though oleander still sickens me more with each breath.
Abe lingers at my side, studying me the way a man might study a wounded foal. His gaze drifts to the mess at the side of the bed, the sour bile streaked over a few crushed blooms, the sharp tang of vomit mixing with the flowers. His jaw tightens.
He moves quickly into the bathroom, the faint rush of water following. The sound nearly breaks me—I want it so badly. My mouth aches with dryness, my tongue thick and useless. I claw for the word, but all that comes out is a pitiful sob. “Terr…”
Abe kneels beside the bed, a washcloth in his hands with steam still rising from the white fabric. His brows knit. “What did you say, my dear?”
“Th–thir—” The syllable fractures against my cracked lips. My hand trembles as I mime lifting a cup.
Understanding dawns in his eyes. He sets the cloth next to me, disappearing again, then returns with a glass filled nearly to the brim.
He has to steady it at my lips. I gulp too fast, choking, water spilling down my chin. I could weep at how good it tastes. It’s the only thing untainted by the horrors of this place.
“Slowly, Grace. Slowly,” he murmurs. Once I’ve had half a glass, he sets it down and retrieves the washcloth.
With a gentle touch, he cleans the bile from the corner of my mouth, dabs at the sheets, and finally, swipes the soiled cloth across the floor.
When he finishes, his gaze flicks to my temple. “You need a fresh bandage. May I?”
I manage the smallest nod.
He digs in his leather bag, coming up with a roll of gauze, some medical tape, and a small brown bottle. The antiseptic stings, and I hiss out a breath.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he presses a fresh square of gauze to the wound and tapes it into place. “But if this gets infected…” His hands start to shake, and he jerks them away. “It…won’t matter. Because my son…” A tear carves a silent trail down his cheek.
I can’t let him spiral. Not when this is my only chance. “A…A…J.” The letters are almost clear, but does he have any idea what they mean? “C…cuh…ming.”
Abe blinks, as if he can’t possibly have heard me right. “AJ?” His voice is barely audible. “That’s your husband? The Ranger?”
I nod hard enough to make my skull throb. “Cer…em. Nee…Lih…vve.” I pound a weak fist against the mattress, frustrated when the word collapses into nonsense.
Think, Grace. Find another way.
With shaking hands, I reach for his sleeve, yank his wrist closer, and trace clumsy letters against his palm.
D-E-L-A-Y.
His mouth opens, closes. He glances at the door like he expects Prophet to burst in any second. Then he leans close. “I can’t delay the ceremony, Grace. Even if I could, the ritual wine—the oleander—at the concentration my son wants… It will stop your heart long before the blade touches you.”
I try again to make him understand, pressing harder this time.
1-5 M-I-N.
“Fifteen minutes?”
“Uh…huh.” My voice cracks. Tears burn hot down my cheeks. “AJ…”
Abe’s breath hitches, and for a moment I think he might collapse right there. “He knows where you are?”
Fear slices through me, sharper than any blade. What if I’ve just sealed my fate? And AJ’s? What if the days Abe spent in the box broke him? Oh, God. I didn’t think this through. The brief glimpse of hope fades in an instant.
“Grace, he’ll die if he tries anything. The sentries…they’ll see him coming. They’ll kill him.”
The concern in his voice is so real, I think—I hope—he’s still the kind man who helped me hold onto the last shred of my life I would have otherwise lost. My name.
I take his hand again, dragging my finger across his palm.
H-E-L-P.
B-O-X.
His brows knit. “Help…box? Oh, fuck. The girl. The one Malone said was causing trouble. She’s in the box?”
I nod. “Fend. Fr-end.”
Fresh sobs claw at my chest. I press both hands to my mouth, terrified my weeping will bring Prophet storming back.
Abe’s eyes darken, and a tremor ripples through his body.
“Listen to me, Grace. My son was dead to me the minute he declared me mentally incompetent and dragged me here against my will. What walks these halls is rot in a man’s skin.
I will not let him break another soul—not yours, not that girl’s.
Not while there’s still breath in my body. ”
His conviction, the absolute truth of it in his voice and in his eyes, cuts through my terror with bright, warm hope.
Abe leans in and lowers his voice. “I’ll try to see to her. But…my son doesn’t trust me. He hasn’t—not once—since he found out you were alive. He’ll send Vincent to watch me mix the ritual wine. If I try to weaken it, and he catches on, it’ll be the end of me.”
I shake my head hard enough, it feels like the room tries to throw me sideways into the wall. “Nd…me…too.”
For a heartbeat, the silence between us is unbearable. Then Abe nods once, resolve hardening his expression. “I’ll do whatever I can. For you. For the girl in the box. I promise.”
Abe reaches into his leather bag and pulls out a small vial. He unscrews the top, then pours a dark liquid into a tin cup. A bitter, acrid scent burns my nose.
“It’s not much. Charcoal and a mix of roots. The oleanders have been poisoning you for hours now. My son doesn’t understand how toxic they are. But this will help slow what’s already in your system. And it’ll give you a little extra strength for tonight.”
He presses the cup into my hands. The first sip nearly chokes me, but I force it down and take another. Then another.
When the cup is empty, he caps the vial and slides it under my pillow.
“Take the rest when the sun sets. Not before.” Abe covers my hand with both of his.
“Now rest. He won’t come for you until close to nine.
” For a long moment, he doesn’t move. But eventually, he rises, takes the water glass back into the bathroom, and refills it before setting it next to the bed.
“I’ll tell Malone you need to rest. That I’ve given you a sedative. Sleep if you can.”
By the time he opens the door, his whole demeanor has changed to a beaten, weary old man.
For the first time since Prophet locked me in this room three years ago, I think maybe…I might survive this.