Chapter 2 #2
I blinked, thinking back to just a minute ago when Malachi had told me that his son would not speak to me. Hesitantly, I replied, “Hello.”
Elior’s lips quirked up just barely, like he was trying to hide his sweet smile.
From beside me, Malachi said, “He doesn’t usually talk to anyone except for me, but I always feel an exception is necessary for new faces.”
For a second, I couldn’t think of anything to say. I’d read enough reports, enough horror stories about this place, to know I should’ve been focused on the danger—the manipulation, the control, the twisted power dynamics Malachi had built here.
Seeing him like this, Elior didn’t look like a cult’s divine idol.
He just looked like a boy. His cheeks were soft and flushed pink from the candlelight, and were the kind of plump that made you think of innocence and joy.
A light dusting of freckles crossed his button nose, and when he blinked, it was with the wide-eyed confusion of someone who didn’t get out much.
Jesus Christ.
Adorable, I thought before I could stop myself.
I mentally slapped myself.
He’s the son of a fucking cult leader, I reminded myself. The right hand of a man who’s probably responsible for a whole list of offenses. That innocence? It could be an act. It’s probably an act. No one gets raised by a fucker like Malachi Ransom and comes out of it pure and kind and cute.
Still, as Elior’s eyes met mine again, I felt something shift in my gut. Not just nerves, not just curiosity, but something magnetic that I hadn’t felt in years.
I cleared my throat, forcing myself to look away, to focus on the floor of the stone dais instead. “It’s… an honor,” I said quietly, more for Malachi’s benefit than anyone else.
Elior tilted his head, like he wasn’t sure how to react. His lips parted, then closed again. He looked like he wanted to say something, but had thought better of it.
That hesitation made something twist in my chest.
I really needed to get my shit together.
Because the truth was, this boy—this Vessel—was dangerous in a completely different way than his father.
Malachi was obvious about it—you could see the threat in him, smell the ego, the need for control.
But Elior? He was the kind of dangerous that sneaks up on you, that you never see coming.
The kind that made people want to protect him, to believe him, to kneel and call him holy.
And apparently, I wasn’t immune to it either.
Which made me stupid.
I reminded myself of the checklist I’d run through every time I got too deep undercover:
—Keep your cover story airtight.
—Don’t form attachments.
—Don’t get distracted by sympathy.
Or freckles.
Or soft smiles.
Or what he might look like under that robe.
Or the fact that, under different circumstances, I might’ve wanted to make him laugh.
I forced a polite grin and turned to Malachi. “Your son has a divine presence,” I said. “You can feel it the moment you walk in.”
Malachi’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “He is the Light made flesh,” he said, with the kind of certainty that made my skin crawl. “His radiance humbles even the strongest men.”
I bet it fucking does.
Elior ducked his head slightly, the way people do when they’re embarrassed—or when they’ve been trained not to react to praise. His fingers curled around the arms of his seat.
I thought about what kind of life that must be—sitting up there day after day, worshiped but never free. I tried to imagine being raised in a world where every breath you took had to mean something holy.
Had he ever been allowed to just be a kid?
But then I remembered why I was here. This wasn’t about sympathy.
This was about intel.
About breaking through the layers of delusion Malachi had built.
Still, as Elior’s gaze flicked back up, shy but steady, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was just as much of a victim of his father as the others.
Which was exactly why I needed to be careful. For all I knew, he could be a tiny little maniac under all that plush softness. It was hard to picture, but it was a real possibility that I couldn’t just rule out.
I straightened my spine, masking my unease with another faint smile. “He really is something,” I said.
Malachi chuckled, pleased. “Yes. The world doesn’t deserve him.”
Yeah, I thought grimly, and I bet you’ll make sure of that.
Malachi lingered for a moment longer at the altar, looking up at his son like a man admiring his own reflection. Then, with a satisfied hum, he turned toward the doors.
“Come,” he said. “There’s more to see.”
I glanced back once before following him.
Elior hadn’t moved—still sitting on that massive stone chair like a patron saint carved into marble.
His hands rested in his lap, his expression unreadable.
I wondered what he’d do when no one was watching.
Did he sit there for hours in silence? Did he ever get to leave that room?
I caught myself and forced my attention back to the sound of Malachi’s boots striking the chapel floor.
The door shut behind us with a heavy thud. Sunlight hit my face again, way too bright after the dimly-lit sanctuary, and I squinted as Malachi led me down the chapel steps toward the garden.
It spread out behind the main buildings, a wide patch of green fenced in with hand-cut wood.
Rows of vegetables lined the soil—lettuce, beans, squash, and tomatoes.
A few women were working there, sleeves rolled up, faces flushed from the labor.
They glanced up as we passed, but quickly ducked their heads again.
“This is one of our greatest blessings,” Malachi said, pride curling around every word. “The earth yields abundantly for those who are faithful. Our people eat what we grow. Nothing wasted, nothing taken that has not been given.”
I nodded, pretending to admire the rows of plants. “It’s impressive,” I said. “Looks like a lot of work.”
“The work is the worship,” Malachi replied smoothly. “Every seed planted, every weed pulled—it’s all in service to the Light. The children start learning that early.”
He gestured ahead, and I followed his line of sight. A few yards away stood a smaller building—one-room-schoolhouse vibes, wooden planks, blue shutters, a bell tied up on the porch with a length of rope. The sound of children’s laughter drifted through the open windows.
Malachi’s chest swelled. “Our school,” he said. “We teach reading, arithmetic, scripture. Most of all, we teach them how to live without corruption.”
That word—corruption—hung between us. I forced a neutral smile, although it was difficult to act like that wasn’t an insane thing to say. “They must love it here.”
“They do,” Malachi said. “They’re safe. The world out there poisons children—fills their minds with filth and pride. But here, they learn humility, order, and purpose. Don’t you think that’s what every child needs?”
I kept my face blank. “Yeah. It sounds… amazing.”
“Amazing,” he repeated, nodding, pleased. “Yes.”
We rounded the path just as the schoolhouse door swung open.
A young woman with beautiful long blonde hair stepped out, shepherding a line of maybe a dozen kids, all in miniature versions of the adult robes.
They couldn’t have been any older than ten.
Their hair was cropped short or braided neatly, their faces scrubbed clean.
When they saw us, they stopped and turned to look.
Big eyes fixed on me as if I’d just dropped from another planet.
I lifted a hand in an awkward little wave. “Hey there,” I said softly.
None of them waved back.
The teacher murmured something under her breath—too quiet to catch—and the children bowed their heads in unison before shuffling toward the garden.
“They are pure,” Malachi said. “Untouched by the world’s filth. We will keep them that way.”
I swallowed hard. “How many kids live here?”
“Fifteen at the moment,” he said with quiet satisfaction.
“Some born under the Light, some converts who have joined us with their families.” Malachi kept walking, hands clasped behind his back, his tone conversational.
“You see, Jace, our community thrives because it is simple. There are no distractions here. No lies, no decadence. The faithful work, worship, and raise their children in righteousness. It might look isolating, but it’s so freeing to be without the constant pressure to sin, like it is out there.
” He looked over his shoulder at me. “Wouldn’t you agree? ”
I nodded stiffly. “It sounds like a great place.”
We walked on, the compound stretching out around us in eerie symmetry—white houses, quiet paths, eyes in every window.
And even as I took mental notes for my report, I couldn’t shake the image of Elior on that cold stone throne.
Still and small and silent.
I wanted to know what his role was in all of this.
Malachi led me down one of the narrow dirt paths that split the compound, the kind of road worn by years of bare feet rather than tires. The wind shifted through the trees, carrying the faint smell of smoke, soil, and something vaguely metallic underneath.
Malachi gestured toward a row of long, low buildings in the distance. “Those are the dormitories. Men on the west side, women on the east. Purity must be guarded, even in sleep.”
I nodded as if that made sense. “And families?”
“Boys stay with their fathers. Girls with their mothers.” His tone tightened a little, like the question was borderline improper.
As we got closer, I noticed the little details that never made it into the Bureau reports. The doors had no locks on the outside. Laundry flapped on lines between the buildings—plain robes, shapeless underclothes, nothing personal.
A man stepped out of one dorm, tall and narrow-faced, carrying a bucket of water. He froze when he saw us, bowing quickly before hurrying off without a word.
“They are humble,” Malachi said proudly, watching him go. “Work builds humility. Comfort breeds sin.”
I gave him my best thoughtful look, biting back the urge to mutter, “Yeah, and control breeds power.”
We followed the path uphill toward the largest structure I’d seen yet—a sprawling farmhouse with a wraparound porch and gleaming white columns.
Malachi’s house.
It stood out from the rest of the compound like a damn cathedral in a shantytown. The porch was clean, the steps freshly painted. The flowerbeds were tended, filled with lilies instead of vegetables. A pair of rocking chairs sat by the door, and I could see lace curtains through the windows.
He noticed my gaze and smiled, unbothered. “The Lord provides according to need,” he said smoothly. “As the Voice, I am tasked with welcoming guests and handling matters that require comfort and privacy. It would be unseemly to meet them in a dormitory.”
Translation: Yeah, I know it’s nice. That’s the point.
He motioned me toward the door. “Come, Jace. Let’s sit for a while. You must be thirsty.”
Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of lemons and furniture polish. It was another world compared to the dorms—ornate rugs, dark wood furniture, and paintings on the walls. Not a single trace of poverty anywhere.
Malachi moved with the ease of a man used to hosting. “Sit, please,” he said, gesturing toward a table in the sunlit kitchen. “I’ll fetch something refreshing.”
I took a seat, glancing around while he was busy at the counter.
A glass-front cabinet in the corner caught my eye.
Inside were crystal glasses and fine china.
There was a radio, too. I hadn’t seen one anywhere else in the compound.
On the far wall, a framed quote in gold script read: Obedience is freedom.
He returned with two glasses of pale yellow lemonade and set one in front of me. “Homemade,” he said proudly.
I took a sip—sweet, tart, almost too good. “Best I’ve had in a while,” I said, because it was true.
He smiled, settling across from me. “You strike me as a man searching for something, Jace.”
Ah, here it was—the pitch.
I leaned back in my chair, trying to look open but uncertain. “Maybe. Guess I’ve seen enough of the world to know I don’t really belong anywhere.”
Malachi nodded as though I’d passed some invisible test. “The world is not kind to the righteous. It tells men they are alone, that suffering has no purpose. But suffering is purpose. It burns away the weakness until only Light remains.”
He leaned forward, his voice lowering to an intimate, confiding tone. “You have that look about you—the mark of a man who’s been tested. Tell me, Jace—have you ever felt as though the pain in your life wasn’t meaningless after all? That perhaps it was guiding you here?”
He was good. His tone was warm, persuasive, practiced—precisely the kind that made vulnerable people start believing.
I hesitated just long enough to sell it. “Maybe. I don’t really know.”
“The Lord does not waste suffering. If He has led you here, it is because He intends to make you whole.”
I let a small, skeptical laugh slip out. “That sounds nice. But I’m not sure I’m the kind of person he’d be interested in fixing.”
“Oh, He is interested in all of us,” Malachi said, his tone almost tender. “Even the broken. Especially the broken. You don’t have to decide today. Just promise me you’ll think on it.”
It was smooth. Manipulative as hell, but smooth.
“I will,” I said quietly.
He smiled, a predatory glint hidden in his eyes. “Good. That’s all I ask.”
Yeah. The Bureau was right to be worried.