CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was time. The Disciple had done her job. She had run her race. She had finished her terrible course. She carried no crowns to lay at her Lord’s feet, but she had accomplished His will all the same. Now she had only one task left.
“I don’t want to,” she whispered, throat constricting. “I don’t want to. God, please, please, please, I don’t want to.”
The Lawgiver’s words echoed in her mind. What you want is irrelevant. Only His will matters.
“I don’t want to,” she hissed again. “Please, please, please.”
She fell forward, her forehead resting on the ground, tears falling from her eyes, mixing with snot dribbling from her nose and smearing her lips as she prayed one final time for this cup to pass from her.
But it wouldn’t. It was the cup she’d been given. She would drink it. Not my will but thine be done.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to her feet. She looked at the knife, reached for it, then stopped. No. Not like this. If she did it like this, then others would take the wrong message. They would be inspired by her. That wasn’t the point of this task.
She needed to do it the right way so that people would see her and know that she was accepting the just punishment for her sins.
She picked the knife up anyway, not to use it but to wonder at it. A vicious, cruel thing. Used for sacrifice, it was holy, but its intended purpose wasn't sacrifice, but murder. It was a tool created by human beings to take a precious human life.
And such a small tool too. Humanity had perfected the art of murder, carried it to unbelievable extremes.
Atom bombs that could level cities. Aircraft that could deliver death anywhere on the globe in a matter of hours.
Humanity had such skill, such potential, and they wasted it on this. The taking of life.
A twitch pulsed through her. She knew why. She understood all too well the deep, visceral pleasure that came with the taking of a life. That was why she must die. Satan had corrupted life, made its cessation exquisite, lent its taking a pleasure too great to describe.
She would kill again. Not for God. Not to complete this task. No.
She would kill to feel that culmination, that climax, that moment when the heart pressed against the tip of her blade, hung suspended on the edge of life and death, then burst open. She would kill to experience that pleasure that was greater by far than any pleasure a man had ever afforded her.
The Disciple understood now, knew why it had to be this way.
The Lawgiver was wise when he told her that her last act must be to carry out her own judgment.
He saw the wickedness of her heart and knew that it could be directed to perform God’s will for a short time but would eventually become too great for her to resist. That temptation would give the Devil access and warp her gift into something wicked and ugly.
She placed the knife back in its place next to the whetstone and the journal, within which was the Lawgiver's last letter to her, along with her own thoughts, since this cup was handed to her. She looked at it lovingly one last time, then covered it with the floorboard.
She felt another shift with that action completed.
She blinked and frowned at the board. She had closed another life away inside there.
The Disciple had died. Emily Warren now stared in confusion at that memory and wondered why she was going to kill herself over the actions another woman took while in possession of her body.
But Emily Warren also knew it wasn’t another woman. It was her. Had been her the whole time. She had created the Disciple because she needed to in order to have the strength to accomplish God’s will, but she was always the one responsible.
So, she closed her eyes and prayed until the shift faded. Then she got to her feet and left for her final judgment.