38
“And so did the devil fall to the Savior’s righteous light, banished for eternity to the dark lands below.
But his unholy influence lingered in the hearts of man, corrupting those who once were pure.
Seeing the devil’s fall, the Savior decreed such: that those who caused harm to their brothers and sisters would bear the marks of their sins, and so would be judged for their misdeeds when they presented themselves at the gates to paradise. ”
My aim is good.
The bullet enters through the side of Gabriel’s skull, forcing him to stumble back from Slade and the altar. In the dim light, his blood looks as black as his brother’s.
Gabriel’s eyes snap up to meet mine. They’re full of stunned disbelief.
The rest of the room follows his gaze, turning in my direction.
Though I can’t see their faces, their collective shock and horror is like a lead blanket cast over the space.
Slade is the only one who doesn’t move; he continues to lie supine atop the altar, his chest rising and falling in a shallow rhythm, his face ashen.
Onyx blood covers him, surrounds him, mingling with the leftover red.
But I can’t afford to give him more than a cursory glance. I’m focused on Gabriel, who appears to have collected himself, steady on his feet. Gabriel, who should have crumpled to the ground long before now.
Gabriel, who reaches into the side of his head and plucks out the bullet.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t grimace. He lets the small bit of metal fall to the ground with an expression of vague disgust, his fingers coated in a familiar dark substance. The same substance that coats his robe, his sash, his too-handsome face. A hush falls over the room.
Gabriel’s eyes never drop from mine. The look in them is damning. Not just angry, but…pained. Despite everything, despite all the lies he told me, he truly believed I was on his side. I can see it in his face.
“You weren’t supposed to be here yet,” he says, almost inaudible.
“Did you honestly think I would just sit around waiting for you?” I fire back. He doesn’t respond. “You’re a diabolist.” I continue, quietly at first, testing the words as I let my gun drop to my side. It might as well be useless now. “You’re a fucking diabolist. You.”
This time I say it loudly enough that it rings through the entire sanctuary. And then—maybe because I don’t know what else to do—I start to laugh.
It’s not my normal laugh. It sounds strained, too high-pitched, tinged with mania.
Because I’m well and truly dead now, but at least I exposed him in the process.
The prodigal son. The Regiment’s hero. The people’s prophet.
I always knew he was a liar, but not like this.
Never like this. Even Slade didn’t know the truth about his brother.
Did he?
I know this is the end for me. I’ve ruined everything, and I’ll pay for it one way or another. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past three years, it’s that Gabriel holds one hell of a grudge.
A few of the hooded figures have risen to their feet, looking between the two of us.
No doubt they’re Regiment agents trying to decide how to proceed.
Will they attempt to restrain their former prophet, knowing what he is?
Or will they let him run? Because those are Gabriel’s only options: run or fight.
And if he chooses the latter, I’m not sure anyone will make it out of this building alive.
My laugher ebbs, turning to expectation as I wait for Gabriel to make his move. I see the moment when he makes his decision. The pain and betrayal evaporate from his gaze as it turns to steel, and I inherently know I’m not going to like whatever happens next.
He lets his hands fall to his sides, spreading his fingers wide and tilting his face to the ceiling.
His eyes are closed, his jaw slack. Something like consternation twists his features, becoming awe.
He’s perfectly still, and everyone else in the room freezes with him.
Even now, he effortlessly commands their attention.
Then, suddenly, those blue eyes fly open. He takes a deep, shuddering inhale, scanning the room as if seeing it for the first time.
“A miracle,” he whispers, touching his fingertips to the side of his head.
“The Savior has chosen once again to protect me. My work here on earth is not done—my purpose remains unfulfilled. I have been healed by His glorification.” Gabriel’s voice is breathy.
Awestruck. Tears dampen his cheeks, and he crosses his arms over his heart in the sign of the Savior. “I am renewed.”
I scoff. I can’t help it. It’s so absurd, so melodramatic, so utterly preposterous, I can’t imagine how he thinks anyone will buy it. It’s too late for him to save face. Everyone here has seen with their own eyes what he is. They saw the color of his blood.
But they’re not descending on him.
I think my body knows what’s about to happen before my brain does, because I automatically take a few steps back. It’s too late—Gabriel flings a finger in my direction, pointing at me like the Savior himself preparing to exact divine justice.
“Talin Keller,” he says softly, my name a judgment in and of itself.
“I suppose this is the danger of letting sinners into our midst. Did you truly think you would get away with it? That you would not be indicted for your crimes?” He places a hand over his heart, nodding at one of the cultists.
“Commander Witmer: In the name of our great Savior, arrest her for her crimes. By raising a hand against me, she has committed the ultimate act of betrayal. I can only thank the Savior for His miracle of mercy, and can only thank Him for seeing it fit to save my life.”
A few of the robed figures throw back their hoods.
The one who must be Commander Witmer is a large man in his mid-forties.
Alongside him are two men and a woman, both flinty-eyed and severe-looking in the way I’ve come to expect from Regiment agents.
They approach me with weapons raised, having drawn them from the folds of their robes, and Witmer snarls at me to drop my own gun.
I do. There’s nowhere to run, no reason to fight. But my mouth doesn’t quite seem to have gotten the message as they shackle my wrists behind my back.
“Are you really buying this charade?” I spit the words into Witmer’s impassive face.
He looks like the definition of a stereotypical military commander: a graying buzz cut, thick mustache, and frown lines between his brows.
He appears nonplussed by my question, but I go on.
“You know what he is—you saw it. You just don’t want to believe it.
Or did you already know? Is this the kind of joke the Regiment has turned into?
Lying to its citizens, concocting a plan to manipulate them, all while worshipping a diabolist who fancies himself a prophet? ”
Witmer doesn’t say a single word. Instead he slaps me hard across the face, the force of it enough that my head snaps to the side.
The sting of it is disorienting, and I’ve scarcely had time to process what’s happened when the commander’s coldly satisfied expression disappears from my line of sight.
I blink hard as Witmer is slammed to the floor. Somehow, impossibly, Slade is on top of him, his tattooed hands around the other man’s throat.
“Don’t you fucking touch her,” he snarls hoarsely.
I can see the muscles of his arms quivering with the effort it takes him to put pressure on Witmer’s neck, but he doesn’t let up.
“You hurt her, and there is nothing that will stop me from killing you. I’ll make it my life’s sole mission to watch the light leave your fucking eyes. ”
“Slade!” I snap. The last thing I want is him trying to protect me. I wonder if he’d even bother, if he knew what I’d been planning.
Everything happens very quickly, though to me the seconds feel like a small eternity.
Witmer’s face is turning a ghastly shade of purple.
Gabriel is shouting instructions. The other Regiment agents leap at Slade, attempting to wrench him away from their commander, save the female who maintains a death grip on my upper arm to hold me in place.
It takes me a beat to process the fact that Gabriel’s bellowed command was a name: Another cultist hurries forth, hood falling back in the process to reveal shoulder-length brown hair.
She’s procured a syringe from somewhere, and I freeze in horror as she jabs it carelessly into Slade’s neck, depressing the plunger in one rapid motion.
A Regiment scholar, no doubt. I think I utter a curse, or maybe I say Slade’s name again.
I don’t know what he was thinking. I don’t know how he mustered the effort to rise from the altar given the state he’s in.
The entirety of his torso is still a mess of partially healed wounds, his scarred, tattooed skin stained with tar-like blood.
Whatever he was injected with does the trick though.
Slade lets out a growl like a wounded beast, spitting a mouthful of blood at the scholar as he twitches and writhes, trying to stay upright while maintaining his grip on Witmer.
It’s no use—the agents manage to subdue him, one of them putting a bullet in the middle of his back.
I feel sick, even though I once did the very same thing. I don’t like seeing him hurt this way. I want to be the only one to make him bleed. I want anyone else who has raised a hand against him to suffer.
Maybe Slade was right, and that isn’t love at all. Maybe it’s obsession.
Witmer staggers, coughing, back to his feet. His face is no longer impassive—it’s red and furious. He shoves me up against the wall with enough force that the air rushes out of my lungs, tossing a grunted “Search her” at the female agent.
My face is pressed against wood paneling as her hands roam my back, my chest, my waistline. I feel her dip into my pocket and know without looking that she’s withdrawn the package of matches. She tosses it to Witmer, who in turn shows it to Gabriel.
The Prophet’s lip curls. I watch him glance at Slade, then back to me, an unfamiliar ugliness in his expression. It looks almost like jealousy. Something solidifies in his flinty gaze, and I know before he speaks that he’s made another decision.
“Wait,” he barks. The agents all freeze. “Keller will be indicted not only for her crimes against me, but for her historical offenses as well.”
My heart seems to stop. This can’t be happening. A few feet away, Slade struggles futilely against the men and women restraining him, his teeth bared, the tendons in his neck and arms standing out. All of his focus is trained on his brother.
Gabriel smiles at me, and it isn’t a nice smile.
It’s the kind of smile that says, You’re fucked.
“People often marvel at how far along you are in the Bloodrot, don’t they?
It’s quite unbelievable given your fairly young age.
” He plucks the packet of matches from Witmer’s fingers, raising it in front of my stricken face.
“But you have a penchant for fire, don’t you, Miss Keller?
You came here tonight intending to burn this place down.
You knew it would work, didn’t you? Because you’ve done it before. ”
“Don’t,” I say without moving my lips. “You promised, Gabriel.”
He shrugs, looking falsely crestfallen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.
I only just received this information today.
I didn’t want to believe it was true, but this”—he waggles the matches back and forth—“suggests a pattern. Besides, what other explanation could there be for the way the Bloodrot has ravaged your body? One person is not more susceptible to it than the next. For someone to look the way you do, they would have had to kill many, many people. Perhaps even dozens at a time.”
I’m shaking my head, trying to back away and getting nowhere. Because there’s nowhere else to go, is there? Realistically, I knew it was only a matter of time before this happened. I knew that the moment I acted outside of Gabriel’s wishes, I was screwed.
The Prophet looks down his nose at me. He’s calm as ever as he unleashes the very words I’ve been dreading for the past three years.
“Talin Keller, you will be indicted for mass murder of seventy-three Solemn Apostles.”