He heads into the kitchen to make some hot tea—Roman’s penchant for herbal tea has rubbed off on him—and throw together some food. A few minutes later, we’re all presented with steaming mugs of tea before he strolls back into the kitchen. Within minutes, wonderful scents fill the air as Cain works. He’s grilling chicken and slicing vegetables, then throwing it all into some large tortilla wraps.
Poor Roman is still on blended foods. He looks like he wants to throw the protein shake against the wall.
Cain returns with a couple of burritos. “Hope you’re not vegetarian,” he says, handing one to Daisy. “I probably should have asked.”
She seems wary of him, but she’s also too thin and takes the meal eagerly. “Thank you for your kindness,” she says.
“Of course.”
I realize I haven’t explained to Daisy who Cain is.
“Daisy, do you remember me talking about my life before I came to the cult?” It was something I’d done very rarely. I’d always tried to block out memories of my life before, becausethey were too painful, but occasionally they slipped out. “Do you remember me telling you about my best friend, the boy I used to build dams with in the river?”
She nods around a mouthful of burrito. Her eyes widen as she chews, and I smile at that. She’s clearly enjoying the food an awful lot, and why wouldn’t she? We never got such tasty meals in the compound, and Cain is a good cook.
“Well, Cain is that boy from my childhood.”
Daisy’s eyebrows lift and her gaze goes up and down Cain’s massive form.
I chuckle, sensing what she’s thinking. “Yeah, he’s all grown up now.”
Cain throws me a wink, and I smile back.
Daisy swallows, her gaze flicking between us. “And what about the other two?”
“They’re both Cain’s friends.” I leave out the part about them being known as the Preachers, and I definitely don’t want Daisy to learn about the masks or the magic. It’ll completely freak her out, and she’ll probably go running back to the cult. “That’s Malachi,” I introduce, “and this is Roman.”
“What happened to your face?” she asks Roman.
I bite the inside of my mouth and answer for him. “My father happened.”
“What?” she exclaims.
“It’s a long story, and I think yours is probably more important.”
Cain takes a seat and rests his forearms on his thick thighs. “First things first, how long have we got?” he asks Daisy. “By that, I mean when is this mass suicide supposed to happen?”
“At dawn in three days’ time. The ascension is to happen at sunrise.”
“Does that give us enough time to get there?”
“If you have a vehicle. I walked and hitchhiked most of the way, so you’ll have time.”
“You hitchhiked?” I say. “Daisy, that was so dangerous.”
“I realize that, but what choice did I have? It was dangerous to hitchhike, but it was even more dangerous to stay at the commune. You understand that?”
I do. I know exactly how she felt, too. That fear of running, but equal fear of staying. That constant need to look over your shoulder, that mistrust of everyone around you, in case they recognize where you’re from and decide to take you back.
“You were very brave.” I offer her a smile.
She smiles back. “I learned from the best.”
I pull her in and hug her.
As much as I love being here with the guys, and also how the other girls here—Camile, Vani and Mackenzie—have made me welcome, it still feels good to have someone from my world with us. Daisy understands my history in a way no one else can, no matter how hard they try.
I still haven’t told the Preachers about the other part of what Daisy said. I need to, but I’m scared. They’re going to say the one thing I don’t want to hear—that my dad was responsible for handing me over to the Prophet. I can’t bring myself to believe that, though. I get that he’s made mistakes—and looking at poor Roman’s face, they were some huge sized mistakes—but would he really have handed me over to the Prophet? He knew what that would do to my mom. It almost destroyed her. When I think back to the joy and relief he’d demonstrated upon my return, I just can’t see that being the reaction of a man who knew where his daughter was this whole time. He’d literally fallen to his knees and cried. Men in my father’s position don’t show their emotions easily, but that day he’d dropped all pretenses.
