And then the silence crushes me.
Prophet turns his gaze to me, his eyes burning with a kind of devotion that makes my skin crawl.
“It’s time to prepare for the ceremony.”
“Wh…?” It’s too early. If he’s waiting for the full moon…it’s tomorrow.
The door creaks open. A cleric stands in the hallway, his arms crossed over his chest. One of Prophet’s wives enters, her dark pink dress brushing her toes and a bundle of white fabric in her hands. A dress. Silk. Plain. Like the one I was found in.
“Strip,” Prophet orders. “The rags of your old life sully the purity the Glorious One demands. Put on the dress, then lie down on the bed.” His smile sharpens. “If you refuse, Brother Vincent will help you.”
My hands shake so violently, I can’t grip the hem of my pajama top. But all it takes is one step by Brother Vincent and I force myself to work the buttons open.
I peel my clothes off, a piece at a time. Each one hits the floor like a blow. My skin prickles with shame as I drag the dress over my head.
It fits so well, it’s like it was made for me.
Because it was.
I lie on the bed, braced for him to tie me down. Or drag me into the darkness and bind me to the altar. My breath catches with each shift of his shadow.
He snaps his fingers. One by one, his wives rush in, silent, their arms loaded down with flowers. Oleanders.
Prophet arranges them himself. Carefully. Deliberately. As though he’s building a shrine. The air thickens with their cloying sweetness until every breath scorches my throat. Until the weight of the scent presses down on my chest. Until I can’t breathe without choking.
He smooths a hand over the blooms near my hip, almost tenderly. “Blessed night, Nova,” he murmurs. “Sleep well. Tomorrow you will ascend in glory and fulfill the destiny the Glorious One has chosen.”
The door slams shut. The locks thunk.
I sob until my body shakes, until there’s nothing left but raw sound. Rage claws its way up next, jagged and wild. But too soon, my strength is gone, leaving only silence and the suffocating sweetness of oleander.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
AJ
The forest smells like pine and damp earth. Any other time, it’d be refreshing. But now…it’s nothing but the scent of a fresh grave.
Static crackles over comms. The reception out here is shit, but the tech Pritchard sent is straight out of a Tom Clancy fever dream. Four tactical drones, enough firepower to blow up a small city, and a satellite hub to connect us to Zephyr. God only knows how he managed to get the two large crates to Odessa so fast.
Connor finishes dragging the last of the camo netting over the three ATVs behind us. This is as close as we dare get to the compound. Here, the trees hide us from view, but less than a quarter mile away, it’s nothing but open prairie with the occasional weeping willow or oak. Nowhere to hide.
The glow of the drone’s monitor paints Hardison’s face in a ghostly green light, making his hard angles even sharper.
“If you don’t slow down,” Zephyr says, her voice whisper-quiet in our ears, “they’re going to spot the drone and this whole operation goes sideways.”
“I am going slow,” Hardison mutters. “This is me out for a Sunday drive.”
The sound she makes is something between a snort and a laugh. “Hardly. I’m taking over, Nate.”
He throws his hands up. “Oh sure, by all means. Just remember, when you crash it, I get to say ‘I told you so.’”
“Here we go,” Zephyr says. “Two sentries on the northwest and northeast towers. They’ve got AKs. Plus floodlights. Good ones. You try to approach on foot, they’ll pick you off from half a mile away.”
“Fuck. Check out the south side.” I stop pacing to peer over Hardison’s shoulder.
“Where do you think I’m going next? Patience, grasshopper.”
I ball my hands into fists.
