Prophet crosses the flames with a large wicker basket. He reaches inside and grabs a handful of oleander blooms, then scatters them over my feet. Time and time again, he does this until my entire body is covered with them. Then he slides his hand under my neck, lifts my head slightly, and forces me to drink the rest of the poison.
Before he can add more blooms to the altar, a low, dark sound starts rumbling all around me.
The flock’s chanting turns to shouts. The lanterns sway in the breeze. This is it. I’m going to die. He’ll slit my throat in seconds.
But then…his gray silhouette disappears. I try to follow him with my eyes, but I can’t see past the flames.
Something’s wrong. Or…maybe something’s right. My stomach cramps, and I start to retch. I turn my head and vomit, sour bile and the bitter, choking taste of oleander and grape juice.
I don’t stop until there’s nothing left. The cramps start to fade. My head clears just enough for me to think. To see.
Warm fingers cover mine. “Use this,” a voice whispers, and presses something cool and hard into my palm. But then the warmth disappears, and I wonder if I imagined it. Except…I can feel the thing. Oh, God. It’s a pocket knife.
On the other side of the flames, I can see them now. Prophet and Jefe. They shout at one another, barbs landing like hard stones. I can’t make out the words, but they’re loud enough to hurt. Brother Malone steps in, trying to mediate, but one of Jefe’s men fires a shot into the air. Everyone takes a step back immediately.
This is it. This is what AJ was talking about.
Focus, Grace.
I pry the blade open with shaking fingers and jam the tip between the strands of rope. My arms are as heavy as lead. The knife scrapes and cuts my palms. Each pull threatens to shatter me, but the first strand finally snaps.
I clench my teeth and saw faster. My shoulders scream. My chest is raw, my lungs burning, and for a moment, I’m not sure I can go on. Until the ropes give way. I struggle to sit up, to focus on the ties holding my ankles down. These are thinner, and they snap in seconds.
I roll sideways. The world tilts, stars blooming at the edges of my vision. And then I fall. Off the altar and onto the hard-packed earth behind it. The heat from the moat scorches my back, but I’m so weak, I can barely move.
Shots snap like dry branches. The sound makes my blood run cold, even though my shoulders are about to blister.
Prophet moves like a feral animal. He leaps the flames, rolls over the altar like an action movie star, and wraps his hand in my hair. “You cannot escape your fate, Nova! You are mine!”
Hauling me to my feet, he pins my arms to my sides and presses a knife to my throat.
“I will have my salvation! The Glorious One will show me the way to eternal life once your blood has soaked his holy altar.”
I still have the cheap pocket knife in my hand. There’s no strategy. No brilliant plan. Only me, a three-inch blade, and a desperate, animalistic need to survive.
I drive it backward, aiming for anything that might cause him pain. It sinks into his thigh. Warmth spurts over my palm. A hoarse sound spills out of him. But he doesn’t let go.
His blood soaks into the back of my dress. But it’s not enough. He’s still standing. Still pulling me closer to the altar.
“Grace!”
The sound of AJ’s voice is a lifeline. I grab onto it, hold it tight, and pray.
Chapter Eighty-Three
AJ
“Grace!”
I press myself flat against one of those goddamn poles Grace drew time and time again. The lanterns overhead swing wildly in the breeze. Connor, Hardison, and Jasper are fanned out around the altar. We all agreed. Unless there’s no other choice, Prophet is mine.
The bastard still has the knife held to Grace’s throat. If I make a move, he’ll use it, and she’ll bleed out in seconds.
Sweat beads on her skin. Her muscles tremble so violently with the simple act of holding herself upright, I’m afraid she’ll impale herself on the blade before he gets the chance to kill her.
One wrong move, one twitch, and it’s over.
Jefe has half a dozen of Prophet’s men tangled up in some twisted dance of chaos. Shots ring out. Cartel and cult members alike fall.
