I should beg. Plead for my life. But it won’t do any good. Splinters dig into my bare feet as they drag me into the middle of the living room. The pinpricks of pain are enough to give me one final burst of strength they don’t expect, and I wrench my arms free, whirl around, and glare at the man about to murder me.
“You’re no prophet,” I hiss. “You’re a power-hungry, delusional asshole who made up some bullshit gospel because he needed to feel special.”
He snarls, wraps his hand around my throat, and squeezes until I can’t breathe. I claw at his fingers, drawing blood, but he only tightens his grip. “Swear again, and I’ll make your death ten times more painful. How would you like a hundred small cuts before the end, Nova?”
His fingers loosen, a challenge in his cold, brown eyes. I gasp and wheeze as he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at the blood welling on the back of his hand.
I’m beyond caring what he does to me. In minutes, nothing will matter ever again.
“What do I have left to lose, you piece of shit?” I ask, my voice rough, but strong. “I’ll still be dead. Your entire flock is going to hear how you kidnapped me because of a tattoo. That’s not religion. That’s a fucking coincidence!”
The slap sends me reeling right into Brother Malone. His scratchy wool coat against my bare arms makes my skin crawl.
“Prophet?” Sister Mary, Prophet’s youngest wife, slips into the room from the kitchen. “I finished braiding the ceremonial ties.”
In her pale fingers, she holds a length of white and gold rope with oleander flowers woven into the strands. She doesn’t look her husband in the eye, just sets the offering in his hands and backs away.
“Excellent. Where is my father with the wine?” Prophet asks.
Wine?
Prophet doesn’t allow his flock to drink anything but water, milk, and juice. No tea. No coffee. And certainly no alcohol.
Fear flickers over Sister Mary’s face briefly until Abe shuffles through the front door. He carries a cup of purple liquid in his aging hands.
“You’re late.” Prophet takes the glass from his father. “The rest is at the altar?”
Abe nods, his eyes meeting mine for a single moment before he pins his gaze to the floor.
Brother Malone grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back. The fingers of his free hand dig into the sides of my jaw.
No. God, no.
He’s going to drug me.
Prophet pours half the liquid into my mouth, then slaps his hand over my lips while Brother Malone pinches my nose.
Swallowing the bitter grape juice is just another in a long line of deaths. My freedom. My voice. My hope. When he gives me the rest, I don’t resist. Maybe…it’s better this way.
“How long will it take?” Prophet asks.
Abe swipes a tear from his cheek. “She’ll start to feel the effects almost immediately. After she drinks from the goblet at the altar, her heart will give out in less than ten minutes.”
Prophet turns back to me, and Abe mouths, “I’m sorry.”
My stomach cramps with such force, it steals my breath. The room starts to spin. “What…did you…give me?” I manage through clenched teeth.
“A concentrate of oleander nectar.” Smug satisfaction drips from Prophet’s every word. “The plants hide the flock’s land from view. They serve as our protectors. Their flowers led me to you. And now, they’ll speed your journey to the Glorious One.”
I can feel my heart skipping beats against my ribs. “You…fuck…ing…bast?—”
A wave of intense pain turns the world fuzzy. My legs tremble. How long until I can’t stand on my own? Until I don’t care? About anything?
Already, it’s getting harder to see. Black spots and bright, white halos float all around me.
Brother Malone spins me to face him, then ties my wrists with the braided rope. The scent of the blooms is so sweet I want to vomit. A flash of pure terror sends sweat breaking over my skin. No. Not again.
Thunder isn’t here. It’s not raining. I’m inside. Aren’t I? The white and gold are almost…pretty against my skin.
