27

Inside the cult’s main building was a big room, low-ceilinged. It was too dark to make out much detail, but it smelled musty, like old carpeting. Camp Jesus, frayed at the edges. Luc ignored the way his pulse pounded in his skull, doing his best to concentrate instead on getting them out of here alive. Squinting, he could make out crosses and prints on the walls. Rows of wooden chairs faced what must have been a sort of altar at the opposite end of the space.

This was it? The place where these people worshiped their angry god? Luc had never been much for religion, but he’d always felt a sort of awe in France’s cathedrals and ancient stone churches. This windowless space inspired nothing.

There were doors off to each side and a double set straight ahead, but Abby was already headed to the left. When she paused, he got close enough to stir her hair with his breath and whispered, “Open it. I’ll go in.”

She turned the knob and pulled, and he entered a room that felt immediately different. First of all, there was breathing.

A lot of breathing.

He could see enough to realize that there were people waiting here, together in one big space. It felt like a trap, like some demented surprise party.

Only…that was snoring, wasn’t it?

Somebody snuffled, a quiet, high-pitched, plaintive sound, and everything crystallized. All the kids were here. Not with their parents in those cozy-looking cabins, but here, in this big, cavernous space.

It smelled like…like urine, he realized. Diapers, maybe. Other things, too, that he couldn’t identify, but the entirety of it freaked him out like nothing had before.

They’re expecting the End of Days. And I’m beginning to think Isaiah would not be against bringing it about himself, if need be.

Abby’s words came back to hit him hard in the chest, and his instincts told him to back out.

That was when the voice whispered.

“Abby?”

His breath rushed out with equal parts fear and relief.

Abby responded from right beside him. “That you, Sammy?”

“You come to get me?”

“Yes. Come on. Let’s go.”

“Don’t wanna leave without my friends.”

Oh God, why did he have to say that? Why did he force this into a choice that they couldn’t possibly make?

There must be adults in here, right? Watching over all these children? Mon Dieu, how many of them were there, right now, hearing this conversation?

As his eyes adjusted, he barely made out a row of cots or pallets or mattresses, one after another, after another. What looked like cribs lined the far wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he didn’t know about this.

Babies.

He’d just opened his mouth to whisper that it was time to go when a voice cut in.

“Who’s there?” A woman.

“It’s Abby, Brigid,” said Abby. “Just here to get Sammy, and then I’m leaving.”

“Abigail? You ain’t takin’ nobody. I’m callin’ Isaiah and—”

“He’s sick, Brigid. You heard me tell Mama. You know he’ll—”

The woman made a strange, frantic sound.

Someone snuffled on the other side of the room, and another kid coughed. Abby whispered again, “It’s his only chance.”

Luc came up against something and stiffened. A person, who let out a bleat of a sound, and after a beat or two, he recognized it as Sammy. “Sammy, it’s Luc,” he whispered as quietly as he could.

“Who else’s here?” came the other woman’s voice, louder now.

“I brought a friend. To help.”

Harsh breathing told him where Brigid stood, and Luc wondered if he needed to subdue her. In the meantime, she spoke again, something different in her voice. “Take Jeremiah, too.” The words were electric, stopping them all in their tracks.

“What?” breathed Abby.

“Take him,” the woman said. “I won’t tell.”

Luc’s skin pebbled over with goose bumps. This whole thing was so wrong.

“We can’t take your baby, Brigid. He’d—”

“Just do it. Or I scream.” A rustling sound and footsteps, then she went on. “Here. He needs to see a doctor. And vaccinations. I want him to have those. You can”—she cleared a clogged-sounding throat—“you can say he’s yours.”

“No, I—”

“I’m beggin’ you. Please.” The last word came out more like a wail, and Luc cut in.

“Take the child, Abby,” he said, grabbing Sammy’s hand and pulling him toward the door.

A noise came from outside. A man’s voice, yelling, followed by another and the loud crunch of footsteps in the snow.

“Let’s go,” he said again, moving fast until he was stopped, midstep, by Brigid’s voice.

“Too late,” said Brigid. “Through that door. The Small Chapel.”

“No,” said Abby, her voice strange. “I won’t go in there.”

“Go.” Brigid pushed the group toward a door. “Out the back.”

“Come on, Abby,” Luc urged. He grabbed her arm and pulled. Reaching past Sammy, he found the door, twisted the knob, and they stumbled through. The door slammed shut behind them, cutting out all light and air.

Blind in the pitch black, he felt around for Abby and found her, child in her arms. “Which way?”

“I can’t, Luc. This is… Down this hall is the Small Chapel. It’s where they…” She shook as she spoke, and a shiver slid up his spine.

This place smelled of stale ashes. And fear.

He waited.

“I can’t go through that room. They hurt me there, Luc.”

“Okay, Abby. Okay. We stay here. Or we can turn back and bust our way out, if you want. I can do my Rambo impersonation.”

She didn’t speak for a second, and he stood, with Sammy breathing hard against him and the men’s voices getting louder next door. “Rambo? Is that a superhero?” she asked finally, and oh fuck, he wanted to kiss her. No, he wanted to marry this woman.

They started moving again, Abby leading them through a door, and putain, he could smell the ashes stronger in here. He almost gagged, not from disgust, but from anger. And another emotion, stronger, more protective. Some kind of instinct he’d never known he possessed, inexorably linked to this country and this woman.

Suddenly, Luc didn’t want to hide anymore. He wanted to tear through this place, swinging the ax he still held at his side, to knock them down like a goddamned Viking raider. And then he wanted to tear Isaiah apart. With his teeth.

Beside him, Abby whispered, breaking through the shimmering sheen of rage. “The exit’s right over there.”

Blinking, he moved, making sure the others were right where he could feel them. Their breathing was loud in his ears.

The fucking door wouldn’t open, and Luc felt around until he encountered a massive padlock. Behind them, a door slammed, and somewhere outside—hopefully not too far away—Luc thought he heard a siren.

“Step back.” He nudged the others to the side and hefted the ax, determined enough to chop through the lock on the first swing. A kick finished the job, and they were out in the fiery night.

* * *

Abby’s breath was loud in her ears when she spoke. “We can’t leave the children.”

Luc said, “I know.” He sounded resigned but certain. “This stops now.”

“I’ll go—”

“You take these two to the fence, and I’ll go back.”

“Okay.” She wanted to argue, but what was the point? Besides, if she could get Jeremiah and Sammy out, she could come back and—

Brigid appeared in the doorway along with several women, their arms full of groggy children, others dragged behind them. Her old adversary nodded at her once, and suddenly they were on the same team, aligned in their rejection of this life that had been forced on them. “This is all of them,” said Brigid.

On a rush of adrenaline and something that felt like love or pride, Abby turned to run. Behind them, something popped, and one of the children started to scream.

Pulse beating hard and fast in her throat, Abby pushed herself harder. From behind her came the loud pop and crash of the Center roof caving in. It smelled bad, like gas and…

A gunshot sounded out from not too far away, and Abby couldn’t even look. She refused to turn back, wouldn’t look behind her, because this baby in her arms, and all the others, depended on her to get them out. Smoke billowed out from behind them now, thick enough to choke her as she nearly fell. Gagging, she pulled her coat over Jeremiah’s face and ran faster.

Someone yelled—nothing but a disembodied voice in the blinding wreckage. He would have killed the babies, she thought over and over and over. Seconds more, and he’d have killed the babies. Who could possibly side with him after that? None of them would, right? Mama couldn’t possibly want to stay with that man?

They were close to the property line, the part where the fence was low enough to climb, when a shadow broke out from the trees and turned into a man. Benji, rifle in hand, blocked their way, and the scene was like something she’d lived before. Just days ago, but it could have been a different life.

“You going to shoot me, Benji?” she asked, slowing. “You planning to shoot your own son?”

Benji’s face turned strange enough to stop Abby in her tracks. He didn’t know. He hadn’t realized she held his baby under her coat. At first, she thought it was anger or disappointment, but when he dropped the rifle and moved toward her, his mouth open wide, expression a broken thing, she understood it for what it was: relief. He sobbed with it when he saw his boy, and had she been a different person today, she’d have let him take the baby.

Instead, she held on tighter, but when she moved to walk around him, he put out his hand to stop her.

“Stop your cryin’,” Brigid’s voice hissed from a few feet away. “You pick up that rifle, Benjamin Sipe, and make sure we get out of here alive. It’s your job to keep your boy safe. All of the kids, after what you let Isaiah turn this place into.”

Everyone stilled, except for Luc and Abby, who was pretty sure Benji had never had a woman speak to him like that before. But being less of an idiot than Abby had believed, he complied, picking up the rifle and looking to them for direction.

“Hold up the rear,” said Luc, the ax in his hand ten times more threatening than the firearm in Benji’s. But then again, he was ten times the man. Something like pride swelled in Abby’s chest.

An explosion from the Center sent them all running again, toward the fence. Finally, they made it to the truck.

Luc turned to Abby. “To my house?”

“We don’t know what it’s like up there.”

“I see lights. Probably fire engines. We’ll call the sheriff.”

They shoved the youngest children into the back and a couple of the bigger ones climbed in front with the babies. The others—adults and older kids—melted into the woods to continue on foot.

Up they went, staring out the windshield at where the reflection of emergency lights lit up the smoke and trees. One more bend and she’d see it: the destruction.

The sight knocked the breath out of her. It wasn’t just the vines they’d burned. It was the cabin. Luc’s home.

No. No, no, no. Over and over she thought it, but denial apparently didn’t work. How could it be this cold with that inferno raging outside?

“Fuck!” Luc muttered, along with some French words that didn’t sound nearly as pretty as usual. For a few dull-witted seconds, Abby watched him slam out of the truck and stalk to where Clay stood, a good distance from where the firefighters worked on the cabin.

It was no use. She knew it even as the people toiled, their blue and red lights ironically festive against the rock face above the barn, the only structure they’d left intact.

His home was a pile of destruction. Beyond it, a lighter cloud of smoke rose from the vines, the few surviving vines standing like eerie scarecrows in the dawn light.

She waited another beat or two in the shelter of the truck. This is because of me.

Even from this distance, Luc’s silhouette looked exhausted as he indicated the truck. Clay turned, his expression hard, and moved toward them. Around her, the kids stirred, antsy and crying now when their lives were no longer in immediate danger.

“We need to get you all into the barn, and I’ll call for backup.” Clay looked at Abby. “You get all the kids out?”

“Yes. But we need to drive back down for the others—they’re headed up on foot.”

“We’ll go.” Clay’s mouth tightened. He was no doubt beating himself up, although it wasn’t his fault either. He yelled for a deputy, and they called for reinforcements, sent someone down to pick up the others, and moved the group of refugees into the barn, which, if nothing else, was warm.

“You okay?” the sheriff asked her once everyone had been located and brought to safety.

“I think so.”

He looked at Luc, who nodded.

“We’ll get these people out of your hair as soon as we can. Someplace where the kids are safe and…” His phone rang, and he stepped away to answer it, running his fingers through his short hair.

Abby lifted a hand to Luc’s face—to wipe a smudge off, ostensibly, but really to touch him. To keep him to her, to apologize, to hold the pieces of him—of them—together. He looked wild and desperate. All she wanted was to make this right. How could she make this right? Down below, the men continued to fight the remaining flames.

“I’m sorry, Luc. I’ll help you. We’ll—”

“May I have a word, Luc?” It was Clay, sounding official, wanting to get to the bottom of everything. This was bad. It was all so bad. And what was happening next door?

On that thought, she was done. Done with it all. No more tolerance, acceptance be damned. What she felt was… Oh Lord, it was good. Pure. That amorphous guilt hardened like crystals, hot like the brightest spark, but calm and cool like the dingy snow lining the ground down below.

She stopped listening as the two men discussed the mess they’d find next door. Gesturing vaguely, she mumbled something about going to the bathroom and, instead, headed right for the door, then down the hill to the truck they’d driven up here. Rory’s truck, with its farm vehicle license plate.

Weird how she noticed the tiniest details right now.

It was an amazing fuel, rage. Stronger than anything she’d felt in her entire life, it propelled her to the truck, where the keys hung in the ignition. It helped her get it started on the first try.

Without headlights, she rolled down the hill, finally accelerating through the curve and pushing it harder when she heard the first shout behind her. Of course they’d yell. They’d follow her, too, she assumed, which meant she had to hurry the hell up.

Motherfucker, cocksucker, and all those other choice expressions she’d stored up in her time outside rose up, but none of them seemed right. None of them felt like the insult she intended.

God hater. That would be a fitting insult to the man who’d set out to destroy her. Infidel, she thought, hatred and hysteria filling her head with idiocies. Every last bit of emotion she’d denied over the past months—no, years—coalesced into a solid wall of fury, righteous enough to run down anything in its path. She’d kill Isaiah. That was it. The only fitting punishment for what he’d done. All the lives he’d ruined. The one he’d destroyed by burning those vines. And for what? To hurt her? To get her back?

From somewhere close by came another explosion, and from the direction of town, more emergency lights added to the fray, blue ones, along with sirens. It rocked the truck and left her half-deaf. She shook her head to clear it of an image of Mama dead, planted her foot on the accelerator, and shot down the mountain.

* * *

There was Denny, watching her as she drove up with eyes she couldn’t understand. He looked as charred as the wreckage of the Center. As destroyed as she felt, as she gagged on the smell.

On a moan, she shoved out of the car, bent over, and vomited, narrowly missing his dusty, black shoes.

When she lifted her head again, there were more of them—the men. They’d lost their self-righteous sheen, which she didn’t understand until it occurred to her: They don’t know the kids are out. She looked around. And their wives. They think they’ve killed their own wives. Oh, no wonder they were such burnt-out husks.

“You were willing to kill the babies but not yourselves?” she tried to scream, but it came out raspy and weak.

Betrayal hung in the air around them, coiling in oily layers, thicker than smoke. The memory of Jeremiah’s tiny, warm hands, the smell of his head as they bumped up the drive, made her push just a little more. They deserved the pain of not knowing.

And it might not be the Christian thing to do, but she wanted to punish these men. Every single one of them.

“I can’t believe we were ever family. Or friends,” she spat.

“Friends?” Isaiah’s voice broke in as he appeared as if by magic in a cloud of smoke. How could he remain so unmoved by the poisoned atmosphere?

His voice cut through the air, slick as Sunday morning. “You were only friends with these men insofar as Adam was friends with Eve. Or the snake.” He smirked, and Abby could see that snake clear as day, right here before her. “You think any of these men hold a torch for you? How many did you take liberties with? How many did you defile?”

The men shuffled awkwardly, but not one moved to defend her.

Slowly, Isaiah walked to the front of the group, his steps measured, theatrical. Good, she thought through painfully rushing breaths, come here so I can claw your eyes out. “God’s will is done on the mountain tonight. With the flame of His wrath, the balance is restored and the sinners shall be punished.”

“Are you kidding me? Sinners? Murderer!” she screamed and lunged for him, but the men stopped her, yanking at her arms. Trapped. Always trapped by this man and his vile army. “Who’s the sinner here, Isaiah? Me? I’m the sinner? Is that what you’re saying? What about the babies? You did your best to kill the babies!”

“It was their time.”

Through a half sob, half laugh, she spoke. “Oh? Was it? Well, then your God’s not as powerful as you thought, is he?”

“What are you talking about?” Isaiah’s step faltered. Oh good, she’d taken him aback.

The hold on her loosened, and she stood her ground. Ignoring his question, she let her voice grow stronger. “No more hurting children. I was fifteen years old when you gave me away. Who’s the sinner there? Me? Or you? Or the man old enough to be my grandfather? Oh, but he sinned in the end. Did you know that?

“I tried to take him away. Bet you didn’t know that either, huh? Tried to get him to a hospital at the end. He wouldn’t let me. Because of your stupid version of God, who would allow His most devout subject to suffer.”

“If it’s God’s will, what may we do but obey and—”

“God’s will!” she broke in with a choked laugh, not moving a muscle as Isaiah drew closer. “Oh, you think it was God’s will that Hamish died when he did? Did your God tell you that in one of your dreams? On one of your treks to your magic rock? Is that it, O fearless leader? You’ll be disappointed to learn that Hamish died by his own hand. Not your angry God.”

The men around her started to step back, her arguments widening the cracks in their conviction. She took in the horrified faces around her.

“You didn’t think I’d sit back and let another person suffer, did you? Oh no, I helped him put an end to his misery. Foxglove, it’s called. Such a pretty flower. And the best part? You chose it. Remember how you had us selling flowers at the market last summer? Remember those pretty purple flowers just so tall and graceful? Who’d ever think those sweet flowers could fell a grown man? ’Course, by the time he started begging for death, there wasn’t much left of Hamish.”

“You killed Hamish?”

“He killed himself.”

She gagged on the memory but forced herself to remain strong, knowing just how much this hurt him—this hateful Messiah. More folks arrived during her confession, gathering silently together in the lightening night. Behind her, she heard the sounds of vehicles approaching, saw the red and blue lights reflected on smoke, but it didn’t matter. Worse than killing Isaiah was embarrassing him in front of his men—his people. It would be all the vengeance she needed.

“What about the Mark, Isaiah? Is everybody here aware of what you and a few of the men did to me?” He took another step in her direction, this one furtive rather than self-assured, but she ignored him, turning in the glow of the headlights and unexpectedly catching her mama’s eyes.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her thoughts briefly scattered. “Oh, Mama, I was so afraid you were dead. I thought—”

“What are you doing?” her mother asked, looking horrified.

Abby forced herself to go still, not to rush to her mother. Instead, she studied her, trying to put the pieces of everything she knew and remembered together. The mother of her childhood, before this place; the woman standing in front of her now.

“Did you accept the Mark, Mama?” Abby impulsively asked.

No response.

“You did, right?”

Her mother nodded.

“Did you know they forced me? To take the Mark on my back? Over and over again?”

Abby wasn’t sure what she expected. Maybe some sort of acknowledgment that her mother hadn’t wanted this for her. What she got instead sent her back a step.

“You’re a wicked child,” her mama hissed. “Always been that way. Too curious by half.”

“He tell you he was gonna take me as his wife, Mama? Two wives for this man?”

Her mother blinked and glanced at Isaiah—at her husband.

“Didn’t know that, did you?”

The crowd parted as Abby made her way to her mother and grasped the older woman’s hand. “Did he tell you how he cut open my best Sunday dress to get to me, Mama?”

Behind her, people whispered. From farther off came the sound of footsteps in gravel, but no one interrupted. “My back…here.” Turning, she urged Mama’s hand up the back of her coat and shirt, to where the ridges of her shame resided like braille, the letters scabbed up beneath her fingertips. “You feel that? I didn’t want it, so I got it tenfold. All over my back. You think God wanted that, too? Huh?”

“Oh, I knew all about it,” spat Mama, pulling away and shocking the words right out of Abby’s mouth. “You think Isaiah’s the one who gave you to Hamish? You think he’s the one who hears God?” Her gaze swung around to take in the crowd, her body vibrating. Everyone was still. “Isaiah may be God’s tool on this mountain, his mouthpiece, but I am the eyes and ears. Only God told me the people wouldn’t heed the word of a woman.” As she leaned toward Abby, the words came low and vicious. “If he’d let me, I’d have marked you every day of your life, you vile, wicked child. Defiled and rotten to the core. With a father like yours, I’d have—”

“Were you the one who ordered the children killed, too, Mama?”

Silence.

“Lord, I knew you lot had this place rigged to blow, but I didn’t think you’d do it.” She threw an accusatory look at the crowd behind her. “You all let him do it?”

Someone in the crowd said an outraged No! and people moved, the tide changing. From out of the murmuring came a woman’s voice.

It was Brigid. Lord only knew how she’d gotten back down here so fast. “The children are fine.” To the side, behind the men, Brigid stood stiff, her skin black with soot, her chin held high. She met Abby’s gaze with a burning one of her own, and a strange sort of sisterhood bloomed between them.

Isaiah jolted, a look of sheer surprise on his face. It would have been comical if this weren’t such a tragedy.

“She helped us get them out in time.” Brigid’s attention moved from Abby to Isaiah. “You could hurt anyone else you wanted, Isaiah. I’d take it, for the sake of our Lord and Savior. But I couldn’t let you hurt the babies.” She looked around the crowd, her eyes soft and sad. “We’ve all been defiled here, ain’t we? I never did like Abigail, but she’s right. God surely don’t want the babies to suffer. So we got ’em out. While you men were guardin’ your perimeter, us women saved the babies.”

Isaiah was livid. “You’re just worried about your own child, aren’t you, Brigid? Always—”

“Yours, you mean?” she responded, and everyone stopped.

Benji, mouth open, turned between his wife and his leader, looking lost.

Isaiah spoke. “Listen, Brigid, you’re—”

She spun toward Abby. “You think you had it bad with Hamish? I was thirteen when Isaiah started making me do things. For God, he told me, over and over. Then he got me with child and used Benji to cover it up.”

“Oh, Brigid,” whispered Abby, but the woman wasn’t done.

“I let you destroy my childhood,” she continued, focused back on Isaiah. “But you won’t destroy another child’s. I’ll kill you first. And, lucky for us all, Jeremiah’s not yours.”

“This is the Blackwood Sheriff’s Department.” Clay’s voice came over a loudspeaker, breaking the group apart. “I need you all to put your weapons down.”

Slowly, the men complied, setting down their rifles. All but Isaiah.

The crowd shifted again, and from out of the fog came the crunch of footsteps. A glance to the side showed Clay and his deputies, Luc with them, weapons raised.

“I want to see hands,” Clay yelled.

A sea of hands rose into the air, the men and women backing away from Isaiah.

Minutes passed, punctuated by the sound of walking on gravel, men and women switching sides, leaving just Abby, Brigid, Isaiah, and Mama.

“You, too, sir,” said Clay.

Silence.

“I want him to suffer,” said Abby.

“He’ll suffer in prison.”

“I want to press charges.”

Clay was a few steps away now, where Luc also stood.

“You can do that. But you don’t need to.”

“Against her, too. My mother.” She stared hard at the woman who was supposed to protect her and had instead thrown her to the wolves. “For whatever you’d call branding a woman against her will.”

“I believe I’d like to do the same,” Brigid said at Abby’s side; her voice was strong. Her eyes held Abby’s for a few moments as they waited for what came next.

“Yes, ma’am.” The footsteps crunched closer, and with a new energy, Abby watched Clay move—flanked by deputies—to Isaiah, who surrendered his shotgun. He looked small and scared facing off against someone he couldn’t bully. “Isaiah Bowden, you are under arrest for arson, assault, and battery…” Clay recited a litany as he led the man away.

With one last, long look at her mother, Abby turned her back on the only family she’d ever had and headed into a future that she couldn’t possibly begin to imagine.