The masses have assembled, each one of them aching for a show—the sort only their Prophet can provide. I check with Tony on the final preparations for the bonfire, then head toward the main pavilion.

The snow white line of Maidens at the front draws my eye, and I focus on Delilah. She looks straight ahead, but she’s not there. Lost in thought, she doesn’t see me approach. I stride onto the pavilion steps and tilt my chin at Noah who leans against the support post at the side. My father will make his grand entry there and greet his fans with an enthusiastic—and hopefully brief—Christmas Eve message.

Grace and a host of Spinners wait on the other side of the pavilion, their eyes on the Maidens.

A few churchgoers who don’t know any better greet me with handshakes and smiles. I return them, but something always dies in their eyes once they get a closer look at mine. Good.

I sidle over to Noah. “Ready to get going?”

“Yeah. I want to see some shit burn.”

I don’t comment on the whiskey on his breath. There’s no point. And, given our circumstances, I don’t blame him.

I focus my attention on Delilah, her veil hiding most of her profile from me. I want to rip that stupid bit of lace away and study her, see what’s going on inside. But I’m kidding myself. She keeps secrets from me—ones I’ll get out of her in time.

“Here we go.” Noah jerks his chin as my father appears at the side of the pavilion, a broad smile on his face.

“Welcome!” His voice booms as he shakes hands and manages to kiss a baby on his way to the podium.

Applause spreads through the pavilions until the din rises into the sky and dies far short of heaven. Dad casts a glance at the Maidens, then turns to address the crowd. Just holding up one of his hands stops the roar of appreciation. The big-screen TVs flicker on in each of the pavilions, my father’s face smiling down at all of Heavenly Ministries—including locations all over the United States and the world. Cameramen disperse through the crowd, shooting the happy churchgoers to beam into the homes of the faithful. I stifle an eye roll.

“My sacred children, welcome!”

Another roar from the sycophants tramples the air. Movement behind my father draws my eye. My mother moves silently, her head down, her face covered with a black veil.

“Hey.” I elbow Noah.

He looks and stiffens. “Does she seem okay?”

She walks with her usual limp, but nothing else seems amiss. Castro is at her side, his beady eyes surveying the crowd as he helps her to a black chair far to the side of the podium. He doesn’t manhandle her the same way he does in my father’s presence. I ignore this detail and focus on the fact that several goons are missing.

“Where are the rest?” I scan the area for my mother’s usual guards, but I can’t see them.

Noah stops leaning against the pillar. “They have to be here somewhere, but I don’t see them.”

My thoughts fire in rapid succession, creating a plan. Once the bonfire is going, all eyes will be on the flames.

I edge closer to Noah. “We can get her out this time.”

His eyes widen. “We can’t.”

“We can. I’ll take care of Castro. You grab her. I’ll grab Delilah.”

He glances around. “There’s too many people.”

“We wait until they’re dismissed.” I try to think ahead, to plan each step and take into account what happens when shit goes south. Our chances of success are slim—but if there’s a possibility I can save my mother and Delilah from my father’s cruelty, I have to try. “Then we make our move. If it’s just Castro, we can do this.” Other Protectors are sprinkled in the crowd, but I’ll do whatever I have to if that means freedom. “I’ll clear a path for us. But I need you onboard. All right?”

A memory of the last time flits through my vision. He agreed then, and we almost made it out. But that ‘almost’ led to some of the oldest scars on my back and our mother’s broken leg. He’s replaying it, too. I can tell from the way he tenses.

“Noah, we can do this, okay? This time—”

“This time what?” He keeps his voice low, but there’s anger in it. “We won’t get busted? Mom won’t get tortured right in front of us?”

I’m losing him. Fuck. Desperation dries my throat, and I swallow hard. “Noah, I can’t do this without you. We have to work together—”

“No way. Castro will kill her before you get the chance to do anything. And what about Dad?” His eyes burn into mine, as if he already knows my plans for our father. And maybe he does.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll do what I have to do.”

“No.” He shakes his head minutely. “I won’t risk Mom.”

“Noah—”

“I said no!” Noah’s yell catches too much attention.

I step away from him as eyes turn toward us, and my father stops in the middle of whatever nonsense he’s spouting. He casts me a glare, then replaces it with his usual smile before continuing. Eventually, people stop looking and the crowd begins to hum amongst themselves.

Noah crosses his arms over his chest. I’ve lost him. Either to whiskey, his fear, or his delusions about our father. Disappointment slams me back to earth, my plans disappearing like fog under the harsh light of day. Even now, I can’t blame Noah, can’t seem to convict him for his treason, because I truly believe that he just can’t fucking help it. That knowledge doesn’t ease my desire to make a move against my father, but it certainly crushes any chances of success. Even so, I keep an eye on my mother, always alert for an opportunity to end this nightmare for all of us.

My father steps onto the podium. “We are blessed to be here to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior. He is the reason for this season of giving and love. He is the salvation that leads us through this life and into the next. Just as you believe in me, you must believe in Him, for God has anointed us both—one as His son and another as his holy prophet.”

More clapping erupts, along with hallelujahs shouted here and there.

Half a dozen men walk past us, the rest of my father’s guard contingent, and take position along the rail next to my mother.

Noah glances at me, but I don’t look at him. Whatever “I told you so” he’s trying to convey can’t erase his cowardice for refusing to even try for freedom. I may not blame him for it, but I won’t forget it.

My father drones on for another ten minutes or so as I scan the crowd, my gaze always drawn back to Delilah. She’s covered in white from head to toe—the picture of modesty. But that won’t last. The night is young, and the Prophet will show his lambs to their best advantage.

My hackles rise as the senator from earlier walks along the far aisle, his gaze sweeping over the row of Maidens and landing unerringly on Delilah. He stops just behind her and sits in a reserved seat. Leaning forward, he whispers something to her. She turns her head, and my blood begins to pound in my temples.

He reaches toward her veil. I take a step forward. When his fingers brush the lace, I tense and calculate how quickly I can launch myself across the pews full of adoring idiots.

“Whoa.” Noah grabs my arm, his grip firm. “Don’t move.”

“Get off me.”

“You’re about to get yourself into the worst trouble of your life.” Despite the liquor on his breath, his words are accurate.

“—and now we will light the bonfire and lift our voices to the heavens.” My father turns toward the massive structure, and everyone in the pavilion stands.

I break away from Noah’s grip. His fingers grasp at my suit coat, but I’m already darting away, heading straight for Delilah and the asshole who thinks he can talk to her.

The whoosh of flames steals my breath, and the breaths of everyone around me. I stop and stare as the massive tower lights from the base, the gasoline quickly burning away as the flames race to the top. It’s a hellish Christmas tree, the orange glow lighting the night sky. The wood creaks and groans as it’s swallowed up by the inferno, and a wave of heat blasts the crowd. A collective gasp leads to whooping and cheering. No matter how “holy” these people believe they are, they’re standing next to a raging fire and howling into the night like primitive man.

“For the glory of God!” My father’s voice booms over the speakers as a cameraman slowly circles the bonfire, his images appearing on the TVs.

Ash begins to float through the air, some of it carrying glowing embers. My amazement fades, and I redouble my efforts to get to Delilah.

“Boss! I mean, Adam!” Someone yells from behind me. I glance over my shoulder. Tony pushes through the crowd, relief crossing his strained face when he sees me. “Boss—”

“I’m busy.” I turn my back and step over a pew. Hurting the senator in full view of everyone isn’t an option, but if I can talk him into stepping away to chat with me—maybe lure him with talk of Delilah—then what happens next will be worth whatever lashes my father decides to lay on me.

“Wait.” Tony follows. “Boss, the main fire hose is jammed.”

“What?” I’d arranged the Heavenly Fire Department around the outskirts so they could spray the pavilion roofs to keep the structures safe.

“It’s jammed.” He pulls a grimy handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes his brow.

“Did you wet the roofs before like I told you?”

“Yes, sir.” He swipes his neck. “Except one.”

“What?”

“It jammed right before we could spray the main children’s pavilion around the back side. We’ve been trying to…” He keeps yammering as I notice several people nearby, their ears cocked to listen though they don’t meet my eye.

I yank Tony by the arm and pull him away before he starts a panic. Problem is, this leads me away from Delilah and the senator. But I have to choose.

Embers swirl through the air, ones that could easily send the children’s pavilion up in flames. The senator leans closer, his silver tongue in Delilah’s ear. I want to rip him apart, but I can’t. Not now. I turn on my heel and stride out into the night.

It burns—sears my fucking flesh—to walk away from Delilah. But one thought of my sweet Faith tells me that I’m choosing correctly. What if she were in that pavilion?

“Come on.” I pull off my jacket as Tony and I hurry away toward the fire truck parked amongst the trees. “Let’s get to work.”

I barely feel the hilt of the pistol as it crashes into the back of my skull.