The Cloister—a vast log cabin complex—appears through the trees. I pull the Maiden along with me, her bare feet skittering over dry leaves and pine needles. She doesn’t complain. They never do. My father’s little army of Maidens always behaves perfectly at first. The problems wouldn’t begin until later tonight.

We exit the woods, and she picks up her pace on the grass expanse. The other Protectors and Maidens follow us, none of the women making a sound as the men grunt and laugh.

I yank my Maiden closer. “Hurry up.”

She starts to pull against my grip, then seems to reconsider and allows me to continue half-dragging her to the Cloister. A little hint of spark flares in her eyes, then quickly dies. I saw it at the fire ritual—the great theater my father just loves to put on every year when we have a new Maiden crop. I’d switched with Noah because of that hint of something hidden inside this one, but it was likely a stupid choice on my part. After all, she’d signed up to be a Cloister Maiden. There was no backbone inside her, no keen intellect. Just another lamb to the slaughter. The thought makes me grit my teeth as I pull her inside the doorway leading to the banquet hall.

A few Spinners kneel to the side, bowls of warm water next to them.

“Wash.” I shove my Maiden toward them and point at her filthy feet.

She follows my command like an obedient little supplicant, pulling up her shift and allowing one of the Spinners to sponge the dirt away. When I first spotted her walking through the trees, I did a double take. A fairy—her hair white, her skin pale—she seemed to float along the path. Watching her now, I realize she has gray eyes, ones that hardened to flint as she peered at me during the ritual. I thought I’d sensed something more in her … A trace of defiance. But it can’t be. If she was dumb enough to fall for my father’s line of “chosen one” bullshit and leave her life for the Cloister, there was no way she had any real wheels turning in her skull. Just blind devotion, ignorant worship, and foolish faith.

A Spinner dries the girl’s feet. My Maiden looks young, early twenties at most. Features too delicate to be real, easy to break. Medium height, small build, light pink nipples at attention beneath her shift and a waist that narrows before flaring out to full hips. Light penetrates between her thighs, giving me the outline of her sex. That one little hint isn’t enough. I want more.

“Come.” I hold out my hand.

She glances down at the Spinner, hesitation in her eyes.

“I said come.”

There it is again, a flare of defiance, but she buries it and slips her small hand into mine. Something flaps in my chest, its wings dry and brittle, the feathers rotted and the bones showing through. Interesting.

The others begin filing in, the Spinners washing the girls’ feet as the men wait, their claws desperate for the soft touch of new flesh.

I pull my Maiden through to the Banquet Hall. The Spinners decorated it for the ceremony, white fabric covering the tables, hanging from the wooden rafters, and draped all along the platform at the front of the room. The familiar throne sits at one end of the stage, the gaudy velvet cushions better suited to a seedy champagne room. Candles burn in the black wrought-iron chandeliers overhead, the faux antiques mixed with modern equivalents and electric lights. After all, this is a show.

My father’s booming voice echoes into the room, the dark corners greedily devouring his words. “Welcome, Maidens. Welcome to your new home.” He strides in, all eyes on him, just the way he likes it. “Every need you have will be met. Only you, the Spinners, and the Protectors are allowed into the sacred space of the Cloister. Each of you will be assigned a room and given tasks to further your service to God. But more about that later. First, we celebrate your arrival!”

He struts down the center aisle, the Maidens following him, their eyes downcast. My Maiden seems to forget herself and lifts her chin, watching the scene as if she isn’t part of it. I disavow her of any such notion by thrusting her into the line of Maidens. She stumbles, then rights herself, falling into line and walking toward the front of the room.

My father takes the first girl’s hand and leads her up the three steps to the white platform. He waits as all the Maidens rise and take their places. Lambs patiently waiting for their throats to be cut. I stand in the shadows as the other men line up, practically salivating.

“Why’d you swap?” Noah sidles up to me.

“Not sure.” I focus on my Maiden, her hands folded in front of her.

My father sermonizes on the tale of Esther, his voice having long ago fallen to nothing more than background noise for me.

“She’s got a strange look.” Noah stuffs his hands into his pockets, resigned to our father’s yearly song and dance. “I was almost looking forward to her.”

“She’s just another idiot. Like all these. Eating up Dad’s lies and asking for another serving.”

He sighs, but doesn’t comment on my blasphemy. “I don’t know if I’m up for another year of this. I’m spending so much time on the money side. The Maiden duty is going to cut into that.”

“No way out of it.” I scowl at my father as he weaves his tale about old kings needing young virgins. “He says this is a perk, you know? Giving us women like this. But it’s just a chore. Another fucking job to be done.”

“One that doesn’t pay off. At least not for us.” He shakes his head.

“No shit.” I cross my arms over my chest, my gaze wandering back to my Maiden. Her hair covers her face in delicate curtains, her hands clutching each other as if she knows something bad is coming.

She has no idea.

“And so, to honor the Lord our God, I shall give each of you your new names. In the light of love, and of rebirth, you must come to me as a child.” My father strides to the throne and sits, an indulgent smile on his face. “Come to me.” He motions the first girl to him.

She walks over, eager to please him.

“Remove your garment, my dear, and I shall receive you as a child and give you the name that God intended for you.” He licks his lips. The wolves circle closer to the stage.

The girl blinks. “Naked?”

“Yes. You are being reborn. All children come into this world innocent and naked.” My father states it as if it’s perfectly normal to ask a young woman to strip in front of him and a bunch of strangers.

But the girl is under his spell. She truly believes that what he’s saying is right. Slowly, she lifts her shift, revealing a patch of dark hair between her thighs and full breasts with brown nipples.

That’s my father’s gift—he can tell a crowd of ten thousand to stop drinking milk, start taking vitamins, stop vaccinating their kids, start wearing more pink, and they will do it. He can make the absurd seem reasonable. People believe he has a direct line to God. And why do they believe that? Because he told them. His gift manifests in many ways, the yearly crop of virgins at Heavenly Ministries being one of them.

“My child, you are truly blessed.” He runs his lascivious gaze all over her body. “And because of this, your name shall be—”

“Mary.” Noah rolls his eyes. The first one is always Mary.

“Mary.” My father proclaims.

“Thank you, Prophet.” She reaches for her shift.

“No, my dear. Stand proud with your sisters.” He points to the next girl as a Spinner pulls the girl’s shift from her grasp.

Over the space of the next ten minutes, each girl is required to strip, their bodies laid bare as the men watch. The recruiters picked well this year, brainwashing mostly attractive women into the Cloister program with promises of safety, peace, and sisterhood. The sales pitch leaves out a few key elements, but they’ll learn it all soon enough.

When it’s my Maiden’s turn, I find myself becoming a little too interested.

She approaches my father, and, unlike the other girls, removes her shift before he even asks, and tosses it to the floor. Now, for a man like my father, he’d take that as a sign of faith in him, of devotion to the Cloister. But me, I take it for what it is—an open “fuck you” to my father. She’s meeting the ugliness of the charade head on. The bird flaps its bony wings inside me again, waking after a long slumber.

“You, my dear, are sacred. Just look at you.” He twirls his finger, and she turns in a circle at his command. Her long white hair flows down her back, light pink nipples pebbled in the cool air, and a hint of blonde curls between her thighs. Her gray eyes remain hidden from me. I want to see them, to see her. Not her body, but whatever simmers inside.

“Come closer.” My father takes her hand and pulls her until their knees are touching. He darts his tongue to his lips.

My hands close into fists. It’s not his time. It’s mine.

“What’s the matter with you?” Noah must have been watching. “You’re all tense.”

“I’m fine.”

I loosen my fingers as my father asks, “And who is your Protector, sweet girl?”

She turns toward me, her gaze finding mine with ease. He follows her look.

“Noah? Adam?”

I nod.

“Well.” He turns his focus back to her and grips her waist, his hands profaning her smooth skin.

She doesn’t flinch.

“I think I’ll need to deviate a bit here. Give you a name that suits anyone who has to deal with Adam on a daily basis.” He fakes a consoling look. “Not that he’ll hurt you, of course. He’s a Protector, after all. Hmmm.”

I itch to punch him in his smug face even more than usual, which is saying something.

“How about we call you Delilah?” His hands slide lower, easing across her hips.

“Thank you, Prophet.” If you weren’t paying attention, you could miss the faint tremor in her voice. I hear it just fine.

“Go on now.” He lets his hands drop, and she steps back into line, all the girls bare for the leering assholes below them.

“God is good.” Dad stands and motions to the Spinners. They rush forward, golden dresses in their hands, and help the girls put them on.

Once the show is over, the men disperse and sit down at the tables, their rough voices overcoming the quiet chatter on the stage.

“When is he going to stop doing this?” Noah yawns and motions his Maiden over to him. She comes like an obedient little dog, her gold dress skirting her ankles.

“I suppose whenever these girls stop falling for this shit.”

Noah’s Maiden gives me a shocked look before inspecting the floor again.

Noah leans close. “Don’t let Dad hear you saying any of that.”

“I’m careful.”

“I know. But we can’t risk it.”

“I know.” I walk away from him, ignoring whatever warnings he wants to add. My Maiden, Delilah, stands at the edge of the stage, the gold dress giving her an even more unearthly look.

“Come.” I take her hand and pull her to the nearest table. She sits opposite me, not a word from her light pink lips.

Who was she before she came here? I’d have to investigate her file. Plenty of the girls who expressed an interest in the Cloister came from broken homes and, above all, had intense daddy issues. Ones my father took full advantage of. Is that who Delilah is? Another broken cog in a wheel that was never made for her?

It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. Who she was doesn’t matter. Because now she’s in the Cloister. She likely didn’t notice it when we walked in, but each door with outside access has a keypad, cameras set up everywhere, and the windows similarly monitored. Once the faithful supplicants enter my father’s clutches, they don’t leave. Not on their terms, anyway.

“What’s your name?” The question pops from my lips though it should have stayed tucked away with all the forgotten things that resided in my mind.

“Delilah.” The sound barely reaches my ears.

“Your real name.”

“Delilah.”

“Fuck.” I lean back in my chair, staring her down.

She doesn’t meet my gaze, her mask of obedience firmly in place.

“We have one more small ceremony before you girls can retire for the night.” My father strides to me with Abigail at his side, a small green device in her hand.

“I’m sure you’re ready to get on with it.” He grins down at me.

I hold my hand out to Delilah.

She looks at it as if it’s a venomous snake.

“Take my hand.”

She glances at my father.

“Don’t look at him. Look at me.” I keep my tone even, but no less lethal. Showing weakness in front of my father isn’t an option.

She puts out one delicate hand. I engulf it with mine, keenly aware that every Maiden in the room is watching.

Abigail, her graying hair wrapped up in a tight bun, loads the plastic gun. “Hold her.”

I yank Delilah across the table.

She cries out in surprise, but I don’t let go. Instead, I rise and pin her arm down with both hands. After only a second of struggle, she returns to placid, as if someone flipped a switch inside her. She’s learning quickly, adapting to the violence that is this place. That is me.

“It’ll only hurt for a second, little one.” My father runs a hand through her hair, touching what’s mine.

In that moment, I hate him more than I ever have.

“Here we go.” Abigail places the end of the gun against Delilah’s upper arm. “It’ll sting, but you’ll be fine.” She squeezes the wide trigger, and the microchip slides under the pale skin. Then Abigail grabs a syringe from a tray held by another Spinner. “This is to stop your monthly curse. We value clean women here.”

Delilah doesn’t make a sound, her tenseness the only way I can sense that both injections hurt. The tracker insertion point bleeds a little, so Abigail applies a bandage.

“Well done.” Dad gives Delilah a pat, as if she’s a faithful dog who fetched him a prize duck.

They move on to the next girl as Delilah sits up and presses her palm to her arm.

One of the nearby Maidens leans over to whisper to another. A Spinner hurries from her spot along the wall and steps between them, a deep furrow in her brow. “No speaking when the Prophet is present unless it’s to say please or thank you.” She doesn’t draw her small baton and hit the talker.

Not yet.