The congregation buzzes, each voice added to the others until the 20,000 seat auditorium crackles with energy. I kneel, my head down, my hands folded, a white veil over my face. My fellow Cloister Maidens do the same on either side of me. Twelve innocents on a pedestal for the crowd to watch, to covet.

The Prophet is nothing if not a showoff. The gilded floor of his stage says as much, and when he walks out in his shiny black shoes, the crowd turns into a living monster, the roar of approval drowning out the constant hum of sin.

He grins, the smile of a kindly father figure, and waves at the congregation. His image is magnified on the huge monitors on either side of the stage. The girl next to me shivers, though I doubt it’s from fear. Religious rapture, hero worship that endures despite whatever terrors may have befallen her the night before.

“Now, now. The glory goes to God, not me.” The Prophet speaks through a small microphone that curves around his cheek and hovers at his lips.

I can’t turn around. The Maidens are required to kneel, the perfect image of devout femininity during the service. Our veils cover everything in a whitewash and hide some of the bruises. I realized this morning that I was one of the lucky ones—many of the girls had suffered during the night as I rocked in a corner, my arms wrapped around my calves.

Even if I can’t see behind me, I know the sanctuary is full of devout believers. At our backs, the children have been brought in from the nursery, all of them in white jumpers. There’s no talking allowed during service, and I’ve seen the women assigned to childcare yank a child out of the sanctuary on plenty of occasions. I cringed, but no one else batted an eyelash.

A row of Heavenly Police Officers line the sides of the aisles. The State granted the Heavenly campus municipality status a few years back, allowing the Prophet to form his own police force and government. His influence spreads more each day, like an all-consuming rot.

“We have a new crop of Cloister Maidens, praise be to God.” He motions to us, twelve pawns in his game of power. Stage lights make him shine. The crowd applauds. Their hunger is a harsh wind at our backs.

“These coveted spots have been filled with young women who will become the future for our church. Twelve months of intensive training in the ways of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit will yield a set of females that walk in the light and love of our Savior.” He sweeps a hand at us. The applause grows.

He holds a hand up, and all sound stops. “As a treat for our new Cloister Maidens and for all of you, we have a very special guest with us this morning. A woman who embodies everything a young woman should be. She is the shining example, the future that we want for all our Cloister Maidens, especially since she was one herself. Please welcome our First Lady of Alabama, Mrs. Miriam Williams.”

The crowd roars as she walks onto the stage, her blush pink heels, long legs, and impeccable cream dress accenting her flowing blonde hair. She waves, a huge beauty-queen smile on her face as she embraces the Prophet and kisses him on each cheek.

When they finish beaming at each other, she lifts a microphone and steps forward, her gaze roving over the Cloister Maidens at her feet.

“Blessed are you among women.” Her voice, the perfect blend of high and low, rolls over the arena. “For you are the hope for a better future.”

Another burst of applause, and then the crowd quiets.

Her clear blue eyes are almost as sharp as her smile as she surveys us. “The Lord has brought you to the Prophet, just as He did for me. I praise God every day for that blessing, and I have no doubt that all of you do the same. The Prophet knows your hearts, your minds, your wants, and your dreams. And only through him will you reach your full potential as a Godly woman in a fallen world.”

A chorus of “amen” rises from the spectators.

“Trust him. Listen to him. Only the Prophet knows God’s plan for your life.” She lifts her eyes and sweeps her dramatic gaze over the crowd. “The Cloister Maidens are blessed to be in the care of the Prophet. As are we all. May God continue to shine his light on and through his one true representative here on earth.” She turns and drops a deep curtsey before the Prophet. He nods, then strides to her, takes her hand, and pulls her upright.

“A true woman of God, is she not?”

The churchgoers erupt, a volcano of approval for both the Prophet and Miriam. She struts off the stage with a wave, her white teeth glinting like the stage lights in her eyes.

I chance a glance at the Prophet as he begins his sermon, but my gaze is drawn to the right. Adam stands to the side of the stage, obscured from the crowd but visible to some of the Maidens. It’s difficult to see through the veil, but his attention seems to be locked on me. His dark eyes pinning me with something akin to curiosity—or perhaps disgust. I shouldn’t care which it is, even though I do. Adam isn’t a man for me to be interested in; he’s just another obstacle I’ll have to defeat on my way to the truth.

Dropping my gaze, I focus on the edge of the stage. I don’t listen to the Prophet. I never have. That’s not what I’m here for.

* * *

I take my plate of vegetables and a tiny portion of meat and sit at one of the tables in the dining hall. Smaller than the banquet hall, this room is strictly utilitarian—metal tables and chairs, tile floors, and a full kitchen staffed by Spinners. We eat lunch and dinner here. The Head Spinner told us that the Prophet believes breakfast is for the weak; therefore, we skip it at the Cloister. I suspect the lack of breakfast and the low quality of food has more to do with keeping us tiredly compliant, or perhaps attractively thin. Maybe both.

Another Maiden sits next to me and opens her milk carton. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I spear a piece of droopy broccoli and put it in my mouth.

“I’m Melin—I mean, I’m Sarah.” She smiles, her dark hair curling around her forehead. She looks barely old enough to drive.

“Delilah.”

“Where are you from?” She cuts off a corner of her meat chunk and gingerly puts it in her mouth.

“Louisiana. You?”

“Birmingham.” She wrinkles her nose but swallows.

“How old are you?”

She smiles and spears a green bean. “Old enough.”

I glance up and see another Maiden watching us. “Hello.”

She drops her eyes—one of them with a black half-moon beneath it—and picks at her food.

“That’s Eve. She was—”

I jump as Sarah yelps.

A Spinner stands next to her, a short baton in her hand. “No speaking during mealtimes.”

Sarah clutches her bare neck where she’d been struck and cringes against me. I wrap my arm around her. The Spinner rears back again. I flinch as the baton lands against the side of my neck.

“No contact between Maidens!” She scowls as I release Sarah.

“I’m okay.” Sarah sniffs, a tear running down her light brown cheek.

My neck stings, but I refuse to touch the sore spot. I won’t give the Spinner the satisfaction.

She threads her baton through a loop on the belt of her skirt and walks toward the kitchen, her long black skirt almost touching the ground.

I reach under the table and squeeze Sarah’s knee. She gives me a brief nod, then begins eating again.

I wonder about the women who signed up for this under the delusion that the Cloister would be some sort of sisterhood-paradise. Have they come to terms with what it really is? After last night, I can’t imagine any of them still believe in the Prophet, in the safety they were promised. But as I glance up at one of the Maidens, the smug satisfaction in her eyes as she gazes at the welt forming on my neck tells me that some of these women are exactly where they want to be.

“Training begins in five minutes.” A different Spinner stands at the hall door, her voice a harsh bark. She doesn’t look a day over thirty, but, given her air of authority, she appears to be in charge. Her hair is hidden beneath a black habit, and her eyes seem to bore through anyone she looks at too directly. I drop my gaze, lest she see the true me.

I down what I can of my lackluster food. By the time I’m done, the rest of the Maidens are filing out the door. I join the line as we wind our way along the corridors, the Cloister like a honeycomb. When we emerge into a large room, some of the women gasp.

Three high tables—the type you see at doctor’s offices—sit to the right, a Spinner at each. Then another set of three tables with some sort of odd IV bags hanging on their corners, a large sink at their back. Beyond the tables is a wall covered in a dark lattice. Whips, clamps, crops, chains, and a large selection of dildos dangle at intervals. In the corner is a large wooden structure in the shape of an X, and the straps along the top and bottom of it tell me it’s not just for decor.

“God smiles on women who please their masters. You must be precious in His sight.” The Head Spinner spreads her arms wide. “This is your training room. You will spend quite a bit of your time here every morning. The afternoons will be spent in prayer or performing chores. And your nights belong to your Protector.”

One girl makes a slight sound, as if her throat swallows a fearful groan.

The Head Spinner smacks her baton into the palm of her hand. “Remove your clothes. All of you.”

I’ve already become accustomed to forced disrobing, so I drop my dress to the floor without complaint. They don’t give us underwear here.

The Head Spinner walks to the first girl in line and uses her baton to tilt the girl’s chin up. “All body hair is unseemly in the sight of the Lord.”

And what Bible verse says that, exactly? Porn 1:69? I keep my thought to myself.

She slides her baton down the naked girl’s torso and stops at the patch of hair between her thighs. “Shameful. All of you. Your bodies are shameful. We have twelve months to try and mold you into females that God and the Prophet can be proud of.” She lets out a labored sigh and moves to the next girl. “But I have never had such a bottom-of-the-barrel class of Maidens in the past five years.” She uses her baton to poke at Eve’s curvy waistline. “That one’s a sasquatch, this one needs to lose weight.” She continued down the line until she came to me. “Now here’s one that shows promise. Trim body, good hair—of course we’ll need to remove that mess between your legs.” She presses the baton under my chin, lifting my face to hers. “Oh, dear.” She frowns. “These eyes simply won’t do.” She clucks her tongue. “There’s something in them I don’t care for. Something that is displeasing to the Lord.” She hesitates for another moment before moving down the row, criticizing hair, weight, dimples, cellulite, skin tone, and even the location of moles. “Is this a tattoo?” Her disgust coats the air like oil on water. “How on earth did you make it into the Cloister with this evil mark of the fallen world on your body?”

By the time she returns to the front of the line, we’ve all shrunk about six inches, and I hear some sniffles in the back.

She smacks the baton in her palm. “The Cloister was created by the Prophet to train young women, such as yourselves, to follow the Lord’s teachings and obey His will. Some things that happen here may confuse you.” A hint of a smile creeps across her thin lips. “They may even scare you, but be assured that everything is done in accordance with the Prophet’s plan for your life. You will understand in time.”

She speaks with a sureness I’ve only seen in salesmen and politicians. It makes my skin crawl.

“You three Maidens, here.” She points to the first set of tables.

“The next three, here.” She motions with her baton to the second area.

I’m the last woman to take one of the tables with the odd IV bag.

“Up.” The nearest Spinner pats my table.

I climb and sit, my arms wrapped around my knees. Dread pulses through me with each beat of my heart.

“The rest of you, come with me.” The Head Spinner leads the remaining women to the lattice wall.

“I need the three of you on all fours.” One of the Spinners behind the tables grabs an IV bag and turns on the water, testing its warmth with her fingertips.

That’s when I realize they aren’t IV bags. Too big. Too not-entirely-medical.

I saw one of these hanging behind the door in my grandparents’ bathroom and thought it was some sort of special balloon. Fun, right? No. They’re enema bags.

Sick fucks.

I exchange a glance with Sarah on the table next to me. Her brows are drawn together as she stares at the bag hanging from the hook above her table. I silently mouth the word “enema” to her.

She doesn’t understand.

I mouth it again.

When her brown eyes widen, I know she caught the word.

“All fours, I said!” the Spinner at the sink barks.

We all turn over and get on our knees. Humiliation washes over me in a dreadful torrent. I dig my nails into the top of the padded table. Another thought adds to my cocktail of shame: is there a camera in here like the one in the vent of my ceiling? Has to be. Maybe Adam’s watching right now, getting off on my torment.

A yelp draws my attention to the other three tables. One of the Spinners is waxing Eve, yanking her dark pubic hair out and tossing the strips aside. Another girl is on hands and knees as a Spinner applies something between her cheeks. She doesn’t rip it away. Must not be wax. A memory of Georgia and me watching “Bridesmaids” and giggling together floats through my mind. Are they bleaching her asshole?

I bet mine will be glowing white before the day is—this thought is interrupted when I feel cold hands on my backside and then the unmistakable insertion of a hose into my ass. My reaction is to push it out.

A sharp whack on my side tells me that isn’t the correct response. “Don’t push!”

The head Spinner appears in front of me, a gag in her hand. Instead of a ball like I’d seen in the movies, this one has a dildo. “She needs throat training sooner than usual, according to Protector Adam.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The enema Spinner reaches for the contraption.

“I’d like to administer this myself.” The head Spinner holds the black dildo in front of my face. “Open.”

I don’t want to. But I don’t have an option. I open.

The Head Spinner shoves it into my mouth.

I gag, but she straps it around my head and buckles it at the back. Using my teeth, I try to bite down and push it with my tongue, but it only makes me gag more. An odd sense of claustrophobia sets in. I could die like this. Choke on my spit. Asphyxiate. All while the Head Spinner stares at me with a coldness that terrifies me.

I close my eyes and focus on breathing through my nose. In, out. In, out. The tube snakes farther up my ass, warmth filling the space and forcing me to clench my cheeks to keep it all in.

“I want to leave.” A small voice from one of the tables to my right.

I don’t look up. I have to focus on my breathing or I’ll die. I know it. The pressure keeps building in my ass as spit drips down my chin.

“Please, let me leave.”

I want to warn her. To tell her it’s too late for that. There is no way out of here. It’s a trap, and once it closes around its victims, the bars are permanent. When I hear a thud and she starts screaming, I keep my breaths steady. In, out. Another scream and someone else is crying. In, out.

“You are here to serve the Lord. You made an oath, and I and my sister Spinners are here to make sure you keep it.” The Head Spinner’s voice is oddly serene. “We will save you from the fires of hell despite yourselves. Now stop your sniveling and get back on the table.”

“Why? I thought we were here to—”

Another thunk and a squeal of pain. “You are here to do as we say, as is commanded by the Prophet!”

Several of the girls cry, their eyes awash in shock. They truly believed they’d be safe in the Cloister, that they’d remain untouched, unmarred. Fools.

I walked into this trap, fully aware of the bars and the rusted metal bits that promised pain and despair. I did it for Georgia.

I will find her killer. And then I will repay what happened to her with blood.