I toss my shirt to the floor as I enter the sacred circle. Crosses—some upside down, some right side up—pentagrams, and various other symbols greet me from all angles.

Noah walks along the circular wall and lights candles. Dad and his fucking love of spectacle.

“Why?” Noah crossed to me, his bare feet disturbing the salt circle.

“She’s mine.”

“So?” He frowns. “That’s not a good enough reason.”

“Newell was a cunt. What does it matter?” His filthy blood all over my hands barely scratches the surface of what I’m capable of. Killing Newell is the lightest of my transgressions, perhaps even a mark in my favor.

“Because of this.” He points to my bare back and the criss-cross of scars that live there. “I fucking hate it.”

“He would have killed her.” I shrug and stretch up, looping my wrists through the wooden cross in the center of the room.

“No, he knew better. He would have…” He shakes his head. “But she’d be alive. And so would Newell.”

“Goddammit, Noah!” I yank on the self-tightening restraints. “Sometimes we have to make a choice. I fucking made it. I’ll take the punishment for it. End of story. Now light the candles and enjoy the show.”

I love my brother. So much that I want to shake the fuck out of him. He’s been steeped in the culture of Heavenly Ministries since he was too young to know any better, and it fucking shows. Evil isn’t a bad thing when it’s all you’ve ever known. It’s a comfortable blanket, a warm sun, a lover’s kiss. For him, all this makes sense.

But I remember a time when my father was just another preacher at one of the larger Baptist churches in Birmingham. I went to the religious school, had a nearly normal life, and pretended to believe in all the crap my father spouted. Over time, he became the head pastor. And that’s when everything changed. Power allowed my father to preach a new message. One of fear, of a coming apocalypse, of the need for the congregation to tithe more and more to support the church. To support him.

I shake off the memories as the Protectors file into the room and stand in a circle around me. None of them look too happy about me killing Newell. I smirk and hope they know I’d just as soon do the same to them.

“Son.” My father’s voice slithers into the room. “Why have you disappointed me yet again?”

“I guess old habits die hard.” I see Noah flinch at the sarcasm in my tone.

“You think this is a joke?” My father moves closer.

“I think I killed someone who had it coming.”

“Had it coming?” He seems genuinely confused.

“I thought you’d be all in favor of what I did, considering Newell was about to break your number one commandment.”

“You have no proof of that.”

I realize there’s no point arguing. Gripping the wooden cross, I steel myself for what’s next.

“Oh, son.” The faux dismay in my father’s voice is laughable. “I don’t enjoy this. You know that, don’t you? But what else can I do? You killed one of my godly Protectors. There can be no other outcome.”

A rumble of agreement pulses through the circle.

“Just get on with it.”

He lets out a heavy sigh, as if he isn’t looking forward to the blood and pain. But I know the monster too well to believe it. This is what he thrives on.

“Just as in the story of Abraham, I must take my own son and lay him on the altar of the Lord. A sacrifice to show my adherence to God. And just as Abraham, my heart aches as I lash my son to the altar.” He moves around and checks my wrists, making sure they’re held fast, then takes the whip from a frowning Noah. “And I must be steadfast in my sacrifice, for if I am, the Lord says ‘I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore. Your descendants will take possession of the cities of their enemies, and through your offspring all nations on earth will be blessed, because you have obeyed me.’”

The Protectors answer with a steady “amen” as my father backs away.

I want to say that in the story of Abraham, he never sacrifices his son at all. The son is reprieved by God, not harmed by his father. But that thought is seared away with the first strike of the whip. More follow in rapid succession.

I don’t cry out, not even when I feel the blood trickling down my back. My teeth grind together, possibly on the verge of breaking as my father puts everything he has into the final blow. Black flickers across my vision, but I refuse to pass out, refuse to give in.

When he’s done, he’s winded, his voice breathy. “Atonement has been paid for the loss of Protector Newell.”

Another “amen” and the men file out, some of them giving me satisfied smirks as they pass. Despite the overwhelming fire roaring across my back, I want to lunge at them. To take these monsters down the same way I did Newell. But that thought ignores the obvious.

After all, I’m a monster, too.

* * *

I lie on my side, lazy smoke from my joint twisting in front of my face as I stare at the wide TV screen on my wall.

Delilah sits in a corner of her now-clean room. She rocks back and forth, her wide eyes focused on the door. She’s the picture of terror, the sort that, once it touches a person, leaves a mark.

“These aren’t the worst you’ve ever had.” Noah tends to the tears in my skin, the wounds that will heal and add to the scar tissue inside and out.

I take another drag on the joint, holding the smoke in my lungs as he pulls me into a sitting position and begins wrapping gauze around my torso.

Exhaling, I watch as her head slowly drops to her knees, then bobs up again, her gaze on the door. Is she afraid that I might come through the door? Another Protector, maybe?

Fear is the best thing for her. The sooner she breaks, the easier it will be for me. In the past, I had quite a few Maidens who—despite the stark reality of the Cloister—still believed my father was the Prophet. The rituals helped with that notion. And they didn’t require me to break them. Instead, they were eager to please, to learn, to become the Prophet’s favorite.

In the end, all of them—the true believers and the broken ones—all believe that the Prophet favors them, that they are chosen, that God has put his mark of favor upon them. I try to imagine how it must feel when they wind up at the Chapel or the Cathedral instead of on the arm of a politician or one of the South’s millionaires. Betrayal. I’m intimately familiar with that sensation.

Her head nods forward again, resting on the tops of her knees. This time, she’s out. As out as she can be.

“You’ve never watched one before.” Noah tucks the end of the gauze into the tight ribbons around my chest.

I let out another puff of smoke, the weed finally giving me that perfect sensation of soft disconnection. “She’s different.”

“Why?” He checks his handiwork.

“I don’t know.”

“Is she going to be a problem?” He takes the joint from my fingers and pulls in a long drag. “I mean, more than she already is?”

“She’ll fall in line. Mine always do.” The few times I’ve had to break my Maidens, I always managed it before the trials that begin at the 6-month mark. Maybe because I’m methodical. Maybe because of the consequences if I fail. Or, more likely, because I enjoy it.

“She looks so weird. With the hair and the white skin.” He shakes his head.

I reach for the remote. He shouldn’t be looking at her. At what’s mine. And his criticism cuts through the smoky haze of my high. I click the screen off.

“Touchy.”

“Fuck off.” I lie back down, the lines of fire across my back pulling a groan from me.

“After Newell, how many is it now?” he asks quietly.

“How many what?” I know what he’s asking, but the sadist in me wants to hear him say it.

“How many … you know … people have you…”

“Killed?” I stick the knife in.

He winces.

I should feel something. Maybe remorse. But there’s nothing there. Not even the emptiness bothers me anymore. “At current count, seven.” I grin. “But there’s always tomorrow.”

“God will forgive you.” He stubs out the joint. “You did it all for His glory.” He swallows hard. “Even Newell, since he may have had intentions of defiling one of the chosen Maidens.”

I open the top drawer of my nightstand and pull out a flask of whiskey. My brother’s blind belief is doing more to tank my high than even the pain in my back.

“Which god?” I take a draw, the heat pouring down my throat. “The one up top or the one below?”

“They are both one.” He pulls the blanket up to my waist. “You know this. There can be no light without dark. Our Heavenly Father and our Father of Fire have already forgiven you. Even Mom believes—”

“How do you know what she believes?”

He pinches his lips together, then relents. “I’m just guessing.” He sighs. “I don’t know. Anyway, I’m sure you’re forgiven. Doing things that seem wrong, if they’re done for the Heavenly Father or the Father of Fire—that makes them righteous.”

I take another long pull from the flask. I don’t berate myself for the way Noah is. Not anymore. He’s too steeped in my father’s bullshit, too much of a true believer, for me to ever pull him free. Maybe I’ve failed him, or maybe this was the way it was always meant to be.

“Get some sleep.” He stows the flask. “We’ve got the Ritual tomorrow night.”

“I know.” I settle into my pillow as he turns out the light. “Now the real mindfuck will begin.”

He shakes his head. “It’s for—”

“His glory. Yeah, I got it.” I don’t even want to shake him anymore. He’s too far gone to understand.

He closes the door, and I grab the remote. The screen glows to life, and there she is. Her fairy hair falling around her shoulders as she sleeps in a huddle. I hope she dreams of me, even if it’s a nightmare. How could it be anything else?

“It can’t be,” I answer myself. Like a lunatic.

She stirs and lifts her head as if she can hear me. She can’t. But she turns and looks straight at the camera, at me, her eyes luminous in the low light.

“Why?” I ask her. Why did I kill for her? Why is she different? Or, my mind answers, she’s not different at all. You’re just desperate for something new. For someone else besides the usual brainwashed acolytes.

“Why?” I ask her again, more demanding this time.

Do I detect a faint quirk to her lips, a touch of fire in her gaze? I blink hard, and when I open my eyes, she’s hidden from me again, her head resting on her knees, her breaths slow and even.