I squinted up at the wall behind me, my temples throbbing. My vision swam in blurred lines, balancing on the ever-present edge of unconsciousness.

I made myself focus. I counted the tallies I’d managed to scrape onto the wall with the sharpened edge of a stone. Thirty-five. Thirty-five . . . thirty-five . . . I had been in this cell for thirty-five days. Had suffered daily exorcisms and beatings by the new disciple guards . . .

“Repent! Repent and bow down to the prophet!” Brother James screamed as I hung from the chains in the ceiling.

“No,” I rasped. Searing agony sliced over my back as the leather belt slashed yet another stripe across my already broken skin.

“Repent! Repent and declare your loyalty to your prophet!”

My eyes closed as streams of fresh blood ran down my back, over my dangling legs, splashing to the floor at my feet.

My jaw clenched. I closed my eyes, praying for absolution. Praying to be taken from this pain . . . this damned constant pain . . .

“Do you repent?” Brother Michael asked. My heart beat once, twice, three times as his question ran through my brain.

“Just repent and this will all end. Repent and all the pain will stop. Repent and join your brother in leading the people to heaven. Repent and never look at the inside of your cell again.”

My breathing hitched as the temptation to submit to Judah’s demands tried to push its way to my lips. The words ‘I repent’ hung on the tip of my tongue. My broken body wanted to speak them, just for a reprieve . . . But then my soul steeled as I thought of the Lord’s Sharing I had witnessed . . . the pain . . . the fear . . . the acts of pedophilic sin being done in my name . . .

I blew out the rest of the breath I was holding and felt my chest lighten. “No . . . I will not repent . . . I will never repent . . . ”

I kept my eyes closed. I kept them tightly shut as a hard fist slammed into my ribs, ripping a strangled bellow from my raw throat. But I didn’t care. I would not bow down to my brother.

I couldn’t . . . I just . . . couldn’t . . .

My eyes swam again and I shook my throbbing head, trying to hold on to consciousness. I was sick of waking disoriented and alone in darkness. I was done with the aching bones, broken skin and vomiting. I was done with listening to my brother preach his hysterical doomsday sermons through the speakers around the commune.

My fingernails scraped against the stone floor as I tried to make myself stand. I willed my legs to function, but they wouldn’t. I tried again, managing to crawl onto my knees. But my weak muscles collapsed, unable to hold my weight, and I landed on my back with a thud. The air was knocked from my lungs as my spine slammed to the hard floor. I breathed hard through my nostrils as the frustration built up inside me. A traitorous tear fell from the corner of my right eye as the desolation took hold. The dark creature that forever burrowed in my stomach began digging in its claws.

The screech of a speaker coming to life sounded outside. “People of New Zion!” I closed my weary eyes as Judah’s voice came drifting into my silent cell. “The heavy storm and the darkness above signal the end. Make no mistake, Armageddon is coming! The floods creeping toward our home, the daily strife we all suffer in following God’s path . . . they all lead the way to our salvation. Work harder at the tasks given to you. Pray with even more devotion. We shall prevail!”

My fogged mind blanked out the rest of Judah’s words. But it didn’t matter. They were the same each day. My brother was whipping our people into a terrified frenzy. He was instilling fear into every minute of every day.

It was what Judah did best.

Spots flickered in front of my eyes and my lips cracked with dryness. I could no longer feel my arms at my side, and knew that I would soon be pulled under. I could feel it, coming to take me down. But I fought it. Every day I fought the effects of the punishments.

The fight in me was the only thing I had left.

“The devil’s men are coming! Our days are numbered! We must save ourselves!” Judah’s final sentence managed to filter through the high-pitched ringing in my ears. My fingers curled into fists and shook with rage.

Years ago Prophet David had preached that Satan’s agents would one day storm our commune, trying to rid the earth of God’s chosen people. Only through the prophet would heaven be achieved. Only through obeying his every word could a soul be saved. When the Hangmen invaded and killed my uncle, many of the people thought that was the end. It wasn’t. Now Judah preached that they would come again.

A loud crack of thunder exploded right above me. I flinched as it ripped me from my dark thoughts. All I entertained these days were dark thoughts. Doubt, the devil’s greatest tool, smothering my heart and soul like a cancer. The taste of salt burst on my tongue. My long brown hair stuck to my cheeks; the stifling heat bathed my skin in sweat.

I licked my cracked lips, wishing I had water. I guessed that I would be fed and watered soon. I was fed twice a day, like clockwork. Women I didn’t know would come to my cell, placing a tray of food at my feet. They would give me a specific amount of time to consume the food, before returning, silently, to take it away. On good days they would cleanse me, with a vacant, detached look in their gaze. Then I would be alone until the disciples returned to punish me. The cycle would begin again.

I had yet to set eyes on Judah.

His focus seemed to be on thrusting the commune into hysterical chaos. Spinning a spiteful web to encourage what I had refused to pursue. He wanted a holy war. He wanted the Hangmen dead.

My mind was conflicted. On the one hand, I didn’t care if all the Hangmen burned in Satan’s eternal fire. On the other hand, when I thought of the three Cursed Sisters, the three sisters that Judah would force back into submission or simply see killed, I found it hard to breathe.

Bile rose in my throat when I pictured the life they would have under my twin’s hand. Nausea followed when I pictured the Cursed Delilah’s scarred face, her shorn hair. When I thought about what Judah had done to her on the Hill of Perdition. I, the prophet, had no prior knowledge of what Judah had planned. In the aftermath, I realized that I had no idea what he was truly capable of. If someone had merely told me what happened to Delilah, I would never have believed it. But I’d seen her face. I’d seen the fear in her eyes when she had been locked in the old mill. It had happened. There was no doubt.

And I had done nothing to stop it.

My thoughts drifted to Mae and the last thing she had said to me. When I had let her and her sisters go. “I always believed in you, Rider . . . I always believed you were a good man, deep down.”