Deep Redemption (Hades Hangmen Book 4) (3 page)

Harmony

I gripped the edge of the seat as the plane bounced up and down. Brother Stephen had told me it was something called turbulence. My stomach flipped over at the strange sensation of flying and I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Are you okay, Harmony?” Sister Ruth’s soft voice drifted into my ears as her warm hand covered mine.

“It . . . it feels strange,” I replied, opening my eyes.

Sister Ruth was watching me, her dark eyes filled with worry. “I agree. No matter how many times I fly, it never gets easier.” She smiled in reassurance. I turned to face Brother Stephen. He was facing forward, staring at nothing in particular. He turned and offered me a strained smile.

Leaning closer, he said, “It is because this is a small plane. I have been on bigger ones in my youth, when I lived in the outside world. I remember the ride being much easier on the nerves.”

A smile tugged on my lips, but it disappeared when the plane dipped again. My knuckles were white as my grip on the armrests tightened. I closed my eyes again, trying to breathe through the panic fueled by the bumps and jerks.

I conjured up good thoughts. I pictured the home I had left behind. I loved it there. I loved the hot weather, but more, I loved the sense of family. My stomach fell as I thought of where we were going—New Zion.

The commune where I had lived in Puerto Rico was exceptionally small compared to the many others around the world. Most of the people lived out their days in private. Like my family. We kept to ourselves. We cared for one another—no pain, no expectations.

We were happy.

Then Prophet David died.

His heir, Prophet Cain, took his place, and in no time at all, he began to unite the people. One by one the communes closed and the followers made their way back to New Zion, to be at one with our leader.

We were the last commune to join the Repatriation.

I looked around our small plane. There were fewer than thirty of us on board; I did not know most of them. The eyes of the unfamiliar men and women met mine. Their expressions varied. Some looked happy to be leaving Puerto Rico. Others looked terrified.

From the minute we were gathered this morning, many had regarded me with suspicious eyes. Some were looking at me that way now.

I quickly turned my head, panic and fear seeping into my skin. I had stayed hidden from these people for a reason. I had only been exposed to those who cared for me . . . those who did not want to hurt me.

I sat back in my seat. Sister Ruth’s hand tightened on mine. As I looked at the woman who had become one of my most faithful guardians, a sliver of dread penetrated my heart. I could see the trepidation in her eyes and face—it was the same racking fear I knew was in mine.

These past few weeks, Brother Stephen, Sister Ruth’s closest friend, had been out of sorts too. New Zion. Our fear of New Zion was palpable. As we drew closer to our new home, my hands began to shake.

Be strong,
I thought to myself.
You must stay strong.

I focused on breathing deeply. The plane seemed to have moved past whatever wind had held us in its grasp, and everything had calmed. Releasing my hand from underneath Sister Ruth’s, I stretched out my fingers, then moved them to lift up my veil.

As soon as the thin pale-blue material was away from my mouth, I took in a long, deep breath. The veil was not too bad to breathe through; Sister Ruth had designed it to be light and easy to wear. But when it lay over my face I felt suffocated.

Sister Ruth guided my hand down to my lap. She slowly shook her head. “Harmony, you have to get used to it.” Sister Ruth fixed the pale-blue veil back in place and flattened the matching headdress over my blond hair.

“I hate it,” I confessed as quietly as I could, clenching my teeth in frustration.

Sympathy flooded Sister Ruth’s eyes. “I know, angel.” I smiled at her tenderness, but that smile faded when she added, “But the prophet has commanded that you wear it.”

I flattened my hands over my long dress, which was the same shade of pale blue as the veil. I thought of the new prophet. I had heard he was ruthless and strong. And he must have been, because he had found me. I had managed to live in peace until a few weeks ago, when one of Prophet Cain’s disciple guards came to help with closing our commune. I was discovered when he called each member to report to his quarters.

Discovered and branded . . .
A Cursed Sister of Eve.

*****

“I must come out?” I asked Brother Stephen as he opened the door to my room. I could see the regret and sadness etched in his brown eyes, but he nodded his head.

“They will come for you if you do not. They are assessing each member of the commune,” Brother Stephen informed me.

A pit formed in my stomach. I had to lock my knees together just to try and stop the shaking of my legs.

“Come,” Brother Stephen said gently and held out his hand. I placed my trembling hand in his, keeping my head low, so as not to see the sympathy in his gaze.

Brother Stephen led me outside. I squinted as the bright sun speared its blinding light into my eyes. The commune was deathly silent, my feet sounding like cracks of thunder on the ground.

“Harmony, this is Brother Ezrah,” Brother Stephen said.

I drew in a shaky breath. My fingers still trembled, my legs still shook, my breath came short . . . but I remained standing. I stood strong.

Two heavy-booted feet came into my sight. My heart beat too fast to be normal, pushing my blood too fast through my ears. Then a finger landed below my chin and roughly forced my head up. I heard the quick inhale of breath from the guard before me.

A warm gentle breeze brushed across my face, sending Brother Ezrah’s scent into my nose. Musk. He smelled of something musky. Subtle . . . familiar.

“Lift your eyes,” Brother Ezrah ordered. His tone brooked no argument. I silently counted to three, then lifted my head.

The minute our gazes collided, I saw a fire light in his eyes. He shifted his hand from my chin and ran it over my long blond hair. His fingers brushed delicately over my face, his blue eyes studying my dark brown. A slow smile tugged on his lips.

Brother Ezrah turned to Brother Stephen. “What is this? Why was she not declared sooner? The new prophet sent word to each commune asking for their girls to be assessed weeks ago. She should have been declared for our inspection.”

Brother Stephen feigned ignorance. My stomach dropped as Brother Ezrah turned to a lesser guard. “Contact the prophet. Tell him we have found a potential Cursed.”

My eyes fell closed. A Cursed. My stomach swelled with flutters of fear. But I knew it was hopeless to argue. His mind would not be changed. His eyes had confirmed what he believed to be true.

I was a devil’s whore.

“No. She is not,” Brother Stephen argued, but Brother Ezrah walked away, a new kind of determination in his steps.

I looked at my guardians, and a meaningful stare passed between us. I breathed deeply, knowing that the time had arrived. Yet fear still trickled into my veins like a thick poison. My family’s peaceful life here in Puerto Rico was over. We always knew the time would come. But it did not make it any easier.

My life was about to change forever . . .

*****

“I hate that he has me veiled,” I said, feeling every ounce of that hatred in my bones.

“If you are declared a true Cursed by the prophet, he plans for you to be kept from the congregation. He wants to introduce you to the people only when the time is right. They have no idea of your existence, Harmony. The prophet has revealed this time to be the end of days. The prophesized marriage between our leader and a Cursed has not yet come to pass. The people fear that without it we are all doomed to hell. Prophet Cain wants to wed you to show that we are the chosen people of God. That He has not abandoned us.”

Nausea clawed up my throat at the very thought of being married to the prophet. I had never met Prophet Cain. I had no idea what he was like. Our people in Puerto Rico were always the last to hear of any news from New Zion.

I expelled a humorless laugh. I would soon be married to a man I did not know. Even though it was my duty, what some would regard a privilege, all I felt was complete and utter disgust. My past experience with men like him was still scarred onto my heart . . . onto my skin.

My soul.

Sister Ruth tapped my arm. I blinked to clear my vision. I turned to see what she wanted, and she pointed out of the small window beside her.

I leaned across her body and peered down. All I could see were white clouds. Sister Ruth held up her hand. “Wait, they will clear again soon.”

I waited patiently, then just as she predicted, the clouds cleared. My heart raced as I viewed the green patchwork quilt below. Buildings stretched out for miles. My eyes widened at the sheer enormity of what I was seeing.

“New Zion,” Sister Ruth announced, no emotion in her voice.

I swallowed hard as I cast my gaze over as much of the sacred lands as possible. The plane began to turn, offering me a full view of the great commune. “It is so big,” I whispered, my eyes widening.

“Bigger than I could ever have imagined,” said Sister Ruth.

My hands began to shake on my lap. New Zion was huge. Our home in Puerto Rico comprised no more than ten acres. New Zion was vast . . . and it was completely secluded, out of the sight of prying eyes.

The perfect place for our people to exist well away from the outside world.

“Brother Stephen, do you want to see?” Sister Ruth asked. He kept his eyes forward and shook his head.

His lips were pursed and his eyes were narrowed. I looked back out of the window; the ground was approaching quickly. I guessed we were only minutes from landing.

I sat back in my seat and clasped my hands tightly together on my lap
.

You can do this.
You must.

The wheels of the plane suddenly hit the ground. The engines screamed as we began to slow.

We were here.

The gravel road crunched beneath the plane’s heavy tires, the sound filling the small cabin. I focused on keeping my fear at bay, but it seemed impossible. “I am scared,” I whispered. I shook my head, hating that I could not push that weakness away.

I felt Brother Stephen tense—I knew he felt guilty that I was here, in this position. Sister Ruth placed her hand on my shoulder and began straightening my veil and hair.

I watched her as she made sure I looked perfect—just what the prophet wanted. She sat back. “You really are beautiful, Harmony. He will not dispute Brother Ezrah’s claim, I am sure.”

I nodded, but all I felt was repulsion.

In Puerto Rico, I was never made to feel evil or devil-tainted by my guardians and our friends. And I knew that was not the norm. The scriptures we adhered to enforced the people’s fear of those branded a Cursed. Passage upon passage was written about the Cursed Sisters of Eve and their demonic allure. How they tempt innocent souls into their traps. Even worse were the chapters in Prophet David’s writings of how to rid them of that sin.

The physical tortures . . . the celestial joinings from the age of eight . . .

Cold shivers raced through my blood.

I knew here in New Zion I would be feared just as much as if the devil walked among our lands. I would be detested. Only when I married the prophet would I be given any mark of respect. If the prophet had thought this veil would protect me from the people’s judgment, he would be very much mistaken.

I would only stand out more.

The pilot entered the cabin and opened the plane doors. Humid air drifted in from outside. I heard the sound of vehicles rushing toward the plane. We had a few vehicles in Puerto Rico, but when I saw these ones stopping by the plane, I could see they were much bigger.

My pulse was hammering in my neck as the pilot let down the stairs. I heard the low murmur of voices, then footsteps jogging up to the cabin. A man appeared at the top, dressed all in black, holding a gun across his front. His assessing eyes roved over the small cabin, until they landed on me. I felt Sister Ruth and Brother Stephen tense.

The man, who I guessed was a disciple guard, smiled in my direction. His smile instantly made me feel as if I needed to bathe. His eyes lit up with excitement.

The guard quickly dropped his smile and addressed the people behind us. “I am Brother James. The front row will be leaving last. Everyone else must leave now. You will be taken to your new quarters and assigned your duties.”

The people did not need to be asked twice. They gathered their belongings and quickly disembarked. Our commune’s own disciple guards, Solomon and Samson, spoke to Brother James, and he issued them separate orders. They fit in perfectly next to the New Zion guards. They appeared physically menacing and lethal—exactly how the old prophet liked his harshest disciplinarians to look. Looking at Brother James, I was convinced that Prophet Cain was no different.