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Wrong. Wrong!

This was not about debt.

“Hello, sinners,” he said.

They were not in The Vice Territories.

“Welcome to New Covenant.”

He Maketh Me Lie Down

Buckeye wanted to vomit. A straight-jacketed woman on the opposite side of the group collapsed. Noises of shock went up from behind gags on all sides. The man in white stepped in their direction.

The guard who’d laid out the woman on the ramp was hauling her to her feet, steering her in among the rest of the captives. She made some disoriented sounds and swayed in her stance, but otherwise managed to stay upright.

“You agreed to deliver them on the fifteenth,” said the Covvie priest. “That was Tuesday.” He stopped and turned to August. “It’s Saturday.”

The traitor snorted like he wanted to spit on the ground, but then thought better of it. “The Vice don’t run on a schedule,” he said.

“All the more reason to abandon it.”

The priest’s attention returned to the filthy gaggle of Vicers huddled amid the guards. He approached a woman with short, blonde hair and lifted her chin with the side of his index finger. Turned her face this way and that. Buckeye thought she could see tears glassing blue eyes, but it could have been the bright overhead lights.

He moved next to a man, of a height with himself, but broader through the shoulders. An appraising eye moved over the ‘cargo’ August had brought, and the priest’s hand rose to rest on the man’s jaw. His thumb traced the fabric of the gag where it dug into cheek and split lips. The jacketed man looked like he wanted to set the priest on fire.

On he went, strolling with arms behind his back among the dozen or so unwilling visitors from the VT, pausing here and there to roll a lock of hair between fingers, to examine features.

The cassock hid everything but the priest’s hands and face; made him appear to glide over the concrete as he moved. White swept back from his temples among hair nearly black, and a silver cross as long as her fingers hung to the middle of his chest from a chain. Grave authority rolled off the man in waves.

When he stepped in front of Buckeye, it took all her defiance not to shrink back, not to make some humiliating noise. Eyes the pale grey-blue of judgment looked down a long straight nose at her. The oil-slick beauty of Skinner, back at The Rose, was the crude sculpting of a child compared to the features above the priest’s white collar.

“And what of this one?” he said to August while his eyes remained on her. “Your instructions were to collect from the houses of Lust. This is no harlot.”

His words made Buckeye’s attention shift to the captives around her. She’d been too wrapped up in the terror of standing in New Covenant to notice that, sure enough, the rest of them had clothing under their straight jackets that looked nothing like the plain threads she wore.

Flashier fabrics, though torn and dirtied from capture, shone all around. Any britches she saw were form-fitting to display curves, though bare legs dominated the scene, sticking out bruised and dusty from short skirts or showy underthings. There were damp remnants of styled hair and runny cosmetics.

August coughed, the first sound of uncertainty she’d heard from the arrogant pig. “You’re right, she ain’t,” he said. “Last stop on our list was The Yellow Rose, but we had to change plans. And we were runnin’ late as it was.”

The priest turned his head toward the blond man. Raised a dark brow that wanted an explanation, but would also reject every excuse.

“Found out The Rose is under new management. Rhoda Holland retired. Gave the place over to Maggie Bone.” August scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Couldn’t take one of the rentbodies. Ain’t nobody steals from Maggie B. We wouldn’t even’a made it here.”

The white-robed man smiled, and Buckeye couldn’t tell whether his thin amusement was for her or August. “You fear repercussions from this new whoremonger,” he said, still looking down at Buckeye, “when it is Judgment that should keep you stepping wise.” He flicked a glance at one of the guards. “Halve their pay.”

“Half? “

This from Wayland, still standing in the back of the truck.

“We had a deal, Mather,” said August, regaining some spine. “Twelve bodies. She ain’t six outta twelve.” He gestured to Buckeye, whose panic was rising at being bargained over like a pile of car parts.

The two guards closest to August removed their batons from their hips.

Mather. Why do I know that name?

Why did it make her want to piss herself? Again.

“You’re in no position to negotiate, Sinner,” said the priest, stepping back from the prisoners. “Allow this loss to teach you where your priorities should lie next time.”