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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

MERCY

T rue to his word, Ambrose gets me home safely, winding us through the darkness as if he’s lived at the Church of the Well his entire life. It’s almost like he doesn’t even need to see the walking trails.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers as we pass by the administration building, closed up tight for the evening. “The closest guard is patrolling along the fence. We’re in the clear.”

“How could you know that?” I whisper back, glancing sideways at him. It’s so dark out here that I can barely make out his features, but I know when he looks at me, because his eyes catch the light strangely, and for a moment, they gleam like a cat’s.

“Just do.”

I wonder if it’s God speaking through him. That feels blasphemous to consider, given what we just did in the bunker. Or rather, it feels like it should be blasphemous—the truth is, everything that’s happened tonight has felt completely right in a way I’ve never experienced before. I’m used to the opposite, to everyone in the Church of the Well telling me that something’s right even though it feels deeply, profoundly wrong .

Like being Reverend Gunner’s helpmeet. Or offering myself to Pastor Sullivan.

I know what Reverend Gunner would say, that sin always feels good and doing the right thing always feels difficult. That it’s God’s way of testing us and Satan’s way of seducing us. I’ve always accepted that.

But tonight—tonight I wonder if maybe I’ve had it backward all this time.

We turn onto my street, which I recognize even in the dark. My heart constricts. I don’t want to go home. I want to go back to Ambrose’s cabin and fall asleep in his bed.

“There you are,” Ambrose says as we come to my porch. I stare up at my front door, fear twitching through my body. Not fear of the killer, though. Not fear of the devil. Fear that everything I’ve learned has been a lie, that Ambrose gave me my first glimpse of Heaven and I’ll never get to experience it again.

But I still can’t bring myself to ask Ambrose to take me with him. Because why would he agree to such a thing?

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says stiffly, and he presses his lips against my cheek. It’s not chaste. His kiss lingers, and then he repeats it on my mouth—quick, urgent, hungry.

Tomorrow. Maybe I’ll gather up the strength to ask him tomorrow.

I nod, my mouth too dry to speak. I can feel him staring at me through the dark even though I can’t really see him, his face a blur of shadows.

“Good night,” I manage to whisper.

“Good night, Mercy.”

I love it when he says my name. It makes my whole body light up like Christmas.

He reaches over and smoothes his hand over my hair, his touch gentle even as it reminds me of how hard he pulled on it earlier, like he was trying to drag me up to meet him. The space between my legs flares with heat .

“Good night,” he says again, and then his hand falls away, and then he’s gone.

For a minute, I stand there, listening to his footsteps retreat into the darkness. They’re faint, and I have to strain to hear them, to let myself know this wasn’t all a dream.

It wasn’t a dream. But whatever it was—it’s over.

At least for now , I tell myself, and then I hear Ambrose’s smoky voice:

See you tomorrow.

I let myself into my tiny yard but don’t go back into the house just yet. I want to stay out in the damp night air, the dew settling on my skin. Part of me wonders if I’m tempting the killer. Maybe if I can draw him out, Ambrose will appear to save me.

I pace around my tiny garden, my thoughts racing. I don’t want to go back inside. I don’t want to go back to my bedroom and strip out of my dress and fall asleep in my little twin bed.

What I want, truly, is to walk out of here and all the way to Ambrose’s cabin. I want to kneel in front of him and beg him to take me far, far away from the Church of the Well. Away from the murders. Away from Reverend Gunner. Away from all of it.

I barely realize what I’m doing until I’m walking swiftly along the sidewalk beside my house, arms crossed over my chest, heading straight to Ambrose’s cabin.

Walking alone is terrifying. I can barely see in front of me, and the darkness amplifies the night sounds, turning every insect rattle and frog croak into a killer’s footsteps. I’m halfway to his cabin when my speed-walking becomes a jog, my breasts bouncing uncomfortably without their bra. I keep my gaze focused ahead, working on kid logic—if I don’t see the killer, then the killer can’t see me.

It doesn’t work, of course.

“Who’s there?”

I freeze when I hear the voice, just around the corner from Ambrose’s cabin. A flashlight sweeps across the road and shines in my eyes, blinding me like a deer. I’m too terrified to move.

“Mercy? What are you doing out here?”

And then, like that, I know who it is.

“Deacon Price?” I squint into the light and wrap my arms tighter around my chest. My voice sounds quick and panicky, and I know I need to come up with an excuse for being out at night. And fast.

“You can’t be out here.” Deacon Price moves the flashlight out of my eyes and steps up to me, frowning. “It’s not remotely safe. There’s a killer .”

“I kn-know,” I stammer out. “But I—Reverend Gunner wanted to see me, and?—”

“And he sent you home alone?”

Deacon Price knows I’m lying. I can hear it in his voice, the chiding, vaguely patronizing tone.

But what other excuse do I have? I can’t tell him the truth.

“Yes.” I try to add an air of authority to my voice.

“So why are you here?” Deacon Price says. “You would have passed your cabin five minutes ago.”

My heart pounds furiously in my ears. He’s right. I messed up. “I—I must have gotten turned around?—”

“You’re going to see that traveling preacher,” Deacon Price says lightly. “Aren’t you?”

Panic surges in my chest, and I shake my head no because if I try to say it out loud, he’ll immediately tell that I’m lying.

“Does Reverend Gunner know that?” Deacon Price steps closer to me. Close enough to be uncomfortable. “That you’re— visiting someone else? In the middle of the night?”

His voice drips with contempt, and I can feel him leering at me in the dark.

“We shouldn't be out here,” I say shakily.

“No.” Deacon Price shakes his head slowly. “No, you shouldn’t be out here. I’m the congregation’s first line of defense against the devil that’s been stalking our people.”

I take a shuffling step backward. “I’ll go home now,” I say quietly, my throat dry with fear.

Deacon Price just stares at me, the flashlight at his hip.

“Good night, Deacon.” I whirl around on my heel.

But Deacon Price grabs me by the arm, his grip firm. I cry out, and he jerks me up to him and slaps his hand over my mouth. “What are you going to give me?” he says softly, his breath warm on my ear, “so that I don’t tell Sterling you were going to see Ambrose Echeverría in the middle of the night?”

“I wasn’t!” I cry out, although my protests are muffled by his hand.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Deacon Price walks me backward, away from the sidewalk and into the yard of the closet cabin. An empty cabin. “The two of us are going to have some fun. And in exchange, I won’t tell anyone I saw you out here. Understood?”

I close my eyes, trying to trap the tears, and tell myself this isn’t as bad as it could be. Deacon Price could have marched me to Reverend Gunner’s house and told him everything.

Or I could have met the killer.

Instead, I just have to do what I always do as a helpmeet: lay back and let him take what he needs.

But I don’t want to. I’m sick of this life. Sick of being used. I struggle against Deacon Price’s grip and try to bite at his palm, but it’s no use. He’s too strong for me.

“Stop that,” he snarls. “Behave, or I’ll tell Reverend Gunner everything.”

I whimper, a few tears streaking over my cheeks. But I do relent, because what choice do I have?

Deacon Price pulls me sideways, one hand still on my mouth and the other wrapped around my arm. The empty guest cabin looms beside us .

“Good thing these places are fully furnished, huh?” he laughs. “Henry told me how familiar you are with the beds in here.”

Shame and humiliation surge through me. Henry is Pastor Sullivan. He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone what we did, aside from his wife—part of his arrangement with Reverend Gunner. But it did happen in one of these empty guest cabins.

Deacon Price unlocks the back door and shoves me inside. The cabin is cool and dark. He finally lets me go when he kicks the door shut, and I fold my arms over my chest, heart pounding, all my senses on high alert. He grins down at me, his teeth very white.

I wish I could punch them and watch them shatter. But I know I’m not strong enough.

“Now, I gather you know what to do from here?” He unbuckles his belt and slides it out of the loops with a snap. “Get to it. I can’t be gone too long.”

I feel numb. Not even thirty minutes ago I was on my hands and knees for Ambrose, moaning with an intense pleasure that felt so unbelievably right even though, technically, it was a bigger sin than what I’m about to do now.

Because I wanted it. Because I wanted him .

“Reverend Gunner will be upset if he finds out—” I start, but Deacon Price just cuts me off with a sharp laugh.

“When he finds out you’re fucking that preacher?”

My face flares with heat. He can’t possibly know that. He’s just guessing. “I’m not!” I cry. “He’s just been offering me counseling, and I was upset, and?—”

“It’s nearly two in the morning.” Pastor Price peels his shirt off, revealing the firm muscles underneath. “No one goes to counseling at two in the morning.” He grins, then, and runs his hands over his ridged stomach. “Like what you see?”

No. I don’t. I jerk my gaze away, fix it on an empty spot on the floor .

“Better than Sterling, no doubt.” Deacon Price grabs my chin and forces me to look at him. There’s no tenderness in it, the way there is with Ambrose. “Better than that preacher, too.”

I don’t say anything. Deacon Price lets me go, steps back, and pulls a cell phone out of his pocket. My chest constricts, and then I can barely breathe when he swipes it open and shows me what he’s pulled up:

Reverend Gunner’s phone number.

“Get to work,” Deacon Price says. “Or I’m telling him everything.”