Mae’s words were imprinted on my brain. And whenever I thought about her, I was hit by a wave of pain. The way the Cursed Sisters looked at me would forever be burned into my mind. They both feared and detested me. Worst of all, Mae was disappointed in me. She had thought me better than the behavior I displayed.
She was wrong.
I had been two men in my life. I was beginning to understand that neither of them were real. They were both the ultimate pretenders. Rider pretended to be a Hangman, but always stood on the outside, looking in. Cain pretended he was a prophet, outwardly faking strength, yet drowning in fear underneath. But if both of those men were a ruse, then who the hell was I? Who was the real me?
I had absolutely no idea.
Footsteps sounded outside my cell. Light spilled through the crack under the heavy door, and the smell of food hit my nostrils. My stomach growled with the need for nourishment; my mouth salivated with its need for water.
The lock turned, and a woman walked into the darkness. Her head was bowed and her face was turned away. She wore a long gray dress that covered her body from her neck to her feet, and a white headdress covered her head. As she placed the tray on the ground, her face came into view. My eyes widened in surprise when I saw a wayward strand of hair falling from her headdress. Red. Bright red. Her cheeks and nose were spattered with freckles, and her eyes were bright blue.
I know her . . .
Phebe.
Phebe settled the tray of food on the floor. She avoided all contact with my eyes. For days and days, I had had the same two women delivering my food and cleaning my wounds. Never before had Phebe come to me.
Phebe’s face was blank. Without addressing me or even glancing at my upturned face, she stood up and left the room.
My heart beat faster. Someone I had had previous contact with was now coming to my cell . . . my heart slowed, then sank. She would never believe that I was the real Cain.
She was programmed to believe everything her prophet told her.
It was useless.
I was on my own.
I forced myself to move into a sitting position, gritting my teeth as my limbs shook with the strain. My swollen eyes scanned the contents of the tray: vegetable broth, a hunk of bread, and a glass of water. I reached for the water first, draining the lukewarm liquid in record time. I gasped, breathless with relief. Ignoring the shaking of my hand, I sank the spoon into the broth and brought it to my lips. My raw flesh stung as the warm salty liquid seeped into broken skin. But I closed my eyes as the food hit my starving stomach.
Phebe returned with a basin and rag. Kneeling at my side, she began to wash away the blood from my skin. She was methodical and silent as she scrubbed. I watched her the whole time she worked. She kept her head bowed and low, avoiding my attention. She looked different to the last time I saw her. Her dress was even more modest. Her skin was too pale. I squinted at her cheek, at what looked like a fading bruise. Through my blurred vision, it was difficult to see in detail.
Phebe’s hand moved to my hair. Some of it was still stuck to my cheeks, the rest of the long, tangled strands clung to my chest, hiding my face from view. My brown beard had grown long, and it too was matted. I had avoided my reflection for five weeks, but I knew I would be hardly recognizable.
She turned her attention to my arms; I saw her stiffen as the dirt and blood washed from my skin. Her reaction was subtle, but I caught it all the same. My tattoos—the remnants from my Hangmen days—were slowly coming into view. My heart sped up as I waited for her to say something. As prophet, I wore a tunic; I was expected to cover my body. My people didn’t know that I had tattoos. But Phebe knew every inch of Judah’s body, his ink-free skin . . .
Her eyebrows pulled down, but she continued her work. When I was clean, Phebe got to her feet and, scooping up the basin and rag, swiftly left the room.
My body sagged in defeat.
Thunder peeled above, another wave of the powerful storm moving in. Slouching to the floor, I closed my eyes and tried to will myself to sleep. I knew I had only hours until the disciples would return to punish me.
I pressed my cheek to the hard stone floor and let the darkness take me.
If I was lucky, maybe I wouldn’t wake again.
Chapter Two
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.