What the buildings are for? It’s anyone’s guess. But there are several of them, each large and often surrounded by vehicles. The entire campus is a humming hive, though in an affront to nature, each worker bee seeks to please the king instead of the queen. The Prophet rules over it all, taking far more than he’s ever given.
“Move!” A Spinner gives me a light shove, and I climb onto the bus. It’s a short school bus that’s had every single surface painted white. The stiff seat is cool beneath me as I sit, and Sarah slides in next to me.
“Are you okay?” she whispers. Her eyes dart to the Protector in the driver’s seat, his gaze focused on the Maidens via a wide mirror above the windshield.
“I’ll live.”
In a gesture of pure rebellion, she grabs my hand and squeezes, then lets it drop as the Head Spinner boards the bus. She grabs the handles on either side of the aisle, and then we take off, easing over the smooth paved road that serves as the artery between the different parts of the compound.
The white windows give no clue about what lies on either side of the road. The only glimpse I get is through the windshield, but I can only glance every now and again.
We travel for a few minutes, moving up a steep slope, then cresting it and rolling down the other side. I consult my mental map, and try to place myself. It doesn’t help. We could be at one of three ridges on the sprawling compound. The ground levels out again, and the driver turns to the right. Another minute and he slows to a stop.
“Remember what I said, Maidens.” The Head Spinner opens the bus doors. “Best behavior.”
She steps out, and we follow, two other Spinners herding us into a line as we step out into the night and then through another set of double doors, not unlike the ones at the Cloister. But this building is different. The hallway we walk down is lined with various paintings and photos of The Prophet. He watches from every angle, sometimes smiling, sometimes stone-faced, always looking down. Unlike the log cabin look of the Cloister, this building has golden wallpaper in an intricate pattern and fancy chandeliers hung at intervals.
A low hum charges the air, and it grows louder as we take the twists and turns that lead us deeper into the structure.
The Head Spinner stops in front of a set of golden doors and holds up a hand. “You are entering one of the holiest places on the campus. This is the Temple. Here, you are like children before your Lord. Remove your clothing.” She snaps her fingers, and we dutifully obey, used to the dehumanizing constant nudity at this point. “When you are in this place, in His presence, you are more than yourselves. You are made holy, but only by the grace of the Prophet.” She adds an unnecessary note of menace. “Act accordingly.”
We stare at the floor like good little Maidens as the other Spinners gather our garments. The hum increases, low voices reverberating through my chest as they chant in unison. I can’t tell what they’re saying. I don’t want to know.
The doors open, and we file into a huge, circular room. The ceiling swirls away above us, veins of gold converging on a center golden emblem, an upside down cross gilded and glinting in the light of the candelabras. A dozen men kneel at the edge of the circle, their backs to the golden walls. Shirtless, they chant. I search for Adam. He sits at the back of the room, his eyes on me while the rest of the men bow their heads. White gauze wraps around his chiseled torso, though I can’t see any injury. I have to drop my gaze before the Head Spinner sees.
“Welcome.” The Prophet sits on a huge, crimson dais—made for a giant, not a man—at the center of the room. He wears a robe of white and a crown of golden laurel on his head. The circular floor has lines running through it, forming a pentagram. The Prophet sits at the center on his blood red throne.
“‘Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for such is the kingdom of God.’” He smiles, his angular face still handsome despite the corruption that dwells within.
The Spinners lead us forward until we form two lines in front of the Prophet. He motions for us to kneel on the pillows strewn about at his feet.
I sink onto a plush emerald pillow, the velvet soft on my knees but doing nothing to stop the chills that rake my skin. Another Maiden kneels directly before me, the one with the tattoo on her hip. Hannah, I think her name is.