The Maiden (The Cloister Book 1) Read online

  The Maiden

  Celia Aaron

  Celia Aaron

  Copyright © 2018 Celia Aaron

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Celia Aaron.

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  WARNING: This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language.

  DIRE WARNING: If you pirate this book, your soul will rot in hell.

  Cover art by Perfect Pear

  Cover model Tiffany

  Cover image by Wander Aguiar

  Content Editing by Evident Ink

  Copy Editing by Spell Bound

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Celia Aaron

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Sheer white fabric covers me from neck to toe. I keep my eyes on the dirt path ahead of me as I move through the dark, my thin shift a beacon in the night calling every sort of predator to me. I try not to shiver. Keeping my steps even becomes my world, my only focus. One step, then the next.

  I can’t think about the crackling branches, the footfalls through the crisp leaves, the low chant floating through the chilly air, or the women ahead or behind me. No. Only my own steps. Right, then left. The frozen earth beneath my bare feet. The momentum that carries me deeper and deeper into the woods.

  Firelight casts a faint glow as we continue moving forward, each of us rushing toward the cage, desire in our hearts, and fervor in our souls. We want to be shackled, owned, moved only by the spirit of our God. And our God has anointed one on earth to embody His good will. The Prophet Leon Monroe.

  The deep chant thrums through my veins as I approach the firelight, the orange glimmer flickering over my dirty feet and up to play against the soft fabric of my nightgown. Though clothed, I am bare. I enter the circle of men, each one of them dressed in white pants and shirts—holy men, handpicked by the Prophet himself.

  I follow the girl ahead of me until all of us form an inner circle, pressed between the fire and the men along the outside. It’s a new circle of hell, promising an agonizing burn no matter which way I move.

  A woman in all black walks along the line of women, handing each of us a small pitcher of water. My head bowed, I don’t look her in the eye as she approaches. But I already know who she is—Rachel—first wife of the Prophet. Her limp gives her away. I take my pitcher, the weight of the cold water steadying the shake in my hands.

  A strong voice silences the chanting. “We thank God for this bounty.”

  “Amen,” the men chorus.

  “We remember His commandment to ‘Be fruitful and increase in number.’ As a sign of our obedience to His will, we take these girls under our care, our protection. We also take them into our hearts, to cherish as if they were of our own blood.”

  “Amen.”

  His voice grows louder as he walks around the circle. “Just as Rebekah was called by the Lord to marry a son of Abraham, so have these girls been called to serve the godly men gathered here tonight.”

  A pair of heavy boots stops in front of me. A light touch under my chin pulls my gaze upward until I’m met by a pair of dark eyes. The Prophet peers into my soul.

  “Do you remember the tale of Rebekah, Sister?”

  “Yes, Prophet.”

  “I’m sure a child of God like you knows all the stories in the Bible.” He smiles, his white teeth bleached like a skeleton’s.

  “Yes, Prophet.”

  “‘The woman was very beautiful, a virgin; no man had ever slept with her. She went down to the spring, filled her jar and came up again.’ And then what happened to Rebekah?”

  “She was taken by Abraham’s servant.”

  “That’s correct.” He leans closer, his gaze boring into mine.

  A shiver courses through me. He glances down at my chest, a smirk twisting the side of his lips as he sees my hard nipples through the gauzy fabric.

  He releases my chin and steps back, continuing his circuit as he speaks of Rebekah’s destiny. I steal a look at the man standing opposite me. Blond hair, blue eyes, a placid expression—the Prophet’s youngest son. Something akin to relief washes over me. Being Cloister Maiden to Noah Monroe wouldn’t be so bad. He was rumored to be kind, gentle even. I let my gaze slide to the man standing at his left. Dark hair, even darker eyes, and a smirk like his father’s on his lips as he stares at me—Adam Monroe. I drop my gaze and silently pity the Maiden to my right.

  “We will keep you safe. Away from the monsters of this world who would seek to use you, to destroy the innocent perfection that each one of you possess. Remember the story of Dinah: ‘When Shechem, son of Hamor the Hivite, the ruler of that area, saw her, he took her and raped her.’ And so it is with any man who is not within this circle. They would take you, hurt you, and cast you aside once they’ve spoiled your body and heart. Only in the Cloister can you lead peaceful lives without fear.”

  I wonder if Georgia heard the same speech. She must have. How long did they let her live after this ritual? The thought churns inside me, surprisingly strong, and hate begins to override my meek persona. Breaking character for a split second, I glance back up at Adam Monroe. Had he been the one to slit her throat? Had his large hands done untold violence to Georgia while she was still alive?

  He scowls at the shivering Maiden standing in front of him, then snaps his gaze to meet mine. His eyes round the slightest bit, and I drop my focus back to the dirt, then close my eyes. I shouldn’t have done that. I silently berate myself as Leon—no, he’s the Prophet—as the Prophet continues his lesson on the safety of the Cloister. I let my disguise fall back into place. I am a devout follower of the Prophet and eager Cloister Maiden. The hum of my thoughts grows louder, and I realize the Prophet has stopped talking.

  I open my eyes and peek at the Maiden to my left. She’s lifted her pitcher, her eyes still downcast. I do the same.

  “The water signifies an offering from Maiden to her Protector. A righteous man—one who will teach her and lead her in the light of the Lord our God. The Protector is sanctified by God, and his decisions will always be made in the best interest of the Maiden under his protection. Just as God instructed in Genesis, the man is leader, the woman his helpmate. And so it will be here. The Protector—with God in his heart—shall lead his Maiden and show her the ways of true believers.”

  “Amen.” The men’s voices seem t
o have grown louder, hungrier.

  “Now, Maidens, offer yourselves as vessels made to carry the knowledge and light of our Lord, to your Protector.”

  With shaking arms, I hold out my pitcher. A brief brush of fingers against mine, and the weight lifts. After a few moments, the drained pitchers fly over our heads and crash into the fire at our backs. A primal roar rips from the men—wolves with appetites whetted for blood.

  “Protectors, lead your gentle lambs back to the Cloister where we will welcome them into the fold.”

  A hand appears, the wide palm up. I take a deep breath and remind myself that Noah is a good draw. Slipping my hand into his, I lift my eyes to find the entirely wrong man attached. Noah leads a different woman away from the bonfire.

  Adam’s smirk darkens as he grips my hand too tight. “Shall we, little lamb?”

  Chapter 2

  Adam

  The Cloister—a vast log cabin complex—appears through the trees. I pull the Maiden along with me, her bare feet skittering over dry leaves and pine needles. She doesn’t complain. They never do. My father’s little army of Maidens always behaves perfectly at first. The problems wouldn’t begin until later tonight.

  We exit the woods, and she picks up her pace on the grass expanse. The other Protectors and Maidens follow us, none of the women making a sound as the men grunt and laugh.

  I yank my Maiden closer. “Hurry up.”

  She starts to pull against my grip, then seems to reconsider and allows me to continue half-dragging her to the Cloister. A little hint of spark flares in her eyes, then quickly dies. I saw it at the fire ritual—the great theater my father just loves to put on every year when we have a new Maiden crop. I’d switched with Noah because of that hint of something hidden inside this one, but it was likely a stupid choice on my part. After all, she’d signed up to be a Cloister Maiden. There was no backbone inside her, no keen intellect. Just another lamb to the slaughter. The thought makes me grit my teeth as I pull her inside the doorway leading to the banquet hall.

  A few Spinners kneel to the side, bowls of warm water next to them.

  “Wash.” I shove my Maiden toward them and point at her filthy feet.

  She follows my command like an obedient little supplicant, pulling up her shift and allowing one of the Spinners to sponge the dirt away. When I first spotted her walking through the trees, I did a double take. A fairy—her hair white, her skin pale—she seemed to float along the path. Watching her now, I realize she has gray eyes, ones that hardened to flint as she peered at me during the ritual. I thought I’d sensed something more in her … A trace of defiance. But it can’t be. If she was dumb enough to fall for my father’s line of “chosen one” bullshit and leave her life for the Cloister, there was no way she had any real wheels turning in her skull. Just blind devotion, ignorant worship, and foolish faith.

  A Spinner dries the girl’s feet. My Maiden looks young, early twenties at most. Features too delicate to be real, easy to break. Medium height, small build, light pink nipples at attention beneath her shift and a waist that narrows before flaring out to full hips. Light penetrates between her thighs, giving me the outline of her sex. That one little hint isn’t enough. I want more.

  “Come.” I hold out my hand.

  She glances down at the Spinner, hesitation in her eyes.

  “I said come.”

  There it is again, a flare of defiance, but she buries it and slips her small hand into mine. Something flaps in my chest, its wings dry and brittle, the feathers rotted and the bones showing through. Interesting.

  The others begin filing in, the Spinners washing the girls’ feet as the men wait, their claws desperate for the soft touch of new flesh.

  I pull my Maiden through to the Banquet Hall. The Spinners decorated it for the ceremony, white fabric covering the tables, hanging from the wooden rafters, and draped all along the platform at the front of the room. The familiar throne sits at one end of the stage, the gaudy velvet cushions better suited to a seedy champagne room. Candles burn in the black wrought-iron chandeliers overhead, the faux antiques mixed with modern equivalents and electric lights. After all, this is a show.

  My father’s booming voice echoes into the room, the dark corners greedily devouring his words. “Welcome, Maidens. Welcome to your new home.” He strides in, all eyes on him, just the way he likes it. “Every need you have will be met. Only you, the Spinners, and the Protectors are allowed into the sacred space of the Cloister. Each of you will be assigned a room and given tasks to further your service to God. But more about that later. First, we celebrate your arrival!”

  He struts down the center aisle, the Maidens following him, their eyes downcast. My Maiden seems to forget herself and lifts her chin, watching the scene as if she isn’t part of it. I disavow her of any such notion by thrusting her into the line of Maidens. She stumbles, then rights herself, falling into line and walking toward the front of the room.

  My father takes the first girl’s hand and leads her up the three steps to the white platform. He waits as all the Maidens rise and take their places. Lambs patiently waiting for their throats to be cut. I stand in the shadows as the other men line up, practically salivating.

  “Why’d you swap?” Noah sidles up to me.

  “Not sure.” I focus on my Maiden, her hands folded in front of her.

  My father sermonizes on the tale of Esther, his voice having long ago fallen to nothing more than background noise for me.

  “She’s got a strange look.” Noah stuffs his hands into his pockets, resigned to our father’s yearly song and dance. “I was almost looking forward to her.”

  “She’s just another idiot. Like all these. Eating up Dad’s lies and asking for another serving.”

  He sighs, but doesn’t comment on my blasphemy. “I don’t know if I’m up for another year of this. I’m spending so much time on the money side. The Maiden duty is going to cut into that.”

  “No way out of it.” I scowl at my father as he weaves his tale about old kings needing young virgins. “He says this is a perk, you know? Giving us women like this. But it’s just a chore. Another fucking job to be done.”

  “One that doesn’t pay off. At least not for us.” He shakes his head.

  “No shit.” I cross my arms over my chest, my gaze wandering back to my Maiden. Her hair covers her face in delicate curtains, her hands clutching each other as if she knows something bad is coming.

  She has no idea.

  “And so, to honor the Lord our God, I shall give each of you your new names. In the light of love, and of rebirth, you must come to me as a child.” My father strides to the throne and sits, an indulgent smile on his face. “Come to me.” He motions the first girl to him.

  She walks over, eager to please him.

  “Remove your garment, my dear, and I shall receive you as a child and give you the name that God intended for you.” He licks his lips. The wolves circle closer to the stage.

  The girl blinks. “Naked?”

  “Yes. You are being reborn. All children come into this world innocent and naked.” My father states it as if it’s perfectly normal to ask a young woman to strip in front of him and a bunch of strangers.

  But the girl is under his spell. She truly believes that what he’s saying is right. Slowly, she lifts her shift, revealing a patch of dark hair between her thighs and full breasts with brown nipples.

  That’s my father’s gift—he can tell a crowd of ten thousand to stop drinking milk, start taking vitamins, stop vaccinating their kids, start wearing more pink, and they will do it. He can make the absurd seem reasonable. People believe he has a direct line to God. And why do they believe that? Because he told them. His gift manifests in many ways, the yearly crop of virgins at Heavenly Ministries being one of them.

  “My child, you are truly blessed.” He runs his lascivious gaze all over her body. “And because of this, your name shall be—”

  “Mary.” Noah rolls his eyes. The first one is al
ways Mary.

  “Mary.” My father proclaims.

  “Thank you, Prophet.” She reaches for her shift.

  “No, my dear. Stand proud with your sisters.” He points to the next girl as a Spinner pulls the girl’s shift from her grasp.

  Over the space of the next ten minutes, each girl is required to strip, their bodies laid bare as the men watch. The recruiters picked well this year, brainwashing mostly attractive women into the Cloister program with promises of safety, peace, and sisterhood. The sales pitch leaves out a few key elements, but they’ll learn it all soon enough.

  When it’s my Maiden’s turn, I find myself becoming a little too interested.

  She approaches my father, and, unlike the other girls, removes her shift before he even asks, and tosses it to the floor. Now, for a man like my father, he’d take that as a sign of faith in him, of devotion to the Cloister. But me, I take it for what it is—an open “fuck you” to my father. She’s meeting the ugliness of the charade head on. The bird flaps its bony wings inside me again, waking after a long slumber.

  “You, my dear, are sacred. Just look at you.” He twirls his finger, and she turns in a circle at his command. Her long white hair flows down her back, light pink nipples pebbled in the cool air, and a hint of blonde curls between her thighs. Her gray eyes remain hidden from me. I want to see them, to see her. Not her body, but whatever simmers inside.

  “Come closer.” My father takes her hand and pulls her until their knees are touching. He darts his tongue to his lips.