Page 44 of A Silence So Divine

My brother’s nostrils flare, and I can tell by the rapid rise and fall of his chest that he wants to argue.

“I will bring her back,”I promise, keeping my expression firm. Confident. It’s the same mask I’ve always worn to protect him. This time, though, it’s harder to maintain, and I struggle to meet his eyes.

Creed begins to sign, but then drops his hands and wrings his fingers together. After a long exhale, he squares his shoulders.

“I love her.”

The confession is a blow to my chest, because I know he means it. I’ve never seen my brother so desperate, and losing Eden will destroy him.

I’m not sure I would fare much better.

“I understand,” is the only reply I can manage.

I’ve walked the perimeter of the property twice, and haven’t found a hint of her. No footprints, no broken branches, no scraps of fabric or disturbance in the leaves. My years with the Brothers of Divinity have turned me into the perfect hunter, and I can track down almost anyone or anything. But not her. It’s like she vanished—a ghost among the trees.

When I was first “employed”, I had to go through the process of proving my allegiance. Basically, I would do the bitch work, cleaning up blood splatter and refilling coffee mugs. Fortunately, being raised by our father, I perfected a blank face and strong stomach before I learned to ride a bicycle.

After over a year of scrubbing floors, I got moved up to patrol. That’s what the asshole I had to bury had been doing. They travel on foot, looking for anyone or anything they deem suspicious. Whenever I was alone and would find a target, I would tell them to run as far as they could, but those instances were few and far between. Typically, I would be accompanied by other men and had to perform my duties. I’m not proud of it, but I would do anything for my brother. Eventually, I’ll make a better world for him. For now, though, I have to play my part.

I never wanted blood on my hands, but at this point, I’m damn coated in it.

The sour taste of defeat rises from the depths of my gut, and I swallow hard in an attempt to rid it. It doesn’t help. I pull a cigarette from the box in my jacket pocket. Flicking the lighter a few times, I burn the end and take a deep drag. Back at the house, I lean against my truck and rack my brain for what to donext. On foot, she couldn’t have made it far. Did someone take her? The ground is soft, I would have seen tracks.

The unrelenting sun has me raising a hand to shield my eyes as I take another look around the surrounding fields. I was meant to be back at the Sanctuary by now. If I don’t show up, Curran will have my ass.

My hand pauses halfway to my lips, the cigarette dangling from my fingertips. If shewasfound, there’s only one place she would be taken. Dropping the butt of my smoke to the mud, I circle my truck and hop behind the wheel.

Nineteen

Eden

Once again, I find myself in a situation where my head throbs and my arms are bound. It doesn’t get any easier the second time around, apparently.

My vision is fuzzy as I peek my eyes open one at a time. Bright lights slice into my corneas and steal my sight. Voices murmur around me, low and indistinguishable, but the slight echo lets me know that the room I'm in is large.

As opposed to the last time I was held captive, I’m standing. A beam of sorts is pressed to my spine, my arms wrapped around it. The rope is brittle, creating friction burns against my wrists.

Keeping my chin tucked against my chest, I study my bare feet and the concrete floor beneath. Ruddy stains have sunk into the concrete, fading seamlessly into the grayish color of the stone. Spilled paint or spilled blood? I could take a guess.

Testing the ropes that bind me, I twist my hands slowly, not wishing to alert them that I've waken.

The sound of footsteps grow near and I freeze, attempting to appear unconscious.

“You would’ve fooled me, if it weren’t for the way you tremble.”

The words are tiny shards of glass, sinking into my skin. It bears such a resemblance to the way Papa spoke, I’m not sure whether it’s in my head or not. The voice is different, but thewayin which he speaks is so familiar to me. Slow, soft,piercing.

“Look at me, child,” the man murmurs. The feel of a soft hand caresses my chin before raising my face to his. Whether it’s stubbornness or fear, I keep my eyes squeezed shut.

“Look at me before I remove your eyelids and you no longer have a choice.” His tone is cajoling, but his grip tightens until my jaw screams in agony.

Relenting, my eyes peel open. The man before me is so ordinary that it takes me by surprise. He’s my height, with white thinning hair, a round belly, and circular eyeglasses perched on a sharp nose.

“There you are,” he smiles. I frown.

A half dozen men stand nearby, watching our interaction. It’s then I realize I’m placed on a podium, raised above the rest and forced into the center of attention. Stares burn holes into my decaying courage.

Stained glass windows line the tops of all four walls, each one depicting a different scene from the Book. Papa had many similar paintings throughout the house. It does little to comfort me.