Twenty-Seven

Some things you don’t need to see to believe because deep down, in the very core of your being, you know they’re true. And I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Elijah wasn’t simply capable of sending me to the devil … he was the devil.

His grip on my neck loosened, and his hand moved to my waist. Pinpricks of sweat beaded up on his forehead, a sign that, if nothing else, I was at least making things difficult for him. Good. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“Again,” Elijah said to his brother as he refastened the scarf to my wrist. It was shorter now, nearly half the length, so the binding was tighter.

“Hold still,” he said.

The velvet nature of his voice was gone, his words curt and full of warning. The sharp glint of the blade sent ripples of fear through me, and I searched the crowd for Joseph. I may have blamed him for everything that had happened … was still happening. But in the end, he was the closest thing I had to an ally in here, and I needed him.

“Rebekah?” Elijah’s gaze swept between Joseph and me. He’d seen my silent plea for help. “You can’t be that naïve. You think I don’t see the way you look at him? The way he looks at you? I know why he left that day. Know exactly why he dragged you back here with him. He can’t save you or Eden. He doesn’t have that kind of power. Only I do.”

Turning toward his followers, Elijah cleared his throat and announced, “The rite to perform the marriage ceremony is reserved for those of the highest realm—myself and my brothers. This ritual has ensured the purity of our bloodline, not only by binding wife to husband, but also by binding the couple to this community.”

Hell no, I thought to myself. Elijah wasn’t interested in binding husband to wife. The only thing he was interested in was binding everybody in this town to him.

“Today we break from that tradition,” he continued, and I shifted my weight, wondering what he had in store for me now. “Today my son, Joseph, the future of our prophecy, of Purity Springs, will have the honor of performing this most sacred of our rituals.

The color drained from Joseph’s face as he rose slowly from his pew and walked toward us.

“Please,” I choked out. “Let one of your brothers do it.”

Elijah placed a finger to my lips, silencing me. “You think he won’t hurt you, that it is you who controls him?” he asked. “Joseph is my son. My son. He may have flashes of his mother’s weak will, but he was raised by me. Molded by me. You’d be wise to remember that.”

My heart stopped as I processed his words. If I couldn’t trust Joseph, then I was screwed. Literally screwed.

“On the other hand,” Elijah continued, his hand brushing away the tears streaming down my face, “I’m not the monster you’re making me out to be. Should you cooperate, I’ll give you an hour with your friend. An hour to say goodbye to the boy who drove in here with you. Perhaps such a kindness on my part will enable you to put your past behind you for good.”

Hope surged through me. I didn’t care that Elijah only offered because he needed me to cooperate or because his precious followers believed I was the eager virgin-bride he’d made me out to be. All that mattered was that I was going to get to see Luke.

“Do you understand what I am proposing, Rebekah?” he asked.

I swallowed down a strangled sob and nodded. It took all of two seconds for me to extend my arm and accept his hideous offer. An ounce of my blood for an hour with Luke, for the possibility of escaping … yeah, I’d do that.

Elijah grasped my hand and pressed our forearms together. “Are we ready?

“I’m ready,” I said, and the congregation rose to their feet, all eyes watching him. Watching me.

“Do not be afraid, Rebekah. With the Lord’s help, my strong and capable hands will guide us both through this union.”

A confident smirk played across Elijah’s lips as he took the knife from his brother’s hand and held it out for Joseph to take. Joseph hesitated, his hands trembling as he reached for the blade.

“Shallow, Joseph,” Elijah said. “We are not trying to cleanse, merely bind.”

Joseph laid the blade across his father’s palm and I willed him to slice deep, to spill every last drop of Elijah’s disgusting blood. He carefully drew the blade back, a thin trail of red welling up against his father’s skin.

Elijah smiled in approval and fisted his hand, the motion producing a small stream of blood that trickled down his hand to where our wrists were bound together. The blood was so dark it looked like ink, like the purplish black of the night sky before a storm. I fixed my eyes on it as it flowed, the warmth of it horrifying and nauseating.

I held back a whimper as the blade touched my skin. I could see Elijah’s blood tainting the metal, warm and wet against the palm of my hand.

“I’m sorry,” Joseph whispered, but I didn’t respond. Sorry wasn’t going to do either of us any good now.

Blinking back tears, I looked at Joseph and silently gave him my permission. He needed to do this. For Luke. For Mike. For Eden, he needed to do this.