God of Monsters (Juniper Unraveling #4) - Keri Lake Page 0,10

come to be acceptable? Who decided defiling girls this way was okay?

Warm skin brushes over my arm, and I look up to find Mother Chilson staring down at me with the same pride as every other mother tonight.

Disgusting.

She urges me to my feet, and when I glance back and see Aaliyah hiding her face in her palms, I wrench my arm away. The warmth in Mother Chilson’s expression hardens.

“It’s time, child. Let’s not delay the ceremony.”

No. We mustn't delay the molestation of young girls.

This isn’t the same church I attended as a child. This isn’t the God I’ve come to love. This is a cult. No God, nor Father, would find this acceptable.

The new religious movement began about seven years ago, after Father James passed and the new pastor took over. It’s become far more political, its purpose more obscure.

Questionable, but perhaps only to me.

“I can’t.” Shaking my head, I take a step back from her. “I can’t do this.”

Lips tight with frustration, she leans in. “Your mother and brother are counting on you. What would your father say, if you refuse?” Voice low, as if to keep the other girls from hearing the threat in her words, she tightens her grip on my arm.

Instinct tells me to run.

It’s only the thought of what will happen to my mother and brother that gives me pause, and I blink to hide the tears.

“It’ll be over soon.”

Mother Chilson’s words fail to bring me comfort. Because it won’t be over soon. This is only the beginning. There will be other men. All will be expected to be gentle, but some won’t. A rumor circulated a year ago, about a Daughter who was brutally violated by one of the men who called upon her. As I understand, she’s now living the high life in one of the big mansions, relieved of her duties, but even so. Lucky her.

Your mother and brother are counting on you.

Grant will surely suffer the worst of it, as protective as he is. Whores are shunned. Brothers of whores are ridiculed and bullied, to no end.

I step into the room that’s lit only by candles around what looks like an altar. An older man with white hair waits beside an ornately-carved wooden table. The craftsmanship is flawless and looks sturdy enough, likely to hold both sacrifice and sacrificer.

By the time I reach the table, my muscles feel as if they’re on the verge of giving out on me.

Hands grip my shoulders, turning me toward the old man, Father Parsons. The Shepherd, as he likes to call himself, whose eyes sparkle with twisted fascination as they cruise over my body. As if I haven’t known this man as a father for the last seven years. As if he’s seeing me as something else entirely right now.

“Such a beautiful, nubile creature.” He ushers me onto the table, and with a small bit of hesitation, I climb on, allowing him to lay me on my back. The cold wood, where Aaliyah lay just minutes ago, presses into my spine, and he adjusts my dress to ensure the back of it is spread beneath me to catch the fallen drops of blood. As soon as the door closes behind Mother Chilson, the old man climbs the few steps at the other end of the table and allows his robe to fall from his stark naked form.

Oh, my God.

This is when his age becomes grossly apparent to me, in the sagging, wrinkled skin of his body, only exacerbating the thoughts that this cannot happen. I cannot let this man, The Shepherd, the supposed conduit between me and God, do this to my body.

He takes a moment to grab a cloth from a golden bowl, and washes his semi-flaccid organ in front of me. As if this brings me any level of comfort for what comes next. An object at the base of his penis resembles a jeweled ring, and when he positions himself over top of me, lifting the hem of my dress away from my naked lower half, a wave of nausea curls up my throat that I have to swallow back.

He tips his head forward, kisses my breast through the fabric, and at the first touch, fight or flight slams through my veins. I squirm beneath him, to wriggle myself free, but his grip tightens, his wild eyebrows coming together in a frown. “Hold still, girl!”

As he takes himself in hand, I look around for something, anything. I reach for an ornate, golden