Page 24 of The Preacher's Pet

A fresh wave of guilt washes through me. I don’t want to tell him how I never really thought about him. I don’t want to make him feel bad. How can I ever explain that the only way I could survive in that place was to tell myself the life I’d had before I was taken no longer existed. It hurt too much to think about my family and my best friend. It was as though I’d taken all those memories, put them in a box, and tucked them away in the back of my mind. I’d become the person I needed to be to survive. The girl who the man who had taken me wanted me to be. I’d convinced myself—at least in part—that I’d been born into that life. It was easier that way than constantly missing what I once had. After a while, it became real. Instead of having to force myself not to think about the past, the past became a strange place. Not only just another time, but another plane of existence. It felt unreal, like a foggy dream. I’d try to recall memories sometimes, only for them to slip away, out of my hold, and, in the end, it just got easier to give up trying altogether.

Wanting to change the subject again, I say, “I think I met one of your friends earlier.”

My cheeks warm as I remember the encounter. Actually, I’ve met both of his friends, but I don’t really want to bring up the weird confrontation I had with one of them in the cafeteria. I’m trying to put that out of my mind, and deep down I know Cain won’t like that the guy essentially told me to stay away from him. Not if he’s missed me and thought about me, and the last thing I want to do is cause trouble between them and end up getting blamed for it.

“Which one?” He seems interested. “Roman or Malachi?”

I bite my lower lip and wrinkle my nose. “Umm…I’m not sure. Dark hair, leather jacket, black nail polish.” The memory of kneeling on the floor with him comes rushing back to me, and my body suffuses with heat. I wonder if his friend already told him what happened.

Cain chuckles. “That’ll be Malachi. Roman’s the tall blond. I’m sure you’ll see him around, too.”

I force a smile. “Yeah, I’m sure I will.” I hope I don’t, though. Roman clearly dislikes me after the scary encounter I had with him, although I’ve no idea what I’ve ever done to offend him. Not wanting to linger on that, I push the thought out of my mind. I’ve become something of a master at doing that. Then I think of something else. “So, what’s with the name everyone calls you and your friends? Preachers? Why do you call yourselves that?”

The first time I heard that name it made me feel queasy and scared, and I still get a chill when I think of Cain being in a group of friends named that. Anything to do with preaching and proselytizing scares me now.

He laughs again, a low rumble in his chest. “We don’t call ourselves that…well, I suppose we do now, but we didn’t at the start. Someone else started the nickname for us, and I guess it just stuck.”

I still don’t fully understand, and I feel the urge to find out why they got this name. “Why would someone give you guys that nickname?”

He angles his head slightly, thinking. “If I remember right, Roman was trying to tell a group of students about his beliefs—how he thinks we can become stronger if we’re closer to nature—and he has this old cross that he wears. I think he might have been holding it around his neck while he was talking, and someone yelled the name at him—preacher. Because we’re his best friends, I guess we got tarred with the same brush, and that’s just what everyone calls us now.”

I’m curious, and my fear abates a little when he mentions nature. A belief in Mother Nature making you strong, and in her being healing, doesn’t sound too frightening.

“Do you all believe the same things?”

He shrugs. “Some of it, yeah. I think we’re too caught up in materialistic shit these days, and we place too much importance on it. I think the modern man misses a lot. We were never designed to spend most of our hours staring at screens or worrying about some arbitrary number the government has made up and placed on a piece of paper that’s supposed to give us our worth. We’ve been taught to be nothing more than cogs in the machine. It’s no wonder we’re all so fucked up.”

He’s right, we are all so messed up, but I don’t think any of my issues come from the pursuit of wealth or staring too much at a screen. In fact, it wasn’t until I returned home that I’d ever even owned my own phone. My parents had believed I was too young before I went missing, and the use of anything like phones or computers in the commune was strictly forbidden. I can’t exactly say that my enforced distance from technology has done me any favors.

He pauses and stares at me. I sense his gaze flick to the side of my face with the scar, then rest back on my eyes. I’ve always had slightly different colored eyes. People assume it’s something to do with my injury, but I looked this way before I was hurt. It’s called heterochromia, and it’s more common than people think—especially in people with blue eyes. It’s just a genetic mutation that means I produce more melanin in one eye than the other, but it still adds to me feeling like I’m different than everyone else. When I was little, I didn’t even think about it, because it was just who I was, but as I got older, I became more aware of how I didn’t look the same as everyone else. Some people have one blue eye and one brown, but my case is more like I have one albino eye, which is an extremely ice-blue color.

I suspect how I look is part of the reason I was taken.

I hate to think of it, but it comes rushing back to me, and I can smell him, hear his voice, see his thin lips break into a smile.Hesaw this girl with white-blonde hair and eyes that were two different colors and decided it must mean something. He was always seeing meaning in things that really meant nothing. A particular species of bird crossing his path meant we weren’t allowed to wash on a Friday, or the rain falling on a particular day indicated we should all fast for the next forty-eight hours. I can look back now and understand, at least in part, how crazy it sounds, but at that time, we believed he had a direct line with God, and if we didn’t do as God commanded, we’d be jeopardizing our eternal soul.

“This is new.” Cain lifts his hand and cups my cheek. The air freezes in my lungs at his touch.

If Malachi touching me had been worryingly exciting, this is overwhelming. He’s my childhood friend, and his touch is both familiar, but oh-so-different, too. His hand is rough in places, with callouses, I think. Does he work with his hands like the men in the commune did?

I can’t speak as he holds my cheek so softly and gently as if it’s a baby bird in his grasp. His thumb brushes over the raised, twisted scar running down the side of my face. When he speaks next, his voice is thick like he’s choking on something.

“Who did this to you, Angel?”

Angel. My heart slams against the cage it’s housed in, that name hitting my emotions deep. The way he says it is full of so much angst, too. As if he can’t bear to see the scar. Does he think it’s ugly? I hate the idea. I don’t say anything in reply to his question.

His jaw clamps shut, the muscles twitching. He stares into my eyes as though he expects to read the answer in my gaze.

My breath catches in my lungs and my eyes fill with tears. I can’t answer him, not yet. I’m not ready to speak about it. Not with him, of all people. There’s something between us that feels deep and wide, like a canyon, and if I step any farther toward the edge of it, I risk falling in.

I’ve already told Camile more details than I’ve told Cain, but for some reason it felt easier talking to her. Maybe it should be easier to speak to Cain, since we already know each other, but perhaps it’s because my relationship with Camile is a blank slate that makes talking to her simpler.

His touch on my face feels incredibly intimate—maybe even more so than if he was kissing me. His skin is warm and dry, and I want to lean into it, to press my cheek into his palm and close my eyes and just be with him.

A male voice hisses in my ear.Sinner! Fornicator! You’ll burn forever!’

With a yelp, I yank away from Cain, dislodging his touch. I practically fall off the bed in my hurry to get away.

I hate myself for reacting this way. Cain’s face twists in hurt, his eyebrows drawing down over his gaze. How can I possibly explain to Cain that it isn’t him? That it’s the voice of the man who once ruled my life with threats of eternal damnation. I spent my most formative years being told he knew every thought that went on inside my head, and I can’t shake the belief that he’s always with me. Always knowing. Always seeing. I know it’s crazy to still hear him, but I do.

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