Page 75 of The Preacher's Pet

“It won’t do any harm,” he says. “If he’s in her mind because she’s imagining him, this will help reduce that, and if he’s got some sort of powers that mean he’s really talking to her across space and time, then cutting the cord will help reduce his hold on her.”

“Do you honestly think the latter is possible?” I’m fucking skeptical myself.

“Who knows?” Malachi interrupts. “We’ve done shit, and it’s worked. Look at the Vipers. We did magic to give them a hard time and, fuck me, did they have a hard time.”

“Yeah, but we only wanted to bring them down a peg or two. What happened to them went way beyond what we did, or whatwe would ever have asked for. Karma is real, and we don’t mess with truly dark shit.”

Malachi rolls his eyes. “I know all of that,Cain.” He says my name as if speaking to a child and it annoys the fuck out of me. “The point is that we gave them a hard time, whether we meant for it to get that bad or not. The magic created some bad juju for them.”

“Or,” I suggest, “bad shit just happens randomly to people.”

“You’re starting to sound like a non-believer.” Malachi runs his fingers through his hair.

“I’m simply saying that believing this guy is so powerful he can access Ophelia’s mind is a bit much.”

“And you’re probably correct,” Roman says, ever the diplomat when Mal and I get into it. “But we can’t be one hundred percent sure. The small sliver of doubt is what makes doing the cord-cutting so essential. And if it’s all simply her mind playing tricks on her, it will help with that, too.”

The bathroom door opens, and Ophelia walks out.

Her dress is loose, but when she walks, it clings to her in a tempting way.

“I’m ready,” she says softly.

The three of us nod and don our masks. I pull the hood down over my head and face, enclosing my senses. Immediately, I feel like I’ve become someone else. My spine straightens, my muscle tense, and a new kind of energy fills me. It’s as though the mask elevates me to a greater power.

Adrenaline courses through my veins at what’s about to happen.

Roman walks to the switch and turns the overhead lights off, leaving only the flickering of the many candles.

“We made a cord-cutting spell for you to try,” he tells Ophelia. “We’ll start with this, do a brief cleansing over you, then we will begin the ceremony in the woods.”

He leads Ophelia to the two candles with the thick, red string draped around them. His gaze rakes up and down her body, the slender outline visible, but he says nothing.

“Tie this string in a way that you feel represents your relationship with the Prophet.” Roman hands her the ends of the string, and she takes it, rubbing it between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand.

“Simply tie it the way you want to, the way that feels right, then when you cut it, you will have cut the cord between you and him, too. But first, do you truly feel ready to do this. Deep down, do you want to let go?”

“Yes,” she says. “Of course, I do.”

“Very well.” Roman lights the candles and waits for Ophelia to tie the cord before he will pass her the scissors to cut it again.

42

OPHELIA

I fingerthe piece of red string, then tie it in the tightest knot I can manage.

If it represents the bind between me and the Prophet, it needs to be that way, because even though I’ve made my physical break from him, mentally and emotionally and spiritually, I’m still very much tied.

Sometimes I wonder if I hear him because I’m frightened he’s still out there, looking for me. It’s been over a year, and I’m sure if he was going to have found me and brought me back, he would have by now. It’s easy to tell yourself something, but it’s not so easy to truly believe it.

The Prophet most likely believes I’m dead—lost in the wilderness somewhere, probably eaten by wild animals. Even if he doesn’t believe that, trying to find me again would be foolish. Though we don’t know his real name, he’s still a wanted man for abducting a young girl. The police could still arrest him and lock him up for the rest of his natural life.

“Done?” Roman asks.

I draw in a breath and hold the knotted string back out to him. My hands are shaking. I tell myself it’s normal to benervous—what girl wouldn’t be, in my position? A part of me is trembling in anticipation, too, though.

He takes the string back from me and hands me the scissors.

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