Race the Darkness (Fatal Dreams, #1)(78)

“Chosen One said Shayla, my wife, my life, my only love, would have to endure the demon box as soon as you were birthed. Six days, six nights in the box. No food. No water. No shelter from the heat. If she died before the lid was lifted on the seventh morning, she had been innocent. If she still lived, it would be proof of the demon inside her. And then she would be baptized in blood and holy water.”

Isleen grabbed on to each of his words. When he didn’t say anything more, she prompted, “What happened?” The silence seemed endless and empty. She strained to hear anything from outside her own demon box. “Are you still there?”

“On the seventh morning, the lid was removed and she was still alive. Her eyes found mine. They were filled with so much emotion—love and hate and longing for me to save her—but I couldn’t. She had been spawned from the devil. I didn’t think I’d be able to complete the ritual. I was completely wrecked, but she eased that burden for me. She died the moment we removed her from the box.”

The words punched the breath she been holding out of her. What had she expected? “You just let her die? How could you ever say you loved her?”

“It was my duty as the Faithful… We are here but to serve the Lord, not to question.” His voice changed like he was mimicking something he’d been told.

“Who told you that? Chosen One? Sounds like he doesn’t want anyone questioning him.”

“Do not speak ill of what you do not understand.”

“I understand better than all of you. I understand that your Chosen One gets off on controlling you. I understand Queen got off—as in got off—on hurting Gran and me. And I understand that you are too weak or too brainwashed to see that you have been killing good people who only want to do good things in this world. And that’s a sin that the real God will never forgive.” She sucked in a breath.

“Your grandmother understood. She took you and raised you. Carried the burden of her own evil, realized no human—not even herself—should have the power to change the Lord’s destiny. She was baptized in the ways of the Lord and agreed the stain of evil should be removed from you both.”

The words entered Isleen’s ears, then exploded in her mind. Doubt crept among all the things she thought were facts. She remembered what Gran said to him right before he killed her. Your trials didn’t work. The evil never left us, no matter how much we endured. “Gran knew? She condoned you killing her daughter? You taking us? Queen torturing us? Me? No, I don’t believe you.”

“She didn’t want your fate to be the same as her daughter’s. She wanted you saved. As did I.”

“Saved? You call what we went through being saved?” Isleen’s mind flashed through a thousand horrible memories and landed on the last words Gran spoke to her. I can’t live with what I’ve done. I hurt him. I destroyed us by trying to save us. And I did this to you. It’s all my fault. I’d take it all back. But, there’s no take-backs in life.

Then she remembered their last day in the torture trailer.

Hold on, baby girl. Just hold on. He’s coming. He’s got to be coming. He will release you. Save you. Your dreams will come true. All of them. Remember the dreams about him. How you loved him and he loved you. Remember the dreams of sunshine on your face and the cabin you shared. Remember…

Why would Gran encourage Isleen’s dreams if the dreams were bad? Was that a product of her mind slipping? Or was this guy—her father—lying? So many questions lined up, but there would never be answers she could trust. Gran was dead. And Isleen was next in line, so there was no point in thinking about any of it.

“If I make it to the seventh day, will I die after I’m baptized?”

There was a long pause. When he spoke, his voice was quiet as a whisper. “Yes.”

“Good.” The word came out loud, firm, and clear.

“Don’t say that.” He spoke in the whiny tone of a miserable kid.

“Sounds to me like all roads lead to me dying. The only question is if it’s going to happen sooner or later.” She was just being practical.

“I don’t want you to die. Sooner or later.”

“And yet you won’t do a thing to get me out of this box, will you?”

“I can’t. Chosen One… The Lord…”

“Guess we’re in agreement on one thing. You won’t be saving me, and I don’t want to be saved. I just want it over.” Even she was surprised at her flippant tone. But not surprised by her words. She meant every one of them.

*

The heat woke her. She was hot. Too hot. In-an-oven hot. Sweat ran from her pores and evaporated almost instantaneously. The air was so thick with her body’s moisture she could practically taste herself every time she breathed.

Outside her coffin, the man—her father—sang some off-key hymn she didn’t care to listen to. She had stopped talking to him, but then he’d started talking nonstop about his Lord, or he sang hymns or prayed or quoted scripture. He obviously wasn’t going to let her die in peace.

Her stomach spasmed. She recognized the feeling. Hunger. She wrapped her good arm around her middle to ease the pangs a bit. All her muscles were cramped, and her joints felt loose-hinged and hard to move. She knew that feeling too. Dehydration.

She welcomed starvation and dehydration. That dynamic duo were her new best friends. They were going to be her salvation.