The Last Housewife (57)

“Shh,” she urged. “It’s starting.”

Near the bed, a man raised his hand for silence, and the music stopped, heads turning in his direction. He was abnormally tall, standing head and shoulders above the others, his suit jacket pulling tight over his massive shoulders. His hairless skull shone in the candlelight.

“The Disciple,” Nicole whispered. “Stay out of his way.”

“Tonight we punish Cynthia for disobedience,” the Disciple called. He reached behind him, pushing a dark-haired woman forward. The room buzzed. “Pater, tell us how she violated you.”

Another man—older and shorter, with a great round middle—stepped forward. “Twice I’ve ordered Cynthia to give herself to me, and twice she’s refused.”

The buzzing in the room grew louder. I glanced at Nicole. Her eyes were zeroed in on the woman who must be Cynthia. From a distance, with her long, dark hair, Cynthia and I could have been sisters.

The Disciple looked down at Cynthia from his tall height. “Do you acknowledge this?”

For a moment, it looked like she would protest. But then the expression melted from her face and she said, in a clear voice, “Yes. I submit to punishment with full humility, so I may grow.” Her hands twisted in front of her.

The bald man’s voice boomed through the room. “We’re gathered here to punish Cynthia in full view of the Society to restore order and put her back on the path to enlightenment. We kill her ego out of mercy.” He turned to her. “Off.”

The room was silent as Cynthia undressed, the only movements her arms pulling jerkily at her dress and the flickering shadows on the wall. Then the Disciple did something eerily familiar. He put his large hand on the back of Cynthia’s neck and shoved her face-first into the bed, so only her naked back faced us.

The memory returned: the suffocating cotton, my shallow breaths, Don’s whisper in my ear.

“Daughter, do you submit your body in penance?” The Disciple twisted Cynthia’s head so she could speak.

“Yes,” she choked. She’d already started crying. It had taken me much longer.

The Disciple shoved her head back down and gestured to the round man who’d complained. He walked up, holding a belt.

Don’s favorite.

Nicole’s eyes gleamed. The round man lifted his hand and snapped the belt like a whip across Cynthia’s back. The Paters applauded. He cracked it again.

The Disciple wrenched Cynthia’s head up. “What do you find in submission?”

She was struggling to suck in air. “Transformation.”

Down she went, but this time, the Disciple took the belt from the man and brought it down himself, hard, over her spine. He did it again, and again, forming a rhythm. Around me, the Paters began to stomp their feet. The man at the piano bent over his instrument, and music soared again, lifting the fine hairs on my arms.

The women in the crowd stood still as statues, watching in silence.

Nicole was wrong. This was real, but it was also a performance. Dramatic, didactic. I recognized the scene.

On center stage, the Disciple wrested Cynthia up by her hair.

“What do you say, daughter?”

She arched her back toward him. “More,” she begged. “Please.”

Is this what I’d looked like?

He struck her again, and without her face smothered, Cynthia’s cry ripped through the room, pain mixed with undeniable pleasure. Blood spotted her back. The stomping and music became cacophony.

The sense of déjà vu was so strong it was almost hallucinatory, like they’d pumped gas through the vents, or I’d taken another midnight-blue pill and stepped back into the past. I could feel Don in the room. Any second, the dark-suited men would turn, and they’d be wearing his face—laughing, unable to believe that I was here, that I’d come crawling back for more.

I pressed my fingers into my eyes, so I didn’t see it coming when the Disciple yelled, “Daughters, receive your punishments,” and the room exploded into motion. I opened my eyes as a tall man stepped to Nicole, hand extended. She placed her hand in his, and he whipped her around so her chest pressed flat against the wall.

“Nicole.” I resisted the urge to shout. “What’s happening?”

Her face was calm against the wall. “If one of us gets punished, we all do.” The man behind her fumbled with his belt.

I backed away, sliding over the wall. It was too much, too soon.

“If you wait, a Pater will find you,” Nicole promised, but her next words were drowned by the man who pinned her, his elbow over her shoulder blades.

“Who does your body belong to?” he demanded.

Don’t let them touch you, the dark voice whispered in my head. Only me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not ready.” I peeled myself from the wall before anyone could reach for me.

“Shay,” Nicole called, but I didn’t look back.

I threaded quickly through the chaos as belts slithered from around waists and piano music crashed like waves against the rocks. I sped into the hallway, then down the stairs. Whatever you do, don’t run, I told myself. Don’t draw suspicion. The last thing I needed was the Lieutenant realizing I’d disobeyed him by going to the party.

I forced myself to walk—slowly—but I didn’t know the house and found myself in a strange hallway. I spun and came face to face with a half-open door.