Blood Sins

Or cops who would prove to be one more layer of deceptive normality in this place?

'I had no idea the Compound was so large,' Tessa lied, ignoring the Jeep. 'How many families live here?'

'We have twenty-one cottages, plus the gatehouse,' Ruth answered. 'I believe all of them are currently occupied. And, of course, we have rooms and dormitories for our single members in the church itself.'

'Really? Isn't that unusual?'

'Not for our church.'

Since she wasn't offered any opening to probe that further, Tessa shifted the subject a bit. 'No members live outside the Compound?'

'A few, though not many. We're a community,' Ruth told her, smiling. 'We don't require all our members to live here, but so far most have chosen to. Eventually.'

That last word was oddly chilling, and Tessa did her best not to shiver visibly; it was a very mild day for January after all. 'I already have a home in Grace,' she pointed out.

'Your husband's family home. Forgive me, but can it really feel like home to you?'

Tessa allowed the silence to stretch as she walked beside the other woman up the wide steps to the open front doors of the church, not answering until they stepped over the threshold. 'It doesn't,' she admitted after a moment, being more honest than Ruth could know. 'The house is too big and I ramble around in there. Sometimes it almost echoes it's so empty.' She allowed her voice to wobble a bit, her eyes to tear.

'I'm sorry, TessaI didn't mean to upset you.'

'No, it's just The happy families out there The way I feel in Jared's family home'

'There's a restroom off the vestibule where you can have a few moments alone. It's as safe a place as you'll find in there. The stalls are tiled from the floor almost to the ceiling, and the doors are big. The recreation area where people tend to congregate at odd hours is downstairs, so the main floor restroom isn't used much except around the times of services.'

Tessa managed to squeeze out a tear. 'If you don't minda restroom?'

'Of course, of course. It's just over there, ladies' room on the left side.' Ruth's voice was warmly sympathetic. 'I'll be here. Take your time.'

The restroom was fairly large and brightly lit, with six stalls and three sinks, and like everything else she had seen was exceptionally neat, to the point of appearing to be newly scrubbed. Tessa looked around briefly but wasted little time in locking herself into the stall farthest from the door.

Hollis's information had been right: These stalls were designed for a great deal more privacy than those usually found in a public facility. In fact, the stall struck Tessa as a bit claustrophobic, and she had to take a deep breath as she closed the toilet lid and sat down on it.

Focus. Concentrate.

She was wary of opening herself up completely in a place where she felt so uneasy and even trapped, but she wasn't at all sure control was a luxury she could afford. Still, as she closed her eyes and concentrated, she did her best not to drop her shields completely.

Pain.

It was immediate and intense, fire burning along her nerve endings, exploding in her mind, and it took everything Tessa had not to cry out. Her hands reached out to the tile walls on either side of her, and she instinctively braced herself, or tried to, pushing against the cold tile, against the hot, shimmering pain, against the incredibly strong presence she was instantly aware of.

I see you.

* * * *

He'd been given at birth the triple-barrel name that sounded so biblical and had served him so well: Adam Deacon Samuel. His mother's mocking joke.

There was certainly nothing biblical about being the bastard son of a whore.

Samuel frowned and shifted in his chair, keeping his eyes closed. It was his custom to meditate every day at this time, and every day God tested him by beginning the ritual with forcing him to remember where he came from and who he had once been.

It wasdifficult. But there was no relief, no peace to be found until he forced his way through the memories.

The first few years were fuzzy; by the time he was old enough to wonder why she hadn't just aborted him, he knew the answer. Because she wanted someone to endure a more tormented existence than she did herself.

And she made sure he did.

He doubted most of the Johns had even noticed, much less cared, that a usually filthy and often hungry boy had crouched in the corner of some seedy motel room and watched, eyes wide and fixed, the fornication that was always hurried and furtive, and often abusive.

She'd taught him to smoke, both cigarettes and pot, by the time he was four, burning his body with the glowing embers until he could inhale without coughing. Taught him how to steal by the time he was six and how to defend himself with a knife before he was seventhough she could always take the weapon away from him on those rare occasions when he found the guts to try to defend himself from her.

'Stupid little bastard. I could have let them scrape you out of my belly when I knew his seed had taken root. But that don't mean I can't scrape you out of my life now. Understand, Sammy? Or do I have to show you just what I can do to you?'

It never made any difference if he answered, because she always 'showed' him. Sometimes he was locked in a closet for a day or longer. Sometimes she beat him. Other times she played with him. Like a cat with a mouse, mangling and torturing its prey until the pathetic little creature just stopped trying to escape and waited dumbly for the end to come.

He'd believed he was numb to all of it, enduring his lot in stoic silence, until she began bringing in Johns with special tastes.

It amused her to watch them use him. And then there was the money. She was able to charge a premium for his virginity. After that well, he was still small. Young. As good as a virgin, she told them. She developed a skill for finding those men who enjoyed using him no matter how many had used him before.

Samuel gripped the arms of his chair and forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly.

Memories.

Just memories.

They couldn't hurt him anymore.

Except, of course, that they did. Always. But less and less as time had passed. As if holding a burning coal in his mind, in his soul, and blowing on it from time to time, like this, he could feel layers of himself being seared away. Cauterized.

It was a good thing.

He hadn't been able to do that then. Not in the beginning. Hadn't been able to stop the pain in any way at all. Hadn't been able to stop the mother who abused him or the Johns who did even more unspeakable things to him.

Looking back now, in the light of God's pure certainty, he understood what had finally happened to him. He understood that God had tested him. And tested him. He understood that those early years had begun to shape the steel of God's holy sword.

He hadn't seen those miserable, dark, dank motel rooms as a series of crucibles, or those faceless men, brutish and cruel, as anointed by God to destroy the base metal he had been in order to make of it something great.

But he saw now. He understood.

The first destruction of who and what he had been took place in one of those desolate rooms, late one night when it was cold and stormy outside. Maybe it had been winter. Or maybe it had just been one of those perpetually cold cities along his mother's long, wandering life. He couldn't remember.

He remembered only that he'd been vaguely surprised that she had found a John at all on such a night, far less one looking for a boy. But his stoic resignation had turned to quivering terror when a hulk of a man filled the doorway, almost forced to turn sideways in order to come into the room.