Aftertime

39

“SISTERS-” MOTHER CORA’S VOICE RANG OUT like a pristine bell “-prepare to bless the fallen. We have prayed for Sister Ivy, and she is beginning to recover. Our faith is healing her!”

The cart rolled slowly toward the tables, stopping in the cleared space between the tables and the podium. The light from the strings of tiny bulbs did little to illuminate the Beater. It was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of loose pants, even shoes, and it pulled at the bars of the cart and its cries carried clearly through the stadium.

Cass remembered Faye saying that the Order paid Dor to capture Beaters. But she had never imagined this was their purpose: to pray over them, to…heal them? Unless this thing, too, was an outlier, like her…was that possible?

“Is it really getting better?” Cass whispered.

“Of course not,” Monica whispered back. “Get real. They just drag them out here every so often and say they’re getting better so everyone keeps praying. I mean, you think it’s an accident they do this after dark?”

“Hush,” Adele scolded. “Just leave Cass alone, Monica. You don’t want to get her in trouble on her first night as a neophyte.”

“Really? You’re not going to tell her?” Monica demanded. “Just like no one told me? Come on, Adele, we talked about this, you said-”

“That was before you got in trouble twice,” Adele hissed. “You don’t have room for any more mistakes.”

“Prepare for the blessing,” Mother Cora commanded. Servers emerged from the pantries bearing trays with rows of tiny cups. In the flickering light from the larder, Cass saw that the cups bore ruby-red wine. They were barely bigger than a thimble, like dolls’ cups.

“Not this,” Monica muttered. “Not again, it’s not right-”

“Shut up,” the woman next to Adele whispered furiously. “I’m not taking punishment because of you anymore, Monica. Just buck up and get through it like the rest of us.”

“If you hate it so much here, leave,” another woman added, mouth pulled down in anger. “Mother Cora’s healing them. All you’re doing is getting in the way.”

The servers spread out among the tables, setting a tiny cup in front of each woman. The moans of the Beater quieted, but it paced in its cage, shaking the bars. The effort of ignoring the sounds appeared to be too much for some of the women, who pressed their hands over their ears and squeezed their eyes shut.

When everyone had been served, the servers retreated with the last of the cups. Everyone watched Mother Cora expectantly. Her face bore the placidity of the devout, a serene smile tilting up the corners of her thin lips.

“Prepare to drink,” she commanded, and the women moved as one, lifting their cups as though for a toast. Cass held the tiny cup between a finger and thumb, surprised that it was chilled.

“And so we pray,” Mother Cora continued, and the voices of hundreds of women filled the stadium. Cass glanced at Monica and saw that she alone did not join in, a look of disgust and anger on her face.

Dear Lord, it is our duty and salvation, always and everywhere to give You thanks for Your sacrifice.

For our blood is Your blood, imbued with the healing spirit of life.

In Your name we bless the fallen, in Your house we welcome them.

By drinking we proclaim Your greatness and implore you to make us whole.

“And so we drink,” Mother Cora said.

Two hundred hands brought two hundred tiny cups to waiting lips, and Cass followed suit. But as the cold plastic touched her lips, Monica suddenly set her cup down hard on the table, splashing the wine.

“Don’t.”

The single word carried on the still night. Hundreds of eyes turned their way. A guard posted at the edge of the tables turned, searching for the voice of dissent. Cass tossed back her wine in a single gulp, hoping to distract her, and it was on her lips to say something, anything, so she wouldn’t notice the spreading red stain in front of Monica-

But the taste in her mouth was wrong, it was all wrong, it was metallic and harsh and familiar and unfamiliar. She felt her stomach heave and turned to spit on the ground but she caught sight of the deacon’s angry expression and forced herself to swallow instead, swallowing down bile and the bitter filth she’d drunk.

Angry whispers erupted at their table.

“Monica, what did you-”

“All you had to-”

“This time you’ve-”

But it was too late. Guards were headed for their table; the first was already dragging Monica from her chair; Monica, who struggled, her expression both defiant and terrified. “Don’t let them make you, Cass. It’s their blood. The Beaters’ blood. It isn’t blessed, it isn’t anything-”

Before Cass could absorb her words, the other guards reached Monica, yanking her arms behind her. She kicked at the table, crockery falling to the ground and shattering. Adele rose halfway out of her chair.

“Don’t, Adele,” Monica cried as she was dragged from the table. “Don’t get in trouble for me. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

One of the guards hit her on the side of the head with something-a stick, a club, Cass couldn’t tell in the dark- and Monica’s words were abruptly cut off, her head lolling forward.

All around the table, women averted their eyes, refusing to watch as Monica was dragged away, toward one of the dugouts. Cora began to pray again and in a moment other voices joined in, until everyone was chanting and the servers began to spread out among the tables, collecting the cups.

Adele sank slowly down into her chair, her face pale in the flickering light. “Where are they taking her?” Cass whispered. “Is she going to be all right?”

Adele didn’t answer. Her lips quivered, and she stared straight ahead, but in a moment her eyes drifted closed and she began to chant along softly with the others.

Near Cass was a glass with a few inches of tea left in it. She reached for it and drank deep, wished for another. She wanted to kneel in the dirt and push her fingers down her throat until she vomited up not just the blood but everything she’d eaten, not just tonight but since waking in the field. Every drop of water, every kaysev leaf, the food Smoke had shared in the school, the hoarded delicacies in the Box. She wanted to purge and purge until everything was gone, including her memories, not just of Ruthie but of Smoke and the way he’d touched her, of Monica’s thin brown shoulders and ready smile, of the Beater in the cage and the tiny cups of blood.

The women gathered in this stadium had all drunk blood. Blood from a Beater, blood that ran through the veins of a being that was no longer human, no matter what they taught here in the Convent. Cass had seen the creatures feast; had seen the ravaged flesh of the Beater outside Lyle’s house, jerking and twitching in death spasms as the last of its blood spilled into the earth.

But only Monica had protested, only Monica had rebelled, and she was immediately silenced. The ranks had closed behind her, as though she never existed. How long had it taken for the women to become inured to the horror, Cass wondered. How long until the liquid that passed their lips was no more evocative than communal wine?

How long until they believed?

Mother Cora let silence hang in the air at the conclusion of the prayer. In the cage, even the Beater was still, lying in a heap on the floor of the cart, one hand wrapped around the bars of the cage. Perhaps it had been drugged, so as to appear to be calmed by prayer. Slowly, Cora brought her elegant arms down to her sides, and then she smiled serenely out at the crowd. “This concludes our blessing. The Lord’s grace be upon all of you, sisters, and good night.”

Cass felt herself beginning to shake as the Beater cart was wheeled back into the enclosure and women began to rise from the tables, conversation starting up again as though nothing had happened.