Struck (28 page)

Prophet turned slowly back to him. He flicked with his fingers and those of his Apostles in the crowd returned to him like homing pigeons.

“Be still, Brother. There will be pain, but it will be brief compared to what your soul would have suffered in hell for eternity.” Prophet laid a hand lightly on the Dealer’s head, and the Dealer’s near-silent scream increased in volume. Prophet gave his other hand to the he-twin, and the rest of the Apostles joined hands in a circle around the Dealer and Prophet, until the two of them were completely concealed from view.

More circles, I thought. Just like the Seekers. Looked like the Seekers and Followers had more in common than Mr. Kale wanted to admit.

“In the name of God, I accept this man’s soul,” Prophet said. “Let him be healed!”

I couldn’t have breathed if I’d tried.

The Apostles closed their eyes. Their linked hands squeezed tight. A ringing sound seemed to fill my ears, so loud I almost couldn’t hear the Dealer’s high, whining shrill of a scream. The air around me seemed to vibrate, as though we were all contained inside a bell someone had rung.

And then it was over, and the Apostles released hands and stepped back, and there was Prophet with his hand still resting on the Dealer’s head, and oh my God.

Prophet brought his hand back to his side, and cried, “Behold! This man is saved!”

The Dealer’s face was whole again. The burns were gone. There was not even the slightest trace of scarring. It was as though the burns had never been.

The Dealer’s eyes were rapt as he felt his face. He began to laugh, softly at first, but growing until he was cackling wildly. He tore at the bandages wrapping his arms and torso until he was naked to the waist, his skin unbroken. Perfect.

“I am a new man! A changed man!” he cried, his eyes shining and strangely empty at the same time. “God is good!”

The crowd erupted in cheers and shouts and echoes of “God is good! God is good!”

“Who else wishes to be saved?” Prophet called out, and if the crowd had been frenzied before, it was nothing compared to the hysteria that gripped the Followers now.

An Apostle led the Dealer down from the platform, and the others dissolved back into the crowd. The piano music and the singing started up again.

I couldn’t stop staring at the stage. At Prophet in his white suit with his white hair and his white eyes.

It was a miracle. I had just witnessed an honest-to-God miracle. Prophet couldn’t have faked it. The Dealer’s wounds had been real. The miracle had been real.

It was real. All of it.

“Mia Price? It’s you, isn’t it?”

I barely heard my name over the singing. I turned, hoping, maybe even praying, I would find my mom’s face hovering nearby.

But it was not my mom who’d spoken. It was reformed-goth Rachel, standing a few feet away. She slid toward me through the crowd. Somehow she had no problem doing so. No one seemed to block her way.

Her smile took up half her face. She seemed drunk, her eyes dreamy and rapturous. “Isn’t it amazing?” she said. “The energy of so many good people. Can you feel it?”

All I felt was nausea.

“Does your friend like her new haircut?” Rachel asked, her eyes laughing.

I tried to edge away from her, back through the crowd, but she lunged for me. I remembered how strong her hands were. She caught me and held on tight. “Did you come to spy on us, Mia Price? Did you bring some of your Seeker friends with you?”

“You’re insane,” I told her.

“No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “I’m saved.”

Then Sister Rachel began shouting over the song. “Pretender!” she called out.

She shoved me toward the stage. The crowd parted around us.

“This girl is a spy! A pretender!”

Prophet held up his hands for silence, and he got it, so when Rachel shouted “Pretender!” the last time, the word rang throughout the tent.

My blood was on fire, my breath coming hard and fast.
Sister Rachel finally released me, but I was too dizzy to move. I wanted to run, but I was imprisoned by walls of people.

The Apostles converged around me.

Prophet motioned to the twins with a flick of his fingers to bring me onto the stage. They looked at me like a pair of hawks that had found their prey and couldn’t wait to rip it to pieces. I shook my head, struggling to move backward through the crowd, but the Followers surged against me, shoving me forward.

The twins reached for me.

I held up my hands in surrender. I didn’t want them to touch me. More than that, I was
terrified
of what I would feel if they touched me … and what they would feel from me.

I stumbled up the short walk of stairs onto the platform, keeping my distance from the pale-haired twins. They had no eyelashes, I realized, seeing them up close. Their lids were perfectly bald.

Prophet turned toward me, and I couldn’t suppress a shudder at the sight of those milky eyes. He stared at me for a long time. I took deep breaths, trying to calm down, but the fire in my blood wanted to take charge.

“Who are you, Sister?” Prophet asked finally. “Did you come to spy on us?”

I looked around, realizing the hundreds of pairs of eyes on me were not the only ones witnessing this moment. Every camera was trained on me.

This was a nightmare. And now it was going to be a televised nightmare.

Was Parker watching, thinking, “If only she had listened to me …”

And what about Jeremy? Where was he? I searched the crowd and didn’t see him. I was on my own. No Seekers. No Jeremy.

Just me.

“I didn’t mean to disturb your … your program,” I said to Prophet. “I’m not a spy. I came to find someone.” My voice was surprisingly steady, considering the circumstances. Considering I felt on the verge of combustion.

“Don’t listen to her,” a familiar voice shouted from the crowd. The Dealer pointed his finger at me. “She can’t be trusted. She’s the one who burned me. She’s a sinner, an addict.”

“No, I’m not.” I shook my head. I looked at the crowd and saw how their eyes turned cold. “I’m not an addict!”

There was a familiar buzzing in my temples, the same sensation I’d felt before Mr. Kale went trespassing on my thought property.

But you do have an addiction, do you not
?

The voice that spoke in my head didn’t belong to me.

Your drug of choice is unique
, the voice continued. You
are unique
.

I looked at Prophet and saw he was staring hard at me, as though he could see me clearly through the haze coating his eyes. The buzzing in my temples continued.

“Who did you come here to find, if not yourself?” Prophet asked.

I didn’t want to tell him. I would not tell him.

That buzzing again.

“Your mother,” Prophet guessed. Or was it a guess? That
voice that spoke in my head sounded just like his. “Does she wish to be saved?”

“No,” I said firmly, but another voice called from somewhere in the tent, “Yes! Yes, I do!”

“Send her up,” Prophet commanded.

The crowd parted, and I saw her … I saw my mom plodding through the sand toward the stage. My heart got stuck between beats.

I had to stop this.

Somehow I had to stop this.

But all I could do was stand there with my feet rooted to the ground and watch her come.

The twins led Mom up onto the stage, each of them taking one of her hands. Mom barely acknowledged them, or me, for that matter. Her eyes were for Prophet. Her face was flushed with excitement, making her scars stand out, shiny and pink.

“Mother and daughter,” Prophet pondered aloud. His eyes tracked my mom down. He held out his hand. “Come to me, Sister.”

The twins released her hands, and Mom stepped toward Prophet. Instinctively, my hand shot out to stop her, inciting an outraged gasp and a few shouts of protest from the crowd.

My mom finally looked at me. “Let me go, Mia.”

“No,” I pleaded with her. “Mom, please. You don’t have to do this.”

She shook me off. “Yes, I do. I want to.”

“He can’t save you,” I said, my voice coming out louder
than I meant it to. The mics picked it up and played it through the speakers. “You have to save yourself, Mom. Please listen to me. Let’s go home.”

“I can’t, Mia,” she said so softly her voice was nearly part of the silence. “I can’t ever go home. There’s nothing left for me but this.”

She turned away from me, toward Prophet, and stood before him as he laid his hands on her forehead.

“I was buried alive during the earthquake,” she said. “I lay there for days, waiting for death to take me, and it almost did. There was nothing,” she said, almost inaudibly. “I thought there would be a light … comfort … something. But there was nothing after this life for me. Only darkness. But God let me live. He gave me another chance to find the light.”

“God had other plans for you,” Prophet said, nodding in perfect certainty. His thumbs pressed against her temples, and he drew her toward him. She closed her eyes, but his remained wide and white as he touched his lips lightly to hers. I saw the muscles in her neck clench, and then relax. He took her in his arms and held her against him. His eyes found me over her shoulder.

“Daughter,” Prophet said.

I wanted to ignore him, but I felt this pressure in my mind, and a familiar buzzing, and I … I didn’t. Prophet released my mom, but kept her by his side. Her cheeks and eyes were wet, but shining. Happy. Looking at her gave me pause. She was transformed. The sadness I had seen in her that morning … it wasn’t there anymore. Had Prophet done that? Had he taken her sadness away? What if I was wrong about him? Wrong about everything? Did I, too,
need saving? Would my eyes shine like that if I let Prophet put his hands on me?

Yes
, a voice, not my own, whispered in my mind.
I will uncover the light inside you
.

“Come to me, Daughter,” Prophet said. “Come closer.”

I shook my head, but weakly. I felt that pressure in my mind again. The buzzing of the trapped fly, only the fly was bigger now. Not a common housefly, but a horsefly, or something even larger. A biplane, perhaps.

And then I felt a tug, like someone trying to open a door inside me.

“No,” I said. But I felt my feet shambling toward Prophet. I stopped an arm’s length from him. He reached his open palm toward my forehead, and I sucked in a breath as I saw the mark on his skin. Jagged red lines, etched on his palm.

Lightning scars.

Surrender
, a voice spoke inside my mind.
Let go and be saved
.

Don’t fight me
.

I jolted back from that hand coming toward me, but it was too late. His fingers gripped my temples. His hand was huge and strong, and his Spark … his Spark was like lightning, a bright, hot flash illuminating my mind, burning it white.

I felt him expanding inside my mind, gaining dominion.

No!
I pushed at him, tried to think him out of my head.

You are the missing piece
, a voice—
his
voice—said.
God told me you would come
.

Get out of my head!

I opened my eyes. All I saw was white, like I was lost in a blizzard.

“I have a message for you,” I said, my voice fading.

“What is that, Child?” His voice. Strong. Certain. Like the voice of God.

“God is … God is love. And you are a false prophet.”

“Shhhh,” he crooned.
Time to go to sleep. Sleep and be saved
.

The whiteness complete. Blinding.

I was gone.

I was saved.

I was finally asleep.

I was finally at peace.

PART 4

When there’s nothing left to burn

You have to set yourself on fire
.

—Unknown

APRIL 17

The storm

34

AWAKE. THAT’S WHAT
I was. I was awake, and it was a new day, and I was a new me. The old me … she was still in there, but she was quiet. All her fears, her endless worries and doubts, her anger and her darkness and her desires … those were … not gone. Asleep. Old Mia was asleep still. New Mia was awake and her eyes were open.

I turned my head to take in my surroundings. Everything was white. Everything was good and clean and safe.

I lay in a cloud of a queen-sized bed, on creamy white Egyptian cotton linens that seemed impervious to wrinkles. I sat up. The room was unfamiliar, beautiful in shades of ivory and snow. A sliding glass door led out onto a balcony. And beyond the balcony … the ocean, stretching into a horizon obscured by mist.

It was morning. Still early. Still a bit gray.

There was a knock. It did not startle me. I was calm. I was at peace, and everything was right with the world. I couldn’t remember ever feeling this way. So safe. So protected.

“Come in,” I said.

The door opened, and in walked Prophet, dressed in a white, button-down shirt, open slightly at the collar, and
casual white pants. His snowy, avalanche hair lay in soft drifts on his shoulders. His filmed eyes did not bother me the way they had when I was the old me, the one who feared and hated what she didn’t understand. The new me saw Prophet for who he really was … a gift from God. A blessing. Maybe even a savior.

“Good morning, Mia,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

I nodded, smiling. “I must have slept the whole night,” I said. “I never do that.”

“You were exhausted, and understandably. You’ve been through so much of late. May I sit with you a while? I’d like to talk to you.”

There was a chair set against the wall, a few feet from the bed. Prophet must have known exactly where it was, because he went right to it. He moved it closer to the bed and sat, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands under his chin.

I looked at my own hands, no longer clad in my usual black leather gloves. They had been replaced with soft, white cotton gloves. That meant someone had seen my hands. My skin. My scars.

I felt a twinge of anxiety.