No.
What the fuck had that woman done to him?
Saint’s head lolled groggily. He made a noise, soft, pained. He was lying on something hard and unforgiving, his arms and legs spread out from his body and tied down at the wrists and ankles. Around him, multiple people were talking.
His eyelids fluttered; it hurt to open them, but he wanted to see where he was.
He stared up at paintings of angels on a curved white ceiling. He could faintly make out stained windows. It was dark behind them, though it didn’t tell Saint how late it was.
“He should be waking up soon,” a slightly familiar voice was saying. “When he does, ring the bells immediately. Then I wanteach one of you to go down to the village and make sure every single soul is inside this building as soon as possible.”
Saint’s heart leapt into his throat, and he was suddenly wide awake. He recognised those cheap paintings on the ceiling, the high curve of it. To his left was the carving of Jesus erected on the cross, still bright and polished to perfection, the only thing that Pastor Zeke had ever really cared about. Fuck, even the smell was the same.
He must’ve been out for at least six hours; Arehjia was a five-hour drive from the little village that had once been his home.
He’d thought he’d feel afraid if he was ever brought back here. A bone-chilling terror that would freeze his limbs and steal his breath.
But all he felt was cold, hard rage. He was literally tied down on some kind of concrete slab on the church’s altar, with men he didn’t know or recognise talking around him like he didn’t exist, and all he could feel was fury.
What had they done to Knight?
Someone approached the stone slab and none other than Pastor Zeke himself was standing above him.
“Ah,” he said, a slight smile perpetually curving his lips. Once upon a time, that smile had made him look kind, humble. But once Saint’s eyes had opened to the truth, it made him look like he held a secret no one else knew and was endlessly laughing at their expense. “Saint. Saint. Saint. I knew this day would come.” He turned, signalling to someone. “The bells, Jacob. He’s awake.” He turned back to Saint. “Nothing to say?”
Saint glared at him, wishing he could somehow burn a hole into his forehead.
Knight, he thought desperately.Where are you? Are you hurt?
Pastor Zeke leaned down abruptly. His smile didn’t disappear, but his gaze had hardened. He grabbed the short strands of Saint’s afro, the pain of it making him suck in a sharp breath.
He leaned down so they were almost face to face, whispering harshly, “You think you’re the only one with connections? Did you really think hanging around a demon would deter me?” Saint refused to let himself react, even though his heart pounded with shock and alarm. “What you failed to consider is that I have powers of my own.”
He let go abruptly. Saint’s head pounded agonisingly.
Fuck. He almost laughed. Of course having a devoted following wasn’t enough; how could it be? Pastor Zeke had probably made deals with Native Doctors—Nigerian shamans—so he could keep his power for as long as possible. Perhaps, without his mother’s help, and with no other leads, Pastor Zeke had turned to his Native Doctors to help him locate Saint.
Dealing with Native Doctors, just like dealing with demons, came with a price. Saint wondered what price Pastor Zeke had paid.
The bells of the church began to toll.
“Chika, bring the cane.”
Saint didn’t outwardly react, his heart speeding up once more. He’d forgotten, or perhaps he’d violently suppressed it, but he was remembering now, some of the reasons he’d been so terrified to leave the village.
Reasons like Pastor Zeke flogging members of the church in front of the entire congregation to punish them, then ordering the village to shun them for a specified period afterward. Sometimes, if the “sinners” didn’t want to be shunned, they took their punishments in private, and from the rumour mill—from the few times Saint had seen folks leaving the sacristy dead-eyed or in tears—the private punishments were even worse. And theywere pointless in the end because the village still shunned them anyway, like their punishments had made them tainted.
Saint shook with fury and torment at the reminders, the latter only making the former burn hotter. He must’ve forced himself not to remember all these years, a part of him knowingly afraid he might give in to his thirst for blood and do something reckless. And then where would he be? There was no way he’d have been able to stop Pastor Zeke and his ilk on his own.
But he wasn’t alone anymore.
Knight, where are you?
“The rest of you, go into the village,” Pastor Zeke was saying. “Make sure you rouse everybody and bring them here. It is time we all learned a lesson in discipline and forgiveness.”
He turned to look at Saint, a beatific smile in place. “After all, I am nothing if not forgiving.”
Knight’s nail beds were bleeding. His brain felt like it was too big for his skull.
