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At some point, her parents handed her over to a cult, to be separated from everyone and everything she knew, and she was immersed in a world of bodyguards, moving every few years from place to place, never staying in one identity or one “life” for too long.
Meanwhile, she was told she was “The One.” Literally, a body that an ancient prophecy declared the pinnacle of humankind, created by God to save us all.
And on her twenty-fifth birthday, she'll marry a man she's never met, who is the same version of generations of DNA doing their spiral iterations to create one unique man to her unique woman.
All wrapped up in Viking lore.
Except the King doesn’t exist and the Queen is about to be used for spare parts.
Makes my back teeth ache when I think about how much bullshit someone had to come up with to make this happen.
“God wants nothing from his flock. No money. No tithe. Give to the people in your community,” blasts a sermon on a someone's laptop.
Lauren snorts. “The anti-Joel Osteen. Megachurch preacher who says not to send him money. How in the hell does Makiah Rooney do it? He's wearing an Armani suit and loaded to the gills, but doesn't fleece his flock like all the other big evangelists.”
“Bet the people send in even more,” Newman barks from his desk, head down in his screen. He doesn't even look up. “It's all an act. Reverse psychology. Tell people not to send money and they send even more.”
I glare at the screen, wondering how much I can say. Lauren and Newman aren't part of the investigation into Rooney.
I am.
And I know exactly how much money he makes.
Newman's wrong. There's a trickle from believers, but not like he thinks.
Rooney's dirty, though. All the blood from the Viking Virgins is on his hands.
Debbie marches into the room and erases my thoughts with a loud expletive and a long sigh.
“It’s worse now, guys. Two different groups want these women.”
“Two?” I grunt. She knows about another family.
Debbie looks at me. “You look shocked.”
“Hold on,” Newman interrupts. “We know about the Luisi family. The kidneys that fail after twenty years. They’re the ones who started this whole operation,” he says with a dismissive throat noise. “Find your distant relatives, convince their parents the kids are the chosen ones, and use them as an organ factory. And by ‘convince,’ I mean pay them off.”
“Wish it were that simple,” Debbie snaps at him. “That’s how it worked forty years ago. Or worse - they just kidnapped the girls. Now they go to elaborate lengths to keep the girls pampered and calm. All the medical stuff’s in there, but the bottom line is stress hormones hurt the kidney transfer, so it’s all about treating them right until they decide it’s time to pluck the fruit at peak ripeness.”
“You’re saying we have two families of gleaners now?” I choke out.
“Yep. Luisi and Donegal.”
The Luisi family is an old Italian line of billionaires stretching back to some pope hundreds of years ago. Technically, they make their money from shipping now, but that’s not how it works.
And the Donegals? Squeaky clean. Pristine people known for all their philanthropic work. Foundation after foundation, international vaccine relief, malaria nets – the whole bit. They made their money off of oil in Texas, so people are surprised to learn they’re involved.
I’m not.
And I know about a third family, too.
“And both are after us. Check this out.” She points to an email. Newman and Lauren beat me to it, crowded around while my mind wanders.
The car “accident” this morning slams through my memory. What’s the saying? It’s only paranoia if you’re wrong?
I don’t want to be right.
That word, gleaners, makes the coffee in my stomach turn sour. That’s exactly what these billionaire madmen are doing: picking clean the bodies of ripe young women they cultivate.
