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Christian Schrock was a cold, heartless bastard Dane would never view as any sort of family. In all reality, his mother, Adriel, should be the one sitting on The Elder’s Council representing the Schrock line, but she was a female and such things were prohibited.
While most men disdained Adriel’s fierce disregard for man-made laws, Dane admired her and felt a sense of loyalty to the ancient female.
“You shouldn’t speak of such things,” he said to Abigail.
She appeared instantly contrite. “I didn’t mean…” Regret and worry flashed in her eyes. “I’m sorry. That was cruel of me.”
He frowned at her overreaction, recognizing her fear of any sort of backlash. “I won’t tell anyone. I just meant that Adriel is a good person, and I don’t like when others talk about her.”
“Of course. She’s your friend. I don’t know why I’d presume you wouldn’t know of such things. I wasn’t judging, you know? I was only passing along information.”
Something Abigail had done since the beginning with him. “I know. I’ll never betray your trust, Abby.” He appreciated all the secrets she shared in the past.
As an outsider, he wasn’t someone the others felt pressed to inform. And because of Abigail, words like half-breed, boy, mortal, English, misfit, and orphan no longer affected him.
Her worry abated and a gentle smile curved her lips. “I trust you too,” she whispered, stepping closer.
He matched her smile but mirrored her step with a step back. Unlike the other unmarried and unmated immortals on the farm, Abigail was not permitted to socialize after service on Sundays. She’d attend the three-hour sermon like the rest, but after the meal, she always returned home with her father.
Bishop King had warned Dane to keep his distance, as Abraham would not want his daughter risking her virtue on a male who was not her true called mate and, therefore, would disapprove of Abigail associating with someone of mortal blood.
That much was made clear the day Abby missed service. Dane had gone to visit her that evening, only to find her suffering, her immortal flesh struggling to recover from several lashes her father had given her that morning after finding a small hand-sewn favor Abby planned to give Dane at service.
They were friends. That was all.
“I have to get going.”
Her fingers twisted in her apron. “Of course. Don’t forget to stop by later. I’ll leave the bread and honey on the bricks for you.”
“Thanks.”
Pocketing what remained of the wrapped treat, he raced down the hill toward the Safe House. Like many of the old homes on the farm, the bishop’s house had undergone additions over time, the biggest being the extension of the hall where the elders met.
Compared to the other homes, the Safe House was a fortress. Behind the large, white colonial, a long stone antechamber extended tunneling into what could best be described as a courtroom.
On the other end, offices and medical testing facilities were situated. The offices were frequently occupied by elders, but the labs had little function. Once in a while the bishop would compel a mortal doctor to the site and order tests performed. That was how they discovered Dane’s bloodline, but once the tests concluded, the modernized rooms were cleaned and closed off, not to be discussed or visited again unless ordered by The Council.
None of that was of interest to him. Dane only cared about the laws imposed by The Council and what lie beneath Council Hall.
As he approached, a droning hymn sung by the males of The Order seeped from the open windows. A stone-carved sign, crumbling at the corners and faded by time, marked the entrance to the Safe House with an illegible script. The eroded Germanic text included a psalm and the identifying numbers of the biblical verse.
Dane took the porch steps two at a time and rushed inside. Black hats littered the corridor, occupying every peg on the wall and taking up every inch of surface space on the empty tables and benches. As expected, Adriel sat quietly on the bench outside of Council Hall, dutifully stitching her needlework.
He smirked at her clever conformity. Females were not permitted to wear patterns or fancy embroidery, but they were often encouraged to busy their idle hands stitching Bible verses, one of the few permitted decorations allowed in Amish homes. Whenever there was a council meeting, Adriel’s hands worked tirelessly on a new verse. And, as she worked, she listened.
He sat beside her on the bench and she gave him a disapproving glance for his tardy entrance. “Unabbeditlich, you stink of bread and sex.”
“Sorry.”
She twisted the embroidery hoop and pulled the needle slowly through the fabric. “I recognize Magdalene’s scent, but who else do I smell?”
“Abigail. She gave me some bread.”
“Is that all?”
He shot her a warning glance. “Yes. We’re friends.”
“Best to keep it that way. Abraham’s quite possessive of her time.”
