Something inside me snaps. Twenty years of suppression, of hiding, of shame—all of it crystallizes into pure, defiant rage.
“I’d rather die as who I am!” I scream, my voice tearing from my throat. “I’d rather die gay than live as the empty shell you want!”
Pastor Williams stumbles backward, but Mother lunges forward. Her open palm connects with my cheek, then again, and again.
“How dare you!” she shrieks, her face contorted. “After everything I sacrificed! After raising you alone!” Each word punctuated by another slap. “I failed! I failed as a mother! The devil took root because I wasn’t vigilant enough!”
Her screams become incoherent, spittle flying from her lips as Pastor Williams tries to pull her away.
36
JULIAN
The SUV rolls to a silent stop half a block from First Light Church. It’s 2:37 AM—optimal darkness, minimal witness potential. I check my watch, an unnecessary habit rather than a practical measure.
“Everyone clear on the plan?” Xavier’s voice cuts through the silence, his crimson mask catching what little moonlight filters through the tinted windows.
I nod, adjusting my leather gloves. “Jenson’s intel confirms three entry points. Main door likely alarmed, but the back entrance through the kitchen and basement window are vulnerable.”
Vane examines his knife, the blade disappearing and reappearing between his fingers. “The pastor lives on site. Second floor, east wing.”
“And Mother Dearest?” Knox asks, his blue mask hiding the lower half of his face but not the eager glint in his eyes. The youngest Blackwood always looks like he’s about to tell a joke, even before violence.
“Jenson’s surveillance confirms Margaret Chambers arrived six hours ago and hasn’t left,” I respond, my voice steady despite the rage coiling beneath my ribs. “Elliot is likely in the basement.That area doesn’t appear on the church’s public renovation plans, but thermal imaging shows a heat signature consistent with a human body.”
Xavier checks his weapon—a sleek, silenced pistol that costs more than most people earn in a year. “We’re not here for casualties, but we’re prepared for resistance.”
Vane’s green mask tilts slightly. “Speak for yourself. Some lessons require blood to stick.”
“Stay focused,” I remind them. “Elliot is our priority.”
We move like shadows across the church grounds. Knox disables the security system with a device Jenson provided, buying us eight minutes before the backup kicks in. The lock on the basement window yields to Xavier’s tools in seconds.
I slip through first, landing silently on the concrete floor. The others follow. The blueprint from Jenson projected in my mind, I orient myself—utility room, corridor, then the large open space where Elliot’s heat signature appeared on the scan.
Vane taps my shoulder, pointing to fresh scuff marks on the floor—evidence of something heavy being dragged.
“They moved him,” he whispers.
A muffled sound echoes from beyond the door. A voice raised in prayer—or perhaps in madness.
I signal the others to hold as I inch the door open. The sight that greets me freezes my blood.
Elliot is bound to a metal chair in the center of the room, his wrists raw and bleeding from the ropes cutting into them. His face is pale, but there’s still fire in his eyes—that stubborn defiance that drew me to him in the first place. His shirt is torn, revealing marks that make my jaw clench.
Margaret Chambers paces in front of him, her movements erratic and unhinged. Her normally perfect hair hangs in greasy strands, and her designer outfit is rumpled as though she’s been wearing it for days.
“The demon must come out!” she screams, her voice cracking. “I will not have my son possessed by this filth! This abomination!”
Pastor Williams stands several feet away, pressing himself against the wall. The man looks terrified, no longer the confident spiritual leader but someone who’s realized he’s in a room with a deranged patient.
“Mrs. Chambers, please,” he whispers. “This isn’t what we discussed. The Lord works through gentle correction, not?—”
“Don’t tell me how the Lord works!” She whirls on him. “My son is infected! Corrupted! And if you won’t help me save him, I’ll do it myself!”
I silently retrieve my phone, start recording, and capture everything—the makeshift restraints, the propaganda videos still playing on a TV nearby, the bucket in the corner that reeks of urine, the bruises forming on Elliot’s face.
Margaret grabs Elliot’s face, her nails digging into his cheeks. “Tell me you reject him! Tell me you reject that man and your sinful ways!”