Deep Redemption (Hades Hangmen Book 4) (12 page)

Harmony

I paced the cell as day faded to night. The door to my cell opened, and Brother Stephen and Sister Ruth sneaked through. “Has he returned?” I asked hurriedly.

“No,” Sister Ruth replied, and I felt my heart fall with dread.

“What are they doing to him?” I asked. Rider had been quiet for days and days. I missed the man that spoke to me so sweetly those first few days in my cell. I held my hand to my chest and shut my eyes. The man that held my hand was sweet and full of grace. But over the past few days, he had grown distant. Something was torturing his mind. He never confided what that was. He never confided much of anything.

Not that I shared my heart either. The secrets that were becoming harder and harder to bear.

And now he had not returned from his punishment. I felt another wave of dread in my gut. Something was not right. I could just feel it.

The sound of low voices came from outside my cell. I looked at Brother Stephen and Sister Ruth in alarm. They ducked out of the cell and I rushed to the corner where I normally sat. I listened intently as the sound of the prophet’s guards came from the hallway. I prayed that Rider was with them. I listened hard to every move, and heard Rider’s cell door opening, then a thud, as if someone had been hurled to the floor.

My stomach lurched with nausea.
Rider.

I waited impatiently for the guards to leave his cell. When I was sure they were gone, I pushed the loose stone from the gap. Rider’s room was dark, but I saw him lying in the center of the floor. I was too far away to see if he was okay. I began to panic; I could barely see him moving. I could not even hear him breathe.

“Rider,” I whispered loudly, hoping he would hear my call. But he did not move. “Rider!” I called, louder, but not even a flinch of acknowledgment came from him. I squinted my eyes trying to see more, but I could not.

I tried for what felt like an eternity to rouse him. When Rider still did not stir, I jumped to my feet and began banging on my door, all worry of punishment fleeing my mind. “Brother Stephen! Sister Ruth!”

They rushed to open my door. “Harmony, quiet,” Brother Stephen begged, nervously looking out of my cell window.

“It is Rider,” I said quietly. “He is not moving. I think he is really hurt.”

Brother Stephen glanced at Sister Ruth and my stomach sank further. “He is, is he not? They have hurt him badly.”

Sister Ruth reached out and touched my arm. “He is not conscious. He is not awake. He”—she winced—“I am not sure he will come back from this. He is beaten very badly, Harmony. Maybe too much. I cannot tell.”

“I need to see him,” I said firmly. “Help me get in to see him.”

“Harmony—” Brother Stephen shook his head.

“No.” I cut him off. “He has been here for me. I . . . I care for him, greatly. I will not see someone else hurt. I cannot . . . ” I confessed, unable to finish my sentence. Sympathy flooded Sister Ruth’s gaze, and her shoulders sagged.

“Solomon and Samson have just been called away. The prophet has called an emergency meeting.” Hope filled my chest. Perhaps I could get to Rider without being caught. “But I do not know how long they will be, or if they will come back alone.” I heard the warning in her voice.

But I did not care. She must have seen that in my face.

She left the room. In seconds she was back, holding a brass key. “Come,” she said hurriedly. Picking up the hem of my dress, I followed her into the silent hallway and to the cell next door.

Sister Ruth opened the door and let out a gasp. I brushed past her. My hand flew to my mouth when I saw Rider on the floor, battered and bruised, his body awash with blood. Tears built in my eyes, but I chased them away to turn to my guardians. “Get me buckets of clean water and rags. We need soap too.”

“Harmony,” Brother Stephen said worriedly, but I raised my hand.

“I do not care if I am punished for this. What does it matter anyway? The prophet needs me alive, and I will not leave Rider this way.” I moved to Rider’s broken body. “I am sure he would not leave me in this state if it were me. And I know you know this to be true. You have listened to us talk. You have heard the kindness of his soul.”

Brother Stephen and Sister Ruth shared a concerned glance, then hurried off to fetch what I had asked for. I dropped to the floor beside Rider, my hands trembling with nerves. I never thought I would ever see him in the flesh, face to face like this. My eyes tracked over his body. He was large: tall and extremely broad. He dwarfed my petite size. I did not know why, but I liked that he was bigger than me. He looked like a fallen warrior—strong and brave.

I leaned forward, gently pushing back the matted, dirt-ridden hair from his face. All I saw was bloodied skin, bruised and harmed. “Rider,” I whispered, stroking a finger along his cheek. “I am sorry they have done this to you.”

He did not stir. I was sure he had not even heard me.

Sister Ruth and Brother Stephen came rushing into the room. They placed the rags, towels and soap I had asked for on the floor beside me. Sister Ruth had brought a comb and scissors too.

“Good Lord,” Sister Ruth said as she drank in Rider’s injuries. “What have they done to him? He looks awful.”

I did not want to answer her. I feared I would break if I did. I made quick work of wiping down his arms and chest. His legs were covered with what looked like filthy tunic pants—I guessed they were once white, now they were anything but. I would not touch them though. I would never violate him in that way.

As I wiped at his arms, I frowned, seeing colored pictures peeking out from the coating of dried blood. My stomach lurched as I looked closer. Pictures of devils and evil beings were scattered over his skin.

“How did he get them?” Brother Stephen asked. I shook my head. I glanced up at Rider’s face, but it was once again shielded by his unwashed hair.

Too busy washing Rider, I failed to hear someone arrive at his door. I heard an anguished cry, and turned to see a woman standing in the doorway, holding a basin of water in her hands. She stared at Rider on the ground, her face paling at the sight. She looked at me, and her blue eyes widened further.

My heart thudded. Jumping to my feet, I said, “I am being kept in the cell next door. I saw that he was injured and came to help.” I pointed to Brother Stephen and Sister Ruth. “I pushed past them to run in here when I saw the guards had left the building. The fault lies with me.”

The woman listened but did not respond. She looked behind her, then entered the room. “Who are you?” she asked curiously.

“My name is Harmony.”

The woman swallowed. “Are you . . . are you a Cursed woman of Eve?”

Straightening my spine, I said, “Yes. I have been declared so.”

“The prophet has you hidden away from us?”

“Yes,” I replied truthfully. I had been caught; there was no reason to lie now.

I expected the woman to run out of the cellblock and fetch the guards. I did not expect her to step further into the room and place the basin on the ground. Her eyes fell upon Rider, and she shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. I noticed bruises and marks on her skin too. A sudden jolt of fury settled in my chest.
Is everyone here getting hurt? What is happening to our people?

The woman crouched down next to Rider. “This man attacked the prophet.” Cold infused my senses and my eyes widened in shock. “He was called to meet with Prophet Cain, to repent his sins. Instead he attacked him.”

“What?” I said in a disbelieving whisper.

The woman nodded her head. “I heard the guards boasting about their beating of him. The prophet ordered them to truly make him pay.” She sighed. “This man was only trying to protect his people, I know he was. He was trying to keep us safe . . . and the prophet did this to him.”

The woman’s voice trembled. I bent down and placed a hand on her arm. She looked at me, staring at my veil. Confident that I could bare my face to her, I reached up and unclasped it. I drew back my headdress too, allowing my long blond hair to tumble down my back.

The woman did not look away. Her bottom lip quivered and she said quietly, “You are certainly a Cursed. You are so very beautiful.”

I frowned. “You are not afraid of me? Repulsed by my evil nature?” The people in our faith were meant to fear me. No Cursed was ever embraced with open arms.

“No,” the woman said and turned back to face Rider. “I do not fear you. I know that Curseds are not truly cursed after all.” I could hear the pain in her voice. I searched the woman’s face. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her if she had ever met any other Cursed, but I did not do it. I did not dare push her tolerance further.

“You care about him?” the woman asked.

My heart seemed to miss a beat. Ducking my head, I said, “Yes.”

The woman nodded and a flicker of a smile pulled on her lips. “He is a good man,” she said, and then her smile faded. She looked straight into my eyes. “He is
good
, you must remember that. No matter what. He is not a bad man. He is like us, beaten down and confused about how we have all been raised . . . but he is good. No matter what you hear.” She huffed a mirthless laugh. “I have encountered the opposite, the bad one, and know with crystal clarity the difference.”

I shook my head in confusion. But the woman suddenly jumped to her feet when music began playing from the speakers outside—the Lord’s Sharing call. “I must go,” she said. “I am needed in the Sharing hall. You must hurry. The guards may be a long time in their meeting, but you do not want to be caught.” Her eyes fell on the scissors. “You are going to cut his hair?”

“He needs more cleaning than he has been getting. He can barely breathe or see through this hair and beard. The heat is too much for him to bear.”

She cast her eyes down. “I will tell them I cut it. I will tell them today’s beating made it essential for his hair to be cut so I could tend to his wounds.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why would you do that for me . . . for him?”

The woman shrugged. “Because, despite it all, he deserves this help. He has been kept in this terrible state for too long for doing what was right.” She smiled a weak smile. “There is not much else they could do to hurt me anyway. One more punishment would not be so hard for me to bear.”

My heart broke for her.

“Thank you,” I said as she went to leave.

She paused in her step, and looking over her shoulder, said, “Remember, he is not bad.”

I opened my mouth, wanting her to explain what she meant, but she was gone. Rushing to finish the task, I cleaned all the blood from Rider’s arms, stomach and chest. I moved to his face. His eyes were shut, and on more than one occasion I had to put my ear to his mouth to check he was still breathing. He was so still I worried that he would pass.

I needed to move fast.

Sister Ruth and Brother Stephen stood watch at the doorway as I tried to wash Rider’s hair and beard. Sister Ruth eventually came to hold up his head when she saw I could not both hold him and clean his hair. It took four washes to loosen the knots and clumped strands of hair into manageable pieces. Taking the scissors, I cut inches off his hair, then proceeded to comb it through. When I was done, I helped Sister Ruth guide his head to my lap. I smiled at the feel of him so close. My heart felt like it was swelling to an impossible size as I stroked my finger along his clean cheek—I was pleased to see that it looked as though the bruising and swelling was mostly on his body. His face appeared mostly unharmed.

It felt strange to touch a man of my own accord, to stare at him so entirely. It was my choice to do this . . . and it was . . .
freeing
.

I knew it felt different because it was Rider. I . . . I trusted him. Impossible as that was for me to comprehend, it was true. I had not even realized it until that very moment. The fellow sinner had formed a bond with me that I had never had before. Two prisoners, finding solace in the other’s voice and the simple touch of a hand.

“Here.” I looked up to see Sister Ruth holding out a razor. I took it from her hand and brought it to Rider’s cheeks. His beard had risen too high, hiding much of his skin. Taking the blade, I delicately drew it downward. As his cheeks came into view, excitement grew inside me. I would soon see how he truly looked.

I would finally see his face.

As I cut and combed Rider’s beard, his hands began to twitch. My pulse began to race. My eyes darted to Sister Ruth. “He is waking.”

Sister Ruth’s eyes were bright as we watched him begin to stir. Wanting to finish the job I had started, I ran the comb quickly through the rest of his beard. Once the final stroke was made, I glanced down and let myself truly take him in. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing beautiful brown eyes, the pupils struggling to focus.

Rider’s long lashes brushed his cheeks. His eyes met mine. And my world stopped. But it did not stop for the reason I thought it would. My heart shattered apart and my breathing became too quick for me to find air.

I scrambled back in fear and panic, knocking his head from my lap. I crawled away on hands and knees until I reached his feet. Sister Ruth held out her hand to help me stand, but the sound of Rider’s voice stopped me dead.