31 – i – The Daughter

Delilah staggered through the door to her apartment quarters, following after her mother. The air around them was a noxious cloud that smelled of acrid incense with a metallic aftertaste, clinging to them like a sticky, slimy film. Her shoes left burgundy stains with every step, and she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“I’m taking a shower,” Delilah said.

“We’re not supposed to use hot water after ten.”

Delilah trudged past her mother, grinding the heels of her shoes into the frayed entryway rug. “Go whine to Anderson,” she snapped, enjoying the fear that flickered across the woman’s face. She would have enjoyed it more if it wasn’t for the way her black locks were stuck, matted against her head. “I have goat blood in my hair. If Anderson has a problem with me taking my shower after another of his failures, he can tell me himself.”

Delilah took one more step, only to be spun around by a rough hand on her shoulder. A white-hot sear of a slap across her cheek made her stagger back.

“Don’t you look at me with those… evil eyes,” said Patience Grossman, her lips twitching in a righteous fury as she tried to force down her own fear. “And don’t you dare speak ill of the pastor. He is trying to help. You need help, Delilah. You should feel honored that he is willing to try.”

Trembling, Delilah’s fingers traced the sting where her mother’s hand had connected. The flesh, hot and throbbing in time with her racing pulse, welled tears in the corners of her eyes, but Delilah blinked them away, not willing to cry again. “Evil?” she hissed through clenched teeth. “You want evil, look to that pale monk with the tattoos. That is ev—”

Delilah raised her arm, catching a second slap against her forearm rather than her face.

Patience’s eyes widened ever so slightly before she narrowed her eyes once more. “I am delivering the firm hand of correction, just as Father Mould teaches, and you should be honored to receive it.”

“Kevin Mould is a whiny, frightened little man with delusions of adequacy. And you can tell him I said that.”

“Blasphemy!” Patience shrieked. Instead of trying to strike her daughter again, she took a step back as if she were fearful of even breathing the same air. “You ungrateful child, you think you… Where are you going?”

With the space between them, Delilah felt safe enough to back away, turn, and stomp straight to the bathroom. “Shower,” she snapped over her shoulder as she flung open the door. She slammed it closed, shutting it as hard as she could manage, almost wishing that her mother would try to stop her, just so that the slam would catch some fingers. Instead, it shook the wooden frame with an awful, thunderous noise.

There were no locks on the door—no doors at the Group housing had locks—but opening the drawers on the bathroom counter blocked it well enough. Delilah took a heavy breath as the thumping fists rattled the door, but put the noise out of her mind. Marching to the tub, she twisted the wobbly, four-pronged handle for hot water.

The pipes groaned and ached for a brief eternity before the water sputtered out. It came in weak dribbles of icy water before slowly mounting to a mild pressure of lukewarm water, almost bordering on hot. She had long suspected that the no hot water rule was because the elites of the Group all took their showers after the evening rituals and ceremonies.

Delilah peeled off her soiled clothes, letting the fabric drop to the floor with a squelch. She didn’t bother picking it up, figuring that if goat blood was such an honor, her mother wouldn’t have any problem picking it up herself.

The water brought instant relief—Delilah basked in it, letting all the filth run off to the drain. She scrubbed at her scalp, wincing at the tangles in her coarse hair, yet relishing the way the water beneath her feet turned a murky red.

Only when the water ran clean did she finally feel normal, and she still stayed in the shower until the heat from the building’s struggling boiler finally started to give way. She stepped out, taking care to avoid her clothes and the footprints, and took her time drying off.

“Long day?”

Delilah’s eyes flicked to the laundry hamper.

A furry black ball lounged inside, stretched out with her fluffy belly on full display. Nya opened her mouth in a wide yawn, letting out a squeaking noise before she curled up and started furiously licking her paw.

“You could say that,” Delilah said, dabbing at her hair with the towel. “The chicken blood was bad enough, but Anderson has been talking to that fat monk. They pushed for goats this time. Goats!” She clicked her tongue in annoyance. “They made me slit its throat. A spurt of blood got me straight in the face, and those idiots didn’t even stop chanting. It just kept going and going, I thought it wouldn’t ever stop.”

“Goats have a lot more blood than chickens. Did it, at least, work?”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked down at the large, black, tattoo-like mark of a crescent moon that ran from her shoulder to her breast. The oils and ointments from the ritual were supposed to have washed it away, cleansing her body, but it was there, darker than ever. The rituals felt like they were having the opposite effect.

“No,” Delilah said, tracing the mark with her finger. It galled that Anderson was right.

There was something evil in her. It wasn’t just a tattoo that spontaneously appeared when she was six; it ran deeper than that, scarring something inside. She could feel it. It felt better, lately, but far from removed. If anything, it felt… more at home—more a part of her.

“You’ve got some blood on your cheek. Looks fresh. Smells fresh. Really brings out the color of your eyes.”

Nya rolled over in the laundry hamper. She looked up at Delilah, staring for a moment before blinking a few times, long and slow. Another quick yawn, and she stretched her paws out, reaching through the holes in the hamper. The sharp points of her claws gently grazed the air just a breath away from Delilah’s leg.

With a frown, Delilah looked into the mirror again, lightly touching four red marks on her cheek. They weren’t really bleeding, just a few specks at the ends, right where marks lined up with her fingernails. The heat of the slap still burned.

“You should just kill her, D.”

Delilah didn’t respond, staring into her own red eyes.

“It would be easy. That guard downstairs likes you. Get him to let you into the kitchens, take a knife, and show these cultists how to conduct a proper ritual.”

Delilah’s frown deepened. “I think that’s what that monk wants.”

“To kill them all?”

“To use humans. He’s been pushing Anderson and Mould ever since he showed up, moving from dead chickens to live chickens to goats.” Delilah shook her head, shuddering a little. “I don’t like him.”

“Then kill him too.”

Nya got up, arching her back before stretching her paws out in front of her, kneading at the dirty laundry. The fluff-ball paused mid-scratch, looking up to her with a twitch in her whiskers.

“Make it a fun game of hide-and-shriek. Winner gets to keep their head.”

“I can’t kill everyone in the building,” she whispered, moving to the door. The pounding from her mother had stopped at some point during her shower, but Delilah still checked, peeking out through a small crack to make sure the coast was clear. “Someone would get to me first.”

As soon as she finished speaking, the lights in the apartment shut off with a loud click. Eleven o’clock, lights out.

Another rule of the building.

If Patience were obeying the tenancy rules, she would be in her bed until lights on. Knowing her doormat of a mother, Delilah figured that she would be trying to sleep despite their earlier argument. That meant it was safe to head out.

This wasn’t the first time she had felt her way to her room, following the familiar walls of the short corridor. Once upon a time, her door had creaked if anyone so much as looked at it in the wrong way. Now, she was lucky to have had it removed when she turned thirteen, letting her slip inside silently at the cost of privacy.

Rummaging through her clothes wasn’t much of a problem either—Delilah owned almost nothing. What little she had, the Group provided. People like her and her mother weren’t even allowed outside to find clothes for themselves. Only those in the Requisitions Commission were allowed out.

The world outside is filled with danger and corruption, Kevin Mould had told her once upon a time. Only the Group can keep you safe and protected. Out there, you would be vulnerable and alone. Those trained in handling the dangers of the Outside are the only ones who may depart. Say inside, Delilah, it is the only way to ensure your safety, well-being, and soul.

“He’s trying to keep you here. All of you. Death would be a mercy to everyone in this building.”

Delilah buttoned up a blouse before she glanced up. Nya, perched atop the wardrobe, looked down at her with black eyes gleaming with flecks of silver from the sliver of light squeezing through the boarded-up window.

“You’re being a bit more obvious than usual today,” Delilah said, adjusting the long dress she pulled out of the wardrobe. “Something happened that I should know about?”

“Excitement. Tonight is the night, is it not?”

Delilah drew in a deep breath, steeling herself. “Tonight is the night,” she affirmed. “As soon as I steal my mother’s shoes.”

There was no chance she was putting her shoes on again, soaked in blood as they were, and she owned no other pair. Her mother wasn’t much larger than she was, which meant she had to feel her way back to the front door, where the shoe rack rested against the entrance. Thankfully, her mother hadn’t been so irate as to forget to put her shoes on the rack.

“Are you sure you should just leave?”

“I can’t kill everyone in the building,” Delilah said as she tugged on the shoes—they were a bit large.

“Not without help.”

Nya rubbed up against her shin, weaving between Delilah’s legs with her fluffy tail sticking straight up in the air.

“Help like you?” Delilah rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “I don’t need more snarky comments on my life. I do what I can on my own.”

Faint emergency lights remained lit in the hallways despite it being past lights out, letting her navigate to the stairs without stumbling and fumbling her way. They weren’t bright, but they were better than nothing.

The hallways were empty, as expected. It was ritual night, a night she had waited weeks for, the night the elders met for their monthly meetings, the night when exhaustion and post-ritual fatigue made everyone less wary, the night she could slip around unseen and unheard. Importantly, it was the night when Johnny was on guard duty down at the kitchens.

Delilah didn’t know when she would get another chance like this. Johnny wasn’t on kitchen guard every night, and plenty of nights would have more people out after dark. Besides that, she didn’t know if she would get another chance like this.

Her finger trailed down the large mark on her chest, now hidden by her dress.

Delilah shuddered just thinking about it as she hurried down the stairwell. Taking steps two at a time, it still felt like forever before she reached the bottom of the three flights. Stopping at the door to the ground-floor hallway, she held her breath, trying to hold in her excitement, as she pushed it open just enough to peer out.

A pair of people, both dressed in the black cape and peaked cap of the Protection Commission, leaned up against the wall next to the double doors leading into the kitchen. One was Johnny, as expected, but the other looked like Eugene—one of Father Mould’s most trusted.

For a moment, Delilah almost decided to call the whole thing off, to hope she would have another chance another night.

Nya darted between her legs, scurrying out into the hall. Delilah tried to grasp the furry creature before she could get too far, but bending forward, she bonked her head against the hollow metal door, filling the silence with the sound of a gong.

“Who’s there?” Johnny said, reaching for something underneath his cape.

Delilah, rubbing her forehead, slowly stepped out. “Hey, Johnny… Eugene.”

A frown crossed the latter’s face, but Johnny stepped forward with a crooked smile splitting his face, blocking Delilah’s view of him. “D,” he whispered, spreading his arms wide. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

Delilah stopped just short of him. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

Johnny didn’t answer, grasping hold of her and drawing her into a tight hug. One hand ran down her back while his other hand shifted up to intertwine with her hair, feeling her still-damp locks. He hesitated at that, frowning. “You took a shower? For me? You’re going to get in trouble,” he said in a teasing tone.

“For me,” Delilah corrected, planting a hand on his chest and pushing him one step backward. “What’s he doing here?”

Victor Eugene hadn’t moved, leaning up against the kitchen doors with a greasy smile on his face. The man was a fair few years older than Johnny, though not so old that he actually looked old. Despite that, he was the head of the Protection Commission. There was no chance this wasn’t getting back to Father Mould.

Delilah might have cared if this were a regular night, but it wasn’t. It was tonight. After tonight, nothing would matter.

“Vic,” Johnny said, jerking his head toward the kitchens. “Mind if we get a little privacy?”

“I don’t know,” Eugene said, scratching the rough underside of his chin with the back of his fingers. “It’s against the rules.”

Delilah narrowed her eyes. Nya, sitting on the floor next to Eugene, simply turned her black eyes to stare directly at Delilah. She easily imagined the advice she would get and, for once, she was tempted to go along with it. If it weren’t for Johnny keeping a firm hand around her waist, she might have tried something.

Johnny still thought negotiation would work. “Come on, man, I thought we talked about this. I thought we were good.”

“You didn’t say it was her,” Eugene said, dropping his gaze to Delilah.

For a moment, she felt naked, as if Eugene could read all her plans and desires. His eyes roamed away from hers, pausing on her chest before dropping to her hips. Months of saved up willpower drained away as Delilah fought to keep a neutral expression.

“I managed to… acquire some magazines on my last venture, the kind I know you’ve been interested in but can’t get because of Father Mould hanging over your shoulder,” Johnny said. “I’ll trade my whole collection for thirty minutes.”

“Thirty?” Eugene scoffed, taking his eyes off Delilah. “You probably only need two.”

“Vic…”

Eugene rolled his eyes, but rather than argue more, he slid off to the side, no longer blocking the way to the kitchens. “You went off to take a shit. I saw nothing.”

Johnny flashed Delilah a grin, fishing the keys out from under his cape. Eugene kept his gaze locked down on the far end of the hallway, away from them. In a few fumbling moves, Johnny got the kitchen doors unlocked, pulling Delilah inside before locking them once again.

The beating in her heart increased as excitement and anticipation welled within her.

This was it.

Here she was, in the kitchens at last.

She had been inside a few times before, always during the day. The Group rotated its members through assigned duties, giving everyone a turn at preparing the day’s meals. She didn’t care about the hot stove or the pots and pans, not even the food interested her. Delilah’s eyes locked onto the door on the opposite end of the room; it was normally under guard, always locked up, with only a few people having the keys—those in commissions who had duties outside the building.

People like Johnny and Eugene.

As soon as the door lock clicked, Johnny turned around and stared at Delilah with an expression on his face that she didn’t quite understand. He maintained that stare for a long moment before rushing forward, wrapping her tight in a hug once more.

“Even if this mucks with my promotion, it’ll be worth it.”

“Promotion?” Delilah asked, cocking her head in curiosity. “You aren’t taking over Eugene’s job, are you?”

“No, no,” he chuckled, staring into her eyes. “You know Yomi?”

“The fat monk with the tattoos,” Delilah said. “I don’t like him.”

“Father Mould does, and that’s all that matters. He said he is having special masks made for a select few of us. I’m one of the selected,” Johnny said with all the pride in the world.

Delilah didn’t say anything. If there were one person in this entire building that she wouldn’t need much of a push to kill, it wasn’t her mother, it wasn’t Mould or Anderson, it wasn’t Eugene… it was the monk. The way he looked at her, the change in the cleansing rituals, the more oppressive rules that had come down since he first appeared a few months ago…

“I’ll have a higher status in the Group,” Johnny whispered, still lost in his own world as he leaned so close that their noses touched. “Maybe enough to make decisions for us. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Delilah said, barely managing to get the words out before his lips mashed up against hers. She felt something moist worm its way against her lips, pressing between them to touch her teeth.

Delilah planted a hand on his chest and pressed. “Wait,” she said the moment his lips were off hers. “You promised.”

Johnny drew in a breath through his nose, staring at her for an uncomfortable amount of time. “It’s nothing special,” he said. “You’ll be disappointed.”

“You promised,” Delilah said again.

Johnny closed his eyes, taking in another breath as he peeled himself off her with all the reluctance of a slug. “For a minute, right? No more. Not supposed to be doing this. If Vic catches us, we’ll both be fucked even more than we already are.”

Delilah blinked, nodded, then smiled as Johnny pulled out a different set of keys.

He checked around the kitchen once again, as if afraid that someone had somehow managed to slip inside. Finding nobody, he looked to the locked door. “Hurry,” he said, though he didn’t move before taking another breath, this one somehow hesitant and wary.

Delilah smiled at him, her best one.

Licking his lips, Johnny hurried past the kitchen island, readying his keys to open the last door. Delilah quickly moved behind him—

“Wait.”

She paused, looking to the side.

Nya sat on the island near the sink, hunched and loudly licking the plate. Her tail flicked back and forth, swinging off the island before smacking against a wooden block filled with sharp knives.

“The moment you leave, he’ll run and tell someone. He’ll tell Eugene.”

Delilah flicked her eyes from Nya to Johnny. His back was to her as he worked to unlock the many bolts on the door as quietly as he could. Looking back to Nya, she found a pair of pitch black eyes staring while a long tongue repeatedly curled over her whiskers.

Shaking her head, Delilah moved forward, stepping up just beside Johnny.

“We have to make sure we put everything back exactly as we found it,” he said, fingers trembling as he tried to jam the key into the final padlock. “This door is only supposed to open when the Requisition Commission is bringing in new food from outside.” He twisted his wrist, popping the latch on the padlock. He held his breath, as if worried Eugene might have heard, but turned to her with a shaky smile. “Welcome to the outside wor—”

Delilah reared back and swung, putting her entire body behind the sharp edge of a thick, rectangular meat cleaver.

The cleaver caught him in the side of his throat, eliciting a squeak of air that might have been an attempt at a scream. He staggered back, knocking against the wall hard enough to make noise, but probably not more noise than what might be expected if Eugene had his ear pressed up against the door.

Delilah ripped the cleaver out.

Blood spurted from the gash in thick, black-red gushes that painted the door, just missing her.

Just like the goat.

His entire body went stiff, arms snapping to his sides, before he went slack, sliding to the ground where he thrashed and flopped for a few more seconds. The strength of his movements died out in less than a minute, leaving him staring up at her with wide, shocked eyes.

Delilah looked away, finding a solid black cleaver in her hands unusually interesting. Blood stained its edge, making it gleam in the dim backup lights.

“You should focus. Even if Eugene expects noise, he’ll expect that noise to continue. When it has died off, he’ll get suspicious.”

Delilah’s eyes flicked up to Nya, watching as she licked red off her paws.

She turned back to her hand, finding the blade missing entirely. Shrugging off the oddity, she stepped over Johnny and pushed open the door.

A bright, genuine smile spread across her face as light snow drifted through the narrow alley between buildings. She had watched snow from her window ever since she cracked the board, but it had been… ten years since she last touched snow, back when she had been seven… or eight? She honestly didn’t know how long she had been with the Group, ever since her mother brought her here, trying to cure her evilness.

“We’re going out in this? I, once again, vote to kill everyone and stay inside where it is nice and dry.

“I think it’s wonderful,” she said, reaching out and letting the thick flakes fall against her palms. A cold wind carried the flakes off, even as it threw more snow into her face.

Nya pounced, leaping from the ground to her shoulders where she wrapped herself around the back of Delilah’s neck.

“I can only do so much. You should move unless you wish to freeze to death. No idea where you’re going to stay, and you’re going to leave tracks unless you find a good way to disguise them. Are you sure you can do this on your own?”

“I have to,” Delilah said. “It’s either that or…”

Her fingers lightly touched the dark mark on her chest. It was hidden beneath her dress, but somehow, it felt heavier than it had only minutes ago.

“I have to,” she said again, steeling herself as she walked out into the snowy night.