CHAPTER 1: Demure
DEMURE.
It was both a label and a restriction.
Soft-spoken.
Mild.
Even-tempered.
Even here.
Even naked and trembling standing in a lineup. The tile froze the soles of my bare feet, and the wind from the open temple door brought goosebumps speeding up my exposed arms and legs and tugged strands of my mouse-brown hair around my neck.
But I didn't flinch.
Didn't look up.
Only down at the emerald tile floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw legs shifting in the line beside me—the other teenagers. ...Smooth skin and knees, as unblemished as mine. Them—just as terrified.
Was it the cold or the uncertainty making my teeth chatter? My heart jumped and jittered in my chest like the caged pigeons, flapping against bars, the Low Ones offered on the limestone altar only a few paces in front of us.
Split them in half there, feathers gnarled, tiny necks twisted like the freedom had been sucked out of their very souls and disrespected even in death—left abandoned and small on the vast, white stone. Pigeons were the only sacrifice they could afford. I'd seen the act so many times...watched the blood run in rivulets till it pooled around their sandaled feet if they prayed there too long. ...And the copper sting of the scent of blood in my nose as I scrubbed the altar clean every night, wringing scarlet water out of the sponge into an even more ruby bucket as the other girls laughed at me from the corner.
Like a slave.
...It was an honor to be Demure, I quickly reminded myself, glassing over my eyes.
My expression.
Again.
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Poised.
Silent.
Present.
Still.
Like they'd taught us.
I straightened every inch of slouch out of my back—held up my chin.
'To the sky,' Mama would have said. Sometimes, I could still hear her voice. When the roar of perfection wasn't as loud. My lips settled in a drawn grimace.
If I was one of the lucky ones, this would be my last day within these temple walls. I'd be able to visit her grave again. I'd be able to hug Chino. ...Maybe. If he recognized me after all this time.
...They sure were making a show of it. I slipped my gaze discreetly upward to observe. My feet ached, but I resisted the urge to shift.
Everything was a show in the temple—a manicured monkey dance—and today would be no exception. The High Priest washed his hands 70 times a day with holy water from the Mountain Spring to ensure no evil spirits would penetrate his wisdom and connection with the gods, and it was 71 today as he bowed low to the man every one of us was trying not to stare at.
I was close enough to watch the oily water roll over his pudgy fingers, poking out from his vibrant pink and orange robe. The High Priest was the only one allowed to wear color in the temple. All of the Demure could only don white. But the man he exchanged hushed, reverent whispers with wore black.
Seeing that color here only accelerated my heartbeat, thudding in my ears. My breath was shallow as I tried to control it—in fact, it was the only thing I could control in this moment.
Today was the day.
That that man beside him determined our fate.
I squinted at the dark shadow of him from under my eyelashes. He was as much legend as flesh. The second level girls' low whispers and chittering gossip about him had filled the patches before I'd fallen asleep last night. I'd stared at the corner of my straw-filled pillow and the crook of my arm not covered by the wool blanket they'd given each of us as the lamplight exacerbated my bunkmates' silhouettes overhead.
'I heard he's a demi-god.'
'Not a demi-god, a full-fledged god. How else would he knows the difference?' Bridget's sharp tone had rebuked the quieter Ann—
'I heard he barely even has to look at you—'
'What if I WANT him to look at me?' Lenara trilled, 'They say he's handsome!'
'Leonara, you whore!'
They'd all erupted in a fit of giggles and pillow fights as my eyelids slowly batted closed—
"Priscilla."
Open.
My eyes flew open.
I started.
And found myself face to face with the man in black, The Mediator.