Washed In The Blood

By Wanda Dionne

Starving, stranded, and unwilling to return home, 16-year-old runaway Rosebud is rescued from the mean streets by Seth and his followers. As "God's Appointed One", he will provide safety and protection if she confesses her sins and pledges allegiance to his Gethsemane church. Blinded by his message and charisma, she realizes too late that Seth is not leading her back to the Christian values of her childhood. She is trapped in a cult steeped in secrets as deadly as they are inescapable.
Can a lost girl break free of the sinister power behind the Gethsemane sect? Will she lose her way? Or will she, too, soon be ...
Washed in the Blood?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wanda Dionne
• Release date: Dec 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988361213

Book preview

Chapter 1

Another day, another kick in the teeth.

Hunched on a curb near downtown San Antonio on a drizzling February morning, sixteen–year–old Rosebud Thompson thumbed grit from her eyes and stared at a traffic light changing colors. Red—green—yellow—red ….

She waited. For what, she didn't know.

Hunger clawed her gut.

A taxi peppered her with droplets of muddy sludge, and Rosebud cursed the driver but remained huddled, shivering like a wet dog.

A voice behind her snarled, Whatcha doing, kid? You on drugs or whoring?

She glanced behind her. Wouldn't you know? A cop.

Rosebud tried to talk to him, but no words would form.

She imagined herself sitting on the sidewalk, her mouth opening and closing like a fish on a sandbar.

I'll thrash my tail for you, she thought, then giggled—dangling on the rim of hysteria.

The policeman jerked her upright. Get out of here, kid.

I'm going. I'm going. Rosebud clung to a street sign, resting her head against its cold metal.

Where will you go? asked a voice that sounded a lot like her mother's. Where will you go?

Rosebud muttered, I'll go anywhere I damn well please, but I can't go home, can I? Look at me. Damaged goods.

Old memories hurt. Rosebud wanted to die.

The patrolman seized her elbow, dragged her around the corner. He shoved her against the wall and lifted her thin sweater with his night stick. You diseased? You're nothin' but a bag of bones.

Hugging her backpack, she braced her shoulder against the brick building and shuffled toward the alcove entrance to a long-vacant liquor store.

Whatever he did to her, at least she'd be out of the rain.

The cop followed, drumming his baton against his palm. Panhandling's a crime. So is whoring and runnin' off from home. If you're here when I come back, I'll call the wagon.

She swatted at him, her fingers barely touching the dark green wool. Whatever happened to Serve and Protect?

You're going down. He kicked her legs out from under her.

Rosebud hit the concrete hard enough to rattle her teeth.

The patrolman pressed his night stick beneath her chin and tilted her head, forcing her to look at him. Got any other smart-ass thing you want to say for yourself?

No, sir. She monkey-walked into the alcove's far corner.

He put his billy club back on his belt. If I run you in, it'll tie up my whole morning. He nudged her thigh with his foot. It hurt like hell. No fat to protect her these days.

It hurt like hell.

The cop pointed south. There's a homeless shelter thataway. You don't want to be here when I come back. Understand?

Being run in by a cop wasn't on Rosebud's agenda either.

When he left, she curled into a fetal ball, pressing close to the cold brick, using her backpack as her pillow.

Now I lay me down to sleep ….

The final words of her childhood prayer died on her lips. The Lord didn't want her soul. Not now. Not ever. To everyone, including God, she was nothing but a pile of rags littering a city sidewalk, a lump of excrement to be walked around.

Protected from the elements, Rosebud nodded off, awakening to a conversation above her.

Sad, isn't it? Another thrown-away kid.

Another pompous ass, Rosebud thought. But maybe a handout.

Red peach fuzz sprouted from the head, cheeks, and chin of the younger man who stood over her. He was around eighteen and something was wrong with one side of his nose. He wore a knee-length tunic over faded jeans and looked like a kid in a costume.

His companion, dressed in an ankle-length pristine white robe, wore sandals- in February, for God's sake. He was bigger, maybe as old as twenty-five, with wet wavy hair streaming past broad shoulders.

His body appeared muscular beneath the monastic robe. Despite the day's overcast, from where she lay a halo gleamed around his head and the hem of his garment remained clean.

The younger man leaned over her, bent at the waist. The prophet-man met her on his knees on the filthy concrete.

She wanted to tell him not to soil his pretty white robe on her account. He smiled as if he had read her thoughts.

He took her pulse. He smoothed back her tangled hair, ran gentle hands across her face, massaged her cheekbones and brows. She closed her eyes, transported by his gentle touch. Glorying in it. Longing for … what? More?

He crouched beside her. Thou hath great pain. I feel it, too.

She believed him.

Suddenly, his palm flattened against her forehead and he silently mouthed a litany of strange words.

Heat coursed through her—a healing fire purging the fever burning deep inside her. A sterilizing glow flushed away the poison of her past.

Then the man took his hand away.

Rosebud blinked. Several times. Saw him through a pink-tinged curtain. She tried to sit up, but he stopped her. He straightened her legs. She trembled. He gentled her, crossing her hands over her chest as if preparing her for a casket.

Strangely passive, Rosebud let him do it.

In one fluid motion, the prophet-man scooped her up like a rag doll and held her protectively against his chest. Rain stabbed the air as he crossed the dirty sidewalk in long unhurried strides toward a van double-parked at the curb.

The van's logo showed a gilt-edged Thanksgiving cornucopia brimming with colorful fruits and vegetables. Words written in Roman lettering broke apart when the door slid open.

Where are we going? she murmured.

The younger man snorted. What do you care? I've lived on the streets, too. Any place is better than this.

I'm not afraid, Rosebud whispered, snuggling her head close to the prophet's neck.

Rosebud allowed her scratchy eyelids to sink shut. Maybe she had died. Is this heaven? Is this Jesus holding me in His arms? Could it be true? Once saved, always saved?

She forced her eyes open when the man propped her on the van's middle seat. He climbed in next to her and motioned for the geek to hand him something.

A silver flask.

Seeing it, she immediately thought of booze. This is heaven. Liquor to quench my horrible thirst. Thank you, Lord.

She threw her head back, her chapped lips parting to gulp the liquid. Joyfully, she anticipated the jolt that would catch her throat on fire, warm her guts.

Then she choked. Sputtered. Water? Plain old water? But she yearned for fiery alcohol to numb her pain. Physical pain, head pain, heart pain.

Living water, the prophet said.

The shock brought her to her senses long enough to be afraid, long enough to wonder: Who are these men? Where are they taking me? What are they going to do to me?

Panic told her to struggle, but weakness and hunger prevented her from doing more than lift her hand in a helpless gesture toward the street.

The van door slid shut. The redhead jumped behind the steering wheel. At her side, the long-haired prophet patted her knee, his leg pressed against hers. He smoothed her hair back. Again seeming to read her mind, he said, Do not worry. Thou art safe with me. He removed a silver pillbox from an inside pocket and put a small tablet to her mouth. Take this.

Rosebud swallowed the pill but couldn't shake the surge of fear that gripped her from head to toe.

The prophet-man took her hands in his. Do not be afraid, for I was sent to seek that which was lost. Through me, thou shalt find true salvation. Thou shalt die, yet shalt thou live.

Chapter 2

Agroggy Rosebud awoke to daylight streaming through the window of a motel room, the drapes drawn open wide. Outside, she fully expected to see streets cobbled with gold. Mansions. St. Peter's gate.

Angel choirs and harp music. Shouldn't there be harp music in heaven? She felt like she was coming down from a high.

That's when she realized she was not alone.

Heart-rending sobs arose from the corner opposite her bed.

This can't be heaven. People don't cry in heaven.

Who's there? Where am I? She lifted the sheets and discovered she was naked. Naked.

Rosebud ran anxious hands over her body and found it clean and lotioned. She pulled a strand of her copper-colored hair beneath her nose and sniffed the fragrance of almonds. Her head felt lighter. The matted tangles in back were gone.

How long had she been here? Had anything happened to her while she slept? The last thing she remembered was the gentle prophet, his wimpy sidekick, the van ….

And the pill.

He'd doped her. What else had he done?

The room spun. A hawk-faced young woman with long dark hair and no makeup struggled up from where she'd been kneeling. She wore a loose gold embroidered caftan. Her age, near thirty.

You've come awake. It's about time. A vertical worry line creased the woman's forehead between dark unplucked brows.

Rosebud pulled the covers under her chin. What did you do with my clothes? What did you do to me? Her bravado was an act—inside she was cringing with fear, both brain and body sluggish, everything moving in slow motion.

Calm down. Your rags are gone. Thrown away. Burned. The woman blew her nose as she came closer to the bed.

I want my clothes back. Now, Rosebud demanded.

The strange woman stood in a shaft of sunlight, arms crossed. I should think you'd have more concerns than your filthy clothes.

Rosebud gestured at the cluttered room. That Jesus freak drugged me and brought me here. Did your friends play doctor while I was asleep? Did you? Rosebud lifted the sheets to examine her body. She felt no pain, detected no bruises except where the cop had kicked her. She didn't think she'd been raped, but who the hell knew? They'd already cleaned her up.

She was ready to throw the covers aside and run, but how far would she get wearing a sheet?

The woman sat at the curve of Rosebud's waist, one hand firmly grasping Rosebud's arm. She dabbed her nose again. My name is Jasmine. You are not in any danger here. It is you who hurts me—more deeply than you could ever understand.

I don't even know you. Give me some clothes and I'm gone.

Seth and Brother Darius have gone to buy new garments for you. I was about to fix you something to eat. I know you're hungry. She offered a knowing smile. I've dealt with girls like you before. Just now you said to yourself, 'Don't be a fool. Let her feed you before you go. Can't run far on an empty stomach.' Right?

Rosebud weighed food versus freedom. Food won.

When Jasmine turned away, Rosebud touched her forehead, lingering on one particular spot. The long-haired man kissed me. The prophet, she said.

The woman's face pinched and her dark eyes narrowed as she removed meat and cheese from an ice chest. Seth is 'God's Appointed One'. If he kissed you, which I doubt, it wasn't sexual. He gave you a blessing, that's all.

Her eyes glazed. Last night he told me he sees in you what he saw in me ten years ago.

Jasmine's mouth tightened in a knife-thin line. I was Seth's first disciple. I am the matriarch of his church. You are in for a rare and enlightening experience, my dear child.

A nightmare was more like it, she thought. I'm not your dear child. I'm almost seventeen.

Jasmine smiled, but her smile turned creepy when she said, You do realize you have to die? In order to be born again.

Look, lady, this is too damned spooky. Don't fix me any food. I'm getting out of here right now. I'm not a prospect for your stupid off-the-wall religion. Okay?

You've been asleep for almost eighteen hours. We took turns praying for you.

Praying or copping a feel?

The woman rummaged in a duffel bag and tossed a slip at Rosebud, who skimmed it over her head, then adjusted the straps.

When she touched her feet to the carpet, the slip’s long hem puddled on the floor. She sat back hard, pressing her hands to her head.

An after-effect of the pill. It wears off.

What kind of pill?

Our business manager—Lamar—calls it a simplifier.

Was it the date rape pill? 'Cause I don't remember squat. Rosebud held on to the wall as she shuffled toward the bathroom near the front door.

If nature's call hadn't been so urgent, she might have made a dash for it … maybe she still would.

The pill made it possible for your body to get the rest it needed. While you slept, I bathed you and washed your hair. Prepared you—

Prepared me for what? Rosebud's mind flashed on young virgins being sacrificed, but she didn't qualify. She hadn't been a virgin for a long time.

Jasmine came up behind Rosebud and patted her head. The condescension in her touch evoked waves of revulsion.

Jasmine, half-supporting her, asked, What is your name, child?

They call me Rosebud. Now back off. I don't plan to be here long enough to get cozy. Rosebud flung herself into the bathroom and would have shut the door except Jasmine stepped partially inside the small room and held the door ajar.

Do your business. I'll be right here.

You some kind of pervert?

The woman's hand tightened on the door. You are Seth's newest project. He doesn't want anything to happen to you.

It's not likely I'll get hurt sitting on the pot.

Don't be crude and hurry up. Jasmine turned her face away, but her hand remained closed around the inside knob.

When Rosebud flushed the toilet, Jasmine came in and held her steady so she could wash her hands. Rosebud stared into the bathroom mirror. Freckles lightly dusted her nose, but her skin looked pale—too pale. She guessed she'd only seen it through layers of dirt in recent months.

Her red-gold ringlets were shorter. You cut my hair?

I had to, Jasmine said. All those tangles. Rat's nests, we called them when I was young. Jasmine's hand tremored as she withdrew barber's shears from a velvet sleeve resting on the back of the commode.

Seth won't approve. Sometimes he doesn't understand. He is so spiritual, he doesn't even notice …. Her voice trailed off.

In the harsh bathroom light, Rosebud clearly saw Jasmine's face for the first time—weepy eyes smudged by dark blue circles, a reddened drippy nose that might have been broken once and not set properly.

The woman seemed so intense, strung tighter than a rope-walker's high wire. Rosebud wondered what drug she was on.

Jasmine's grip on the shears was so strained her knuckles turned white. Seth believes God sent him to find you. But all these years, I have been his helpmate. I have supplied his every need. God sent me. Me. Do you understand?

She threw her head back and closed her eyes. Being cut off from Seth is like dying a horrible, lingering death. I'd rather not live at all if I cannot stand by Seth's side.

Jasmine's free hand became a claw clutching the sink bowl. Cords stood out in her arched neck. Seth needs me. Seth loves me. He is my life. Without him, I am nothing. Without me ….

Rosebud blurted, Look, if Seth's your old man, let me get out of here before he comes back. He's delusional if he thinks he saw me in a vision. God forgot about me a long time ago.

Truth is—God's Appointed One occasionally feels called to seek new— She chewed on her bottom lip, —new hearts to heal. I have dealt with this before. I can deal with it again.

Rosebud decided she'd better fill her belly, then get out of this psycho ward. Hey, is the food ready?

Help yourself.

Rosebud had reached the bed before she realized Jasmine had not followed her.

A feeling as strong as a shove propelled her back to the bathroom.

Jasmine seemed unaware she was not alone. End it, she said aloud. End it now, before ….

She took a deep breath and opened the shears, grasping the shank and holding the two sharp blades outward, their chiseled edges glinting in the stark overhead light.

What the hell … ? When Rosebud rushed in, Jasmine turned on her with the twin blades aimed at Rosebud's stomach.

Rosebud wrestled Jasmine for the shears.

Though considerably weaker, the girl forced the scissors to point to the side, at the same time prying at Jasmine's fingers to loosen her hold.

Jasmine brought her left hand up at the exact moment the shears turned back toward Rosebud.

Scissors ripped flesh before they clattered across the chipped tile floor.

Chapter 3

Crimson stained white porcelain.

Blood ran down Jasmine's arm and dripped in dime-size splotches onto the floor.

Were you going to kill me or yourself? Rosebud's knees suddenly gave way. She grabbed the sink to keep from falling. Blood makes me sick, she cried, holding on with both hands, floating on waves of dizziness.

One hand went to her throat to hold back vomit, as she took in deep breaths, doing everything possible to ward off darkness.

Behind her, Jasmine remained quiet. Too quiet. Was she slicing herself to the bone? Or aiming those scissors at Rosebud's back? Suicide or murder?

Rosebud couldn't fight her off because of the blood. Her all consuming fear of blood brought on a sickness she could not overcome. Near fainting and breathless, she said, Please don't do this. No man is worth it. Not even your precious prophet.

Jasmine reached past her to turn on the faucet, placing her bloodied left arm and wrist beneath the rushing water. She rinsed the stains from her caftan sleeve. Pale diluted blood trickled down the drain.

I don't get it. Why would you kill … ? Rosebud braced herself against the sink. Give me your hand. Let me see.

Recoiling from the gore of the damaged wrist, Rosebud made a cursory inspection, then wrapped a clean hand towel around Jasmine's wound. You really are a nut case, she muttered.

She kept pressure on the cut as she led the silent woman toward the motel window, stumbling on her hem—almost bringing them both down.

Goddamned slip, Rosebud cursed.

Jasmine reacted as if she'd been lightning-struck. A wild swing connected with Rosebud's cheek and set it on fire.

How dare you take my God's name in vain. You may have caught me in a moment of weakness, but that doesn't mean you can abuse the Father. A moment of weakness, that's all it was. A look of cunning crossed her face.

Get into bed. What you saw was an attack on me by Satan. He torments those who renounce him. Nothing happened. Forget it.

Rosebud's cheek burned and her anger flared. Look, lady, you're psycho. You can blame the devil if you want to, but you're the one who opened that vein. Or did you intend to get rid of your so-called competition?

Don't be stupid. And don't you go tattling to Seth either. Nothing happened. Nothing.

Okay. Okay. Rosebud sat down on the bed and Jasmine jerked covers over her.

Bending close, Jasmine added, They'll be back soon. You better not say one word. Do you hear me?

One-handed, she shoved a paper plate into Rosebud's hands, then retrieved a soda from the ice chest. Her injured arm stayed pressed against her chest.

Even though Rosebud felt queasy from the blood spill and was angry and worried about the face slap, she