The Reaping: Language of the Liar Read Online Free Page A

answer to anyone.  She came and went as she pleased, so long as she adhered to the class schedule, and followed the basic rules of the campus.  No overnight guests, all visitors had to check in at the main office, and only people on the approved list.
    Not that Dorian’s list of friends and family was a long one.  She had one single contact from her time in foster care.  They’d spent a few years in a group home together, graduated together, and maybe it wasn’t so much friendship as it was solidarity, but Dorian liked her.  She was a sprightly woman named Jemma who now ran a tattoo parlor a few blocks away from the church.
    They weren’t close, and she hated hanging out on church grounds, but it was something.  A contact with the outside world, and Maria told Dorian those were important.  So they hung out from time to time.
    Otherwise Dorian’s days were occupied between the afterschool classes, painting, and meals with Father Stone which had become, in themselves, a sort of therapy.  He was nice.  Dorian hadn’t really expected to feel as connected as she did to him, but she was starting to feel more comfortable with him than with her team of therapists and doctors, and that was saying something.
    Down the hall, Dorian stopped at Father Stone’s office and knocked.  There was a small pause before she heard him call out, and she pushed the door open.  Like usual, his desk was laden with a tray of coffee, fruit, and a few croissants from the kitchen.  They had a few ladies from a Monastery in Paris who had transferred and they brought with them their amazing baking skills.
    Father Stone gave her a small smile as she lowered herself in the chair and helped herself to one of the small, porcelain cups.
    “You look tired.  Is everything okay?”
    Dorian sipped on the hot, bitter brew as she nodded.  “Oh yeah.  Just some weird dreams, but when I get really into an art piece, that can happen.”  She left out the part about the window, knowing he wouldn’t understand the phobia.  The last thing she wanted to hear was how she probably forgot to close it the night before.  She didn’t know how to convey to people that windows and doors were something she never forgot about.  Ever .
    “You want to talk about it?”
    Shaking her head, she reached out for a slice of orange and set it on the side of her plate.  “I don’t remember them.  My meds keep everything kind of foggy most days.  It’s probably better.  When I was a kid, I used to have these horrible dreams of this man…”  She trailed off, feeling her throat tighten.
    The dreams had been more than that.  It was in her file.  The thing in her dreams was an imaginary friend, and Dorian had vague memories of being able to see him when she was small.  He was a monster, one that used to sing her to sleep at night.  Tall and lanky with shadowy claws and fangs.  He was pure white, but somehow managed to be the absence of light, like a walking black hole.  In her early years he comforted her, but as she got older, he became more terrifying.  More controlling.
    Dorian’s greatest relief was when she couldn’t see him anymore.  When the myriad of pharmaceuticals kept her brain a twisted mess and nothing became permanent. “…Dorian?”
    Her gaze snapped up and she gave him an apologetic smile.  “Sorry.  Just lost in thought.  Anyway, my point is, I don’t remember the dream.  Just feeling a little loopy is all.”
    They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence, and after, Father Stone walked her to the main gates.  “Big plans?”
    She smiled and shoved her hands into her pockets.  “Not really.  Just need to pick up a few supplies, get to the bank, might visit with Jemma for a bit but then I’ll be back.  Probably curl up in the garden for a few hours.”
    A strange expression crossed his face, then he smiled and gave her a one-armed hug.  “Call if you need anything.  I’ll be here all day.”
    Though she’d only