Julian
I’VE BEEN SPENDING MOST nights in the altar room. Between translating the dusty books on the bookshelves and drowning in the tension between Atlas and me, I’ve found myself exhausted by the time I return to my own bedroom at half past midnight.
So exhausted, in fact, that I’ve barely checked my phone or bothered to interact with anyone outside of Abigail for days.
As I’m getting ready to greet said Chastain, preparing for another long day of attending and then scouring the altar room, I notice that I’ve missed two text messages from the day prior.
The first one I respond to easily, unfazed.
Hey, Julie! When can we hang out again? Cam and I are free tomorrow!
Julian 7:51 a.m.
Sorry, I can’t do much on weekdays, and I have plans this weekend. Another time?
I don’t actually have plans this weekend, but I don’t want to leave the castle. Not while the incubus is still around, haunting Atlas. Not while he could go into a flare-up at any moment and require my assistance.
Plus, we have important work to do.
The second message is a bit harder to read—the guilt of not responding quicker actually settles in this time.
Susie 4:43 p.m.
We miss you, big guy. Call me when you can? Lan has been acting really withdrawn lately, almost depressed. Maybe he’s not as over you as we thought? Text me back!
I swallow the guilt and the sadness that accompany it, my throat burning. As I slip on my shoes, I type out my message.
Julian 7:54 a.m.
I miss you guys too. I’ll call soon. I wish Landon would just talk to me if he’s upset; it’s like he forgets we were best friends our whole lives.
As I hit send, my bedroom door opens.
It’s my father, dressed impeccably and ready to assist Abraham for the day. Sliding my phone into my back pocket, I give him a smile.
“Hey, Dad. Good morning.”
“Hey, son.” His dark eyes trace me wearily, lingering over the lines on my cheeks that are nothing more than faint, pink lines now and will soon fade to nothing.
They were not deep enough to scar.
His dark hair is slicked back, which makes him appear older and more worn out.
“You alright?” I ask him, and the air around us suddenly feels charged.
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I just… are you doing okay? Are you ready to talk about it? The scratches, I mean.”
“Dad,” I sigh.
“Listen, Julie. I can protect you. You’re my son! Tell me who has hurt you, and I can fix this. Please.” The begging tone of his voice makes me feel a bit guilty, a bit nauseous.
The fact of the matter is that he can’t fix this. Jeremy Walsh cannot defeat an incubus—something he probably wouldn’t even believe in if I told him. He’d think I’m lying to him, covering up a truth. And I refuse to involve him, to put him in danger.
“It’s over now, Dad. There’s no point in talking about this. I promise you, I’m fine.” I give him a pointed look, the same one he gave me as a child when he was done arguing over what we would have for dinner or if I could stay at Landon’s house on a school night.
Dad shakes his head but doesn’t press me further. Instead, he says, “Master Abraham told me to let you know that there will be a new cook in the kitchen for the next few days.”
“What? A new cook? What happened to Barfred?” Visions of the man making us lunch circle my mind; visions of him pinning Landon to the kitchen island.
“He took a small vacation to visit some family. He’ll be back in a few days. But don’t freak out when you see a new face.”
“Ah,” I sound, and I realize that I was feeling a bit anxious for the handsome cook. Why, I do not know. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Dad steps into my space and places a hand on the back of my neck, squeezing lightly.
“I’m always here for you, Julian,” he murmurs, his eyes slightly sad.
As if he knows there is something else bothering me. As if he can sense that I’m holding a secret bigger than myself. Bigger than him. Bigger than the life we’ve cultivated here.
“Thanks, Dad,” I respond just as quietly.
I spend my day with Abigail: braiding hair, drinking tea, dusting various rooms, and listening to her play the piano. At some point, we play with dolls for what feels like hours.
It’s a nice break from the grueling translating I’ve been doing for the past five days once the sun sets. Though I think I’d take this tedious work any day if it meant I got to keep spending time with Atlas.
By the time Abigail excuses herself for dinner, I’m already tense with excitement. Only a few more hours until I can sneak down to the altar room and spend more alone time with the sweet boy whom I, unfortunately, haven’t been able to taste since that first night.
A part of me wonders if he despised it—if there is a reason he hasn’t called me back to his bed. But I guess that with the exertion he experiences with the incubus, he wouldn’t want to be fucked by me every night as well.
I’m making my way back to my room, passing through the main foyer, when I run into Atticus. His narrowed hazel eyes meet mine, and he stops short.
Atticus is always dressed impeccably. In a pair of dress pants and a white button-up, with his back straight and posture stiff, he takes a step toward me.
“Attendee,” he begins, voice low and uninterested. “I have a question for you.”
I do not understand where Atticus’s distaste comes from, but I figure his love and affection for Atlas are part of the source. He feels protective of him and doesn’t like outsiders. But at this point, I can’t be considered an outsider, can I?
All that to say, his attitude is becoming more annoying every day.
“Sure, Young Master Atticus. What can I do for you?” I ask.
He watches me for a moment, gaze pointed and unrelenting in his dislike.
Then, he looks around quickly, takes a step closer, and questions quietly, “Have you talked with Cassie or Cameron lately?”
My knee-jerk reaction is to say yes, but briefly. Maybe mention my texting Cassie. When she was mentioned on Christmas, Atticus seemed to know her in some way, with the way his eyes shot to me. But before I can speak, another thought pops into my mind.
“You know Cameron?” I sound surprised, but I don’t feel the need to hide it.
When I mentioned working for the Chastains, no one let on to knowing them personally. And it has never occurred to me that Atticus might know not only Cassie, but Cameron, too.
Atticus stumbles. Actually, literally stumbles a step backward as his eyes widen.
“Uh, yes. I… I do. Not well, of course,” he rushes out. Then, he seems to get his bearings, and his back straightens once more, his glare deepening. “Answer the question.”
“Oh, sorry. Yes, I spoke to Cassie recently, but it’s been a while since I spoke to Cameron.” As the words leave me, Atticus nods once.
I can’t help but wonder how they all know each other. I know for a fact that the Chastain kids were all homeschooled, and they’ve barely left the house since Atlas was… diagnosed.
Maybe Atticus had friends before the incubus appeared. But why didn’t Cassie or Cameron, or any of the others, mention their friendship?
“Alright.” And with that, Atticus turns and enters Hall E1, disappearing from view.
“Asshole,” I mutter softly, returning to my own trek back to my bedroom.
Atticus is too much of a mystery to figure out, especially right now, when I’m already trying to sort through a prophecy to find this cure.
I’ll worry about his connection to the people in town another day.
The stack of ten or so books in front of me leaves smudges on my fingertips and makes my skin feel dry and cracked as I flip through their pages.
Atlas is standing at the podium again, flipping through his own stack of books as he hums quietly to himself. I want to say something, anything at all, that will lead to learning more about the man. Or maybe that will lead to his bedroom.
But we have a job to do, and Atlas looks a little flushed today. Whether that means he was visited last night or it’s been too long since he has been visited, I’m unsure.
If he needs help, he’ll ask, is what I tell myself as I turn back to the book I grab next.
I’m so stuck on his big blue eyes and soft, sheer blouse that it takes about three passes over the title before I remember that I have to translate it. I cannot read this language.
The title reads Nigrum Librum, and as I type it into my Google Translate app, the hair on my arms stands on end.
The results stare back at me, ominous and concerning: Black Book. There is no author, no subtext on the cover. Just the words Black Book.
I flip through the pages, finding a lot of text in this same language, Latin, as my phone says, and terrifying drawings. Drawings such as human body parts, creatures eating human body parts, and various plants and animals.
Each page is different in what it represents, but I get the same feeling from it all the same—this book is not some kind of holy text. It feels like the exact opposite.
“Hey, Atlas. Take a look at this.” I stand, walking to where he’s still perched at the podium as I set the book in front of him. “It’s called the Black Book.”
Atlas freezes, his fingers half outstretched, before he draws them back to his side.
“W-what’s in it?” he asks.
“I’m not sure,” I tell him honestly. “It looks like a bunch of spells, maybe? Or prayers? But it has a bunch of dark pictures.”
I flip through the pages, showing him different ones. Atlas makes a small, startled noise in the back of his throat.
“Julian, that looks evil. That looks like a satanic book. We should probably put that one up.” He sounds genuinely scared; he won’t even touch it.
“But if it is satanic, don’t you think it’d have information on the incubus?” I press, tilting my head to look down at him.
His wide eyes are still fixed on the Black Book, his hands shaking. “No, it’s not worth it. Really. Nothing good can come from messing with this.”