Julian
THE BLACK BOOK CONTAINS various curses and hexes, summoning spells, and ways to control and manipulate those around you. It most definitely features primarily what people would call ‘black magic.’
It’s overwhelming, if I’m honest, to translate and read one page at a time. And to make matters worse, I have yet to find anything related to incubi and I’m halfway through the text.
My phone most likely thinks I’m sacrificing lambs in my free time, and I’m afraid that any day now, a government official is going to knock on the front door of Chastain Castle with a lot of interesting questions for me.
But I push through either way, reading the different enchantments and ingredient lists, doing my best to decipher each phrase.
Even as I haven’t read anything in here that relates to our issue, I can feel it. I can feel that the answers are here somewhere, waiting for me in this terrifying text. I just have to keep looking, searching for answers. Answers that I need fast.
The longer I take, the longer the incubus will not be leaving Atlas alone, no matter how much of my come he eats. And as of late, Atlas seems to be more content being fucked by it than he is by me.
I’m trying to wrap my head around it, especially considering he said I was the best he ever had. That he preferred me. That I made him feel warm and full and claimed. It just doesn’t make any sense.
And every night that I lie in bed, knowing what is happening on the other side of Chastain Castle, another piece of me withers up and dies.
I’ve become a brooding, moody little thing to the point that even Abigail has started to comment on it.
But what can I say? I was allowed a taste of Atlas Chastain; he gave a piece of himself to me—his first kiss, his first time with a human—and now I want more. I want all of him.
I thought for certain that after what we did, the incubus would back off at least a little bit. That it’d be able to smell me on Atlas.
Worst-case scenario, I’d imagined it barging into my room and ripping me a new one, telling me to stay away. I never expected this: for Atlas to choose the incubus.
Was the oral too much? Did I hurt him? But he seemed to enjoy it, if how hard he came was any indication.
If he wasn’t turned off by the oral and the sex was the best he ever had, then why? Why is he choosing to cut me loose and have that thing touch him?
Angry isn’t a strong enough word to cover what I’m feeling. Mix in betrayed, horny, and depressed, and I’m one interesting cocktail right now. Definitely not the best company.
That’s why, as soon as I woke up this morning, considering it’s a Saturday and I don’t have to work, I snuck down into the altar room to pick through the Black Book alone. I would hate to be rude to my dad or any of the Chastains who don’t deserve my wrath.
Maybe I should go have tea with Atticus.
Chuckling to myself, I flip to a new page.
I begin to type a few of the Latin words into my translator app before I freeze, noticing the scribbled writing in the margins of the page.
In cursive, written hastily and without care, is:
“A sacrifice is to be made”, “altar?”, and “it will save Elizabeth”.
The words were written in a thick, bleeding black ink, and the end of the word Elizabeth nearly overlaps the picture drawn next to the Latin writing.
The picture wasn’t drawn by whoever wrote these ramblings in English; it had to have come with the original book. It’s of a dark figure, tall and shadowed, with sharp, clawed hands and eyes that of a black void. The creature appears to be a mixture of something human and something much worse.
The longer I stare at it, the more terrified I become. It kind of… it kind of looks like a more horrifying version of the incubus. As if the incubus I saw did its best to take on the shape of a man but couldn’t quite shake the appearance of this horrible creation on paper.
I take a deep breath. This is the first sign of life I’ve found in any of the books—the first sign of use or human interaction.
The text next to the drawing is significantly longer than the scribbled English, but still considerably short.
I begin to type in the Latin words, and once I have them typed in full, I read my screen.
Prince of Death, hear my plea
I do not surrender this soul to thee.
Bearer of Desire, take this sacrifice
Feed your wants and plenish your appetite.
Retract your claws and return this soul to me,
and a bargain I will consummate, regardless of what the cost must be.
Holy shit. It’s a spell to revive someone, I think. And a bargain? The existence of this altar is becoming more and more sinister the longer I stand here.
I… did someone die in here? Was someone sacrificed to bring another back? This Elizabeth character, maybe?
So many questions circle my mind, yet nothing directly links to Atlas.
Other than the fact that his Bearer of Desire could be the incubus, nothing on this page explains why it would be present now.
Unless Atlas was the sacrificed, of course.
But I feel like he would remember something that traumatic.
And that he would also be like… dead or something.
Unless the sacrifice was keeping him alive…
My mind goes back to what the psychic said, how the prophecy said stipulations must be met for balance to be restored.
Could this spell have been a curse, and could it be connected to some kind of stipulations Atlas needs to meet?
One thing is for certain: we need to see that psychic again.
Within the hour, I’m dressed for the day with the Black Book tucked discreetly into a backpack, heading into town in my dad’s truck.
I know I should have told Atlas where I was going and what I found, but I’m too angry to face him right now. The idea of going up into the west tower and seeing him post fuck makes me sick, so I’ll face this battle alone and report back later.
Atlas told me that his father hired a priest and a psychic to look into his condition a few months after he turned eighteen, and when I Googled it, there was only one major church to appear in Port Orford.
If going there and finding the priest who helped the Chastains will help cure Atlas, I will interrogate every priest I find. Even though I’m angry and hurt, my priority is still to save him.
I can still feel the presence of that demon, of the way it dug into my flesh. I will get rid of it.
The church is located by the main port, only a two-minute drive down the main oceanfront and across the street.
It’s a tall building made of white limestone, much like Chastain Castle, with a large, towering bell and a cross out front.
The sign by the parking lot reads: Those who worship the Lord find everlasting peace!
I park by the front doors and make my way inside, taking in the endless pews and the giant statue of Jesus on the cross. It’s a glorified, enlarged version of the chapel at the estate.
No one is sitting inside, no music is playing, and no candles are lit. I stand in the center of the room for a moment, listening to the sound of my own breathing as I look around.
The book at my back seems to burn into my flesh through the fabric of my backpack, my jacket, and my shirt. I know I’m imagining it, but I take the bag off and hold it by the handle anyway.
To the left of the podium, up front, is a door—one that looks like an office entrance. And on the front, it reads Reverend.
I make my way up the aisle, knocking against the murky glass a few times.
“Come in,” a low voice calls, and I take a sharp breath before turning the golden knob and stepping inside.
Several candles are lit, a few paintings of different prophets I can’t name lining the walls.
A large oak desk is settled toward the back of the room, with a large Bible resting propped open, and behind it sits an elderly man in a black button-up with a black robe layered over it, and a long cross necklace around his neck.
He has a thick white beard and full brows, his light blue eyes peering up at me curiously.
“How can I help you, son?” he asks, resting his interlocked hands on the desk in front of him.
“Hi, reverend,” I greet, using the title I saw on the door. “I came here to ask you a question.”
He waves to the chair in front of his desk, where I sit hesitantly.
“My name is Reverend Clark,” he says. “I haven’t seen you here before. What is your name?” His voice is calm and kind, yet deep and strong.
“Julian, and yes, I don’t normally attend church, sorry.” I’m not sure why I’m apologizing; it just feels like the correct thing to do in the face of a priest in a church.
“No need to apologize, Julian. To each their own, though everyone has a home in the house of God. What is your question?”
“Um.” I clear my throat, open my backpack to pull out the Black Book. “Did you happen to help the Chastain family a few years back?”
Reverend Clark takes one look at the book in my hands and sits up straighter, his eyes narrowing.
“No, son, I did not. And I don’t think the church is the correct place for that text.” His tone has changed; it has morphed into something distant and displeased.
I stuff the book back into my backpack.
“Sorry. I… I’m looking for a priest or a psychic who helped their family about two to three years ago. Do you happen to know anything about it?”
Reverend Clark watches me for a long moment, his lips set into a thin line. His fingertips begin to tap against the oak desk, blue eyes narrowed.
Then, he sighs. “I don’t know anything about the Chastains, though I know who they are. I know they are good Christian people.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks anyway.” I grab my backpack and stand, bowing my head at him in thanks as I turn toward the door.
“Julian,” the reverend calls, and I look at him over my shoulder as I grip the doorknob. “There is only one psychic in town. Her name is Madam Lu, and she lives by the old water tower on Bass Avenue.”
I take in this information, mentally logging the directions.
“Thank you, Reverend,” I say, smiling at him.
“God bless you, son.”