CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Auden was eating cereal at the dining table when I finally emerged from my bedroom, a National Geographic documentary playing on his laptop.
His headphones lay abandoned atop his scattered schoolbooks, the narrator's voice following me into the kitchen as I opened the refrigerator to an absence of groceries. A long sigh escaped my throat.
“What are you watching?” I asked, squinting to catch the title of the documentary on his screen. “Oh, is that Pompeii?”
“Herculaneum,” he corrected.
“Oh, the Pompeii wannabe,” I joked, letting the refrigerator door fall shut. “I’m going to go the cafe to get some banana bread and–”
“Herculaneum is not the Pompeii wannabe,” Auden interjected.
“What?”
“You said Herculaneum is the Pompeii wannabe but it was its own town with its own unique features and history. The only things they share is that they’re Roman and victims of Mount Vesuvius.”
“Alright...”
“And Pompeii is only more famous because more of it has been uncovered since most of Herculaneum is buried under the modern city.”
“Okay, you think you’re so clever and–”
“I am clever,” Auden interrupted calmly.
I closed my mouth, opened it, and then closed it again. Yes, he was clever. I could not deny that. And so, I brought up something he could not deny in return. “I’m older.”
Auden blinked, as if unsure whether he’d heard me correctly. He waited a beat and then, with a small frown, said, “Yes. But that does not make you right.”
“You’re annoying.”
He nodded, unsurprised by my childish retort.
“I’m going to the cafe,” I mumbled.
“Will you bring me a chocolate drink on the way back?” he asked.
“No.”
“But–”
“Auden, I’d burn the world for you,” I said impatiently as I snatched my keys off its hook. “I’m obviously going to bring you back hot chocolate.”
“Okay but it wasn’t obvious–”
“Just finish your homework or whatever it is you were doing before you corrected me,” I said and slammed the door shut behind me.
The cafe was crowded with business suits, school uniforms, nursing scrubs and high visual shirts as workers lined up for their morning coffee. Quiet chatter blended in with the sound of coffee machines and paper cups, Billie Eilish's voice pouring from the speakers.
I ordered a hot chocolate for Auden and some banana bread to share, shifting from one foot to the other while I waited.
The Devil stood beside me, a silent, faceless shadow.
His presence was not unwanted. Yes, he was my enemy.
But he was familiar. And familiarity was a comfort.
As long as I didn't look in the mirror, I could pretend he wasn't the Devil at all and more… a guardian angel, of sorts.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, drawing my attention to a message from Nathaniel regarding our assignment.
We still had so much work to do. The previous day had been a complete disaster, because of me, and so I had little choice but to respond.
Chewing on the inside of my mouth, I told him I was free for a few hours before my afternoon shift at Browning Books, and we agreed to meet at the library.
"Augustus!"
The cafe quietened. Lights dimmed. Several pairs of eyes followed me to the counter where my order waited. I reached for the hot chocolate, wincing as my fingers connected with the red liquid spilling down the sides of the paper cup.
"Uh…" I lifted my head, searching for a napkin and a staff member to question. But there were no napkins. Nor any staff members to assist me. The cafe had been completely emptied, an eerie silence hanging in the air as my gaze dropped to the sliced banana bread inside a paper bag.
White, blue and green splotches of mold invaded the aged bread, a single worm crawling out of a hole in the dough. It slithered toward me, multiplying, worms of all shapes and colours littering the counter.
I backed away, heart racing.
What's the matter?
"This isn't real," I whispered.
If it isn't real, what are you so afraid of? Eat the bread.
"What?!"
Eat the bread. Prove it isn't real.
Swallowing back the bile that threatened to escape my throat, I reached toward the bread, hands trembling.
It wasn't real, and yet I felt the worms beneath my fingertips.
It wasn't real, and yet the bread's sour, musty odour burned my nostrils.
It wasn't real, and yet I tossed the bread to the floor, shaking my head. It wasn't real. But I couldn't eat it.
That's what I thought, little monster.
***
An hour later, I reached the study room Nathaniel had secured us on the third floor.
He was seated at the long, dark brown desk, the collar of his white shirt unbuttoned to reveal soft, golden skin.
His long black coat hung off the chair behind him like a shadow, his brown knitted sweater the same shade as his eyes.
I averted my gaze as I stepped inside, Nathaniel peering up at me with a small, almost nervous smile.
“Hi,” he said.
I greeted him with a nod and what I hoped to be a polite smile as I stepped inside and placed my laptop down across from his, the desk already cluttered with annotated articles. An empty takeaway cup had tipped over, a drop of coffee soaking through Nathaniel’s opened notebook.
“I was just working on paragraph two,” he said, fingers drumming against his laptop as he updated me on the progress he’d made.
“I found several articles analysing the isolation tactics cult leaders employ during recruitment stages. It’s a way to maintain control.
By severing a person’s connection with the outside world…
they have the power to determine what they think, feel and do. ”
“The perfect way to have their power unquestioned," I murmured.
“I want to know your thoughts on this,” he said, sliding a book toward me, “there’s a section on emotional control. It explores how guilt and fear are used to enforce isolation. Should I elaborate on this in my paragraph?”
I opened the book to the bookmarked section and skimmed through it before raising my eyes to meet his. “Yeah, definitely. It’s a good way to detail how the manipulation process works.”
“Perfect."
“I’ll start on paragraph three,” I said, “Religious psychosis, right?”
“Definitely,” Nathaniel nodded, “but make sure you reference how cults facilitate an environment that breeds psychosis, with examples.”
“Obviously,” I said, suppressing an eye roll, “cults breed psychosis by telling their members they’re special, chosen. That will be my main point.”
“Good, good. Just checking we’re on the same page.”
We divided our tasks and worked in a comfortable silence, with only the soft rhythm of typing and the occasional scratch of pen on paper. But my mind wandered. The Devil seeped inside my head like spilled ink, darkening all my thoughts.
My mother’s face appeared behind my eyelids with every blink, the words help me, find me, save me repeating in my head like a broken record.
It meant something, it had to. Maybe she was speaking to me through God, and this was her means of communication—of asking for help.
For over ten years I had been ignoring her, trying to forget her, but maybe it was time I finally found her and solved the mystery of why she disappeared.
Of why she left me to succumb to Hell’s fire.
Maybe you are insane. You really think she is able to find you in your dreams?
The God’s Soldiers website lit up my screen before I even processed what I was doing, Joe’s smiling face in the left-hand corner as I exited the pop-up ad asking for donations for their church.
I clicked the ‘contact us’ section and found an email address. I wanted to reach out to Joe, ask where to find him, but my email had my name in it, and I feared he would recognise it. There probably weren't a lot of Augustus Saints around.
Nathaniel clicked his pen, instantly snatching my attention. He was my solution. Joe would have no reason to recognise a Nathaniel Carrington email address. It was the perfect plan…except that I would have to involve Nathaniel. And he already knew too much about me already.
You could just kill him afterwards, you know.
“Nathaniel,” I spoke up, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the anxiety coursing through my veins. “Can I use your email?”
Nathaniel ceased chewing on his pen lid and raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “My email? Why?”
“I want to contact the God’s Soldiers to find an address,” I explained. “I want to find my mother. But I’m afraid that Joe will recognise my name and not help me. He won’t recognise your name, though.”
Nathaniel leaned forward with interest. “You’re going to look for your mother?”
I nodded.
“Well shit, yeah, of course you can,” he said, sliding his laptop toward me, his email open. “What brought this on?”
I didn’t answer. My fingers, as if controlled by an invisible puppeteer, typed in Joe’s email address and began to form the body of the email. Nathaniel moved to sit beside me, his shoulder pressed against mine.
“You sound too urgent,” he said, shoving me aside to take his laptop. “You’ll scare him away.”
“How is ‘I am looking for a like-minded community’ too urgent?” I complained.
“No normal person talks like that,” Nathaniel said.
“You just think everyone is stupid.”
“I do not.”
I gave him a look and snatched the laptop off him. “Just let me write what I need to write, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Nathaniel waved a dismissive hand.
I finished up the email, and once it received Nathaniel’s approval, I sent it and leaned back in my chair with a long sigh.
“You will let me know when he responds, right?”
“The very second,” he assured me.
“I hope he doesn’t take too long.”
“I’m sure he’s not overflowing with emails,” Nathaniel mused.
I nodded.
“What are you going to do? If you find her?”